balat boys and On Living from Nazim Hikmet

On Living 

I

Living is no laughing matter:
you must live with great seriousness
like a squirrel, for example–
I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,
I mean living must be your whole occupation.
Living is no laughing matter:
you must take it seriously,
so much so and to such a degree
that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,
your back to the wall,
or else in a laboratory
in your white coat and safety glasses,
you can die for people–

Riva Castle in our eyes

Our Eyes 

Our eyes
are limpid
drops of water.
In each drop exists
a tiny sign
of our genius
which has given life to cold iron.
Our eyes
are limpid
drops of water
merged absolutely in the Ocean
that you could hardly recognize
the drop in a block of ice
in a boiling pan.
The masterpiece of these eyes
the fulfillment of their genius
the living iron.

My suggestions, March-2008

1. cowparade, orange one
2. balat streets in shadow
3. pando, king of the breakfast
4. Zeyrek Church Mosque
5. Balat Streets and Red School
6. Old Window
7. watching tv
8. Haydarpasa lights
9. Emirgan park and tulips
10. Stork portrait

Suleymaniye : old streets and wooden houses

Kasimpasa streets

tulips : hard to deal

yellow-red tulips, istanbul tulip festival, istanbul, pentax k10d

LEYLI — MY LEYLI

Leyli – my Leyli – when half our world
Is red and green with spring
And half all snow
Still brothers and tribes are at each other’s throats
Still, the scorpion
The yellow adder
On our white foreheads harlot oppression
And during bright midnights
Against the double-winged gates, gallows
And the fountain in the prison yard
Is flowing on the side
Death came and felt me
Between the ribs
Let it feel…

Storks

yellow tulips , My soul was stranger, my soul was silent my soul was shattered…

yellow tulips, istanbul tulip festival, istanbul, pentax k10d

taken by Pentax K10D, at Istanbul

YOUR LOVE NEVER LEFT ME

Your love never left me.
I hungered and thirsted
in the treacherous, dark night.
My soul was stranger, my soul was silent
my soul was shattered…
And my hands were handcuffed
I was without tobacco or sleep
but your love never left me..

Ahmed Arif (from “Hasretinden Prangalar Eskittim” , 1968)

translated by Richard McKane

Bereketzade Ali Efendi Camii, pink mosque in Galata

public scene from Galata’s back streets. a homeless, a tourist and  pink mosque

a garden with purple tulips

purple tulips, istanbul tulip festival, istanbul, pentax k10d

taken by Pentax K10D, at Istanbul

from THE CASTAWAYS

Chapter One

That Tuesday evening just seven days before he conceived the idea for the crime, Sami Baran, a political refugee who had lived for the past five years in Stockholm, was driving along an icy road that turned and twisted through the dusky forest. The beeches, pines and fir trees that shot skyward along either side of the narrow icy road were flashing past the windows of his old Volvo when it suddenly spun to a halt. The car was nearly ready for the junkyard; its once shiny navy blue finish, marred by patches of various hues, had faded to a dull cobalt. Having purchased it as a used car, Sami may have been—who knows—its eighth or even its tenth owner. The vehicle had been through quite a bit; it had suffered considerably from the long northern winters and was caked with rust from the salt continuously dumped onto the roads. By no means, however, was it a poor bargain for a refugee without a decent job, living off welfare from the Office of Political Asylum and Immigration and the 40 kronas per hour he occasionally made by driving a vehicle for the Department of Sanitation. The car provided a great escape for Sami. He never used it in the city because of the exorbitant price of parking, but it was perfect for driving headlong through the forests and lake-spotted countryside whenever that old chronic anxiety began to nibble at his insides. There were times he felt great pressure on his heart. As if squeezed into a lump that would then roll slowly upward as far as his throat, it left him scarcely able to breathe. Inwardly, he was collapsing. He would be on the point of exploding; there was a volcano about to erupt from his chest. With the onset of such an attack he knew of no other escape but to jump into his old Volvo and flee from the city as quickly as possible onto those deserted roads where he could press down hard on the gas pedal. At such moments he sensed an unbelievable relief in the spinning and sliding of his Volvo on the ice. Then whole streams of thought would spew from his lips.