TÜRKÇE’DEN
İNGİLİZCE’YE VE İSPANYOLCA’YA ÇEVİRİLER
Telli,
Ahmet (2001). Si Vayas Se Derribaria Esta Ciudad [Gidersen Yıkılır Bu Kent].
Beyatlı, Yahya
Kemal (2001). El Fin Del Septiembre [Eylül Sonu].
Günçe, Ergin
(2017). Fascism for Kids [Çocuklar için Faşizm]
Öz, Nida
(1996/2002). Welcome.
Öz, Nida
(1996/2002). Flight.
Öz, Nida
(2006/2010). Fake bus stops [Sahte duraklar].
Öz, Nida
(2006/2010). Love has to be written by a long o [Sevgi yumuşak g ile
yazılmalı].
Öz, Nida
(2006/2010). Red [kırmızı].
Öz, Nida
(2004/2010). A –strange- may song [Bir garip mayıs türküsü].
Öz, Nida
(nd/tarihsiz). Drama [dram].
Si Vayas Se
Derribaria Esta Ciudad
Si
vayas se derribaria esta ciudad, irian los pajaros tambien
me
yo callaria como un rio en el delta de tu cara
Estamos
en las direcciones falsas, estamos sin identidad quizas
una
sorpresa amarilla estuven todas las luces
¿Estuvimos
solo nosotros?, llovieron sin parar
¿tuvimos
frio mientras se estremecen las flores de granadas?
Si
vayas quien irrigaria los basiliscos
a
donde se refugirian los pajaros, cuando anochece
Escucho
el silencio ahora y tu aliento
algunos
estan rompiendose donde te callas
"espera"
estoy diciendo a las calles, estas contemplando
escribiendo
estoy, su nombre a todos las paradas del autobus
con
tu nombre, estan commemorando todos los lugares en donde besamos
y
estoy adjuntando tambien ti, al callarme
Andemos
por las calles sin saludos sin respetos
quizas
con nosotros, lucen todos los suburbios
le
queda las prisiones, los frios mohosos
solo
los amigos le queda, no sabemos sus nombres
les
tomamos a nuestra corazon, calentamos
no
podemos ser el carcelero a nuestra vida cada noche
Si
vayas nevaria a mis palmas, tenerias frio
un
silencio de la gacela estarian aqui los amores
Unas
luces ostentosas se encenden en las tablas de publicidad
sin
parar le multiplican los asesinatos quienes les han hecho nadie sabe
y
unos pajaros muertos se venden en todos los floreros
en
lugar de violetas, narcisos; muertos de pajaros
un
sonido del agua un olor del basilisco ahora lejano
le
recuerdo los incendios a los muertos jovenes ya
En
los cafes de avenida un humo arabesco
la
niebla y el suicidio le desmorona a todas las cervecerias
el
registro de esta ciudad es claro ya y tu callarte
esta
la rebellion millon veces, ¿no yo sé?
me
arrima tu, tus manos quedase calurosamente
las
patrullas asaltan las casas oscurecidas -de nuevo
Si
vayas se derribaria esta ciudad, moririan los pajaros tambien
un
diluvio yo estaria en todos los lugares donde te callas
Ahmet
Telli
(n.
1946)
El
poeta turco
El Fin Del
Septiembre
Se
han acortado los dias. Los viejos de Kanlica
Recordiendo
los otoños pasandos cada de cada.
Solo
para amar este barrio, nuestras vidas son cortas…
No
terminen veranos lentamente, no se acorten los dias…
No
nos hartamos por años, hemos bebido esta bebida rara…
No
le ha suficido una vida sola para asi gusto, que lastima!
No
nos asusta mucho, hay morir en la fortuna;
El
dolor del departir del pais, es dificil ya.
No
ninguna volver de la noche de la muerta a esta costa,
Peor
que la muerte tambien, es una añonranza.
Yahya
Kemal Beyatlı
El
poeta turco
Fascism for Kids
Kids too can understand fascism
Fascism means to be beaten by a wicked dad
It is to be kept in a dark room
When you insist to ask for your rights
Stepmom slaps the half-smiling orphan
With her soap-full hand
That is a still mourning kid, without support yet.
To terrorize is the aim, to captivate it is.
The kid recognizes fascism in his cheek.
Why are they always so ugly?
No beautiful fascist ever existed.
Hey kids, these are meaningful questions for you
The schools are not teaching you this lesson
Wherever a power has been accumulated, an unfair one,
Wherever you see a bluster or nonsense
Wherever our bread was grabbed from our very hands
In class, at school, at home, at market
There it is kids, the fascism is there
All of us should hold each others’ hands
To walk past the night without fear
The sun will rise in one way or another
As soon as the roosters start to crow
Ergin Günçe (1938-1983), Turkish poet
Welcome
On
this winter evening
While
only cold sweeps
Into
here
Into
this room
When
the door was opened
You
swept this time
On
an icy winter evening
The
after-rain odour of
Honeysuckle
At
the edge of the door
Swept
Welcome
to our street
Though
it is cold
My
room warmed up at once
Did
your heart too get cold for years
-just
like your hands-
with
your cold little hands
welcome
to your home
welcome
welcome
to our street
each
and every corner
looked
for you when you were absent
lovebird
you’re
look,
do you see the naughty
settled
on your shoulder at once
she
has no mouth how she’d tell
that
she missed you at least as much as me
on
a forlorn summer night
I
had told her why you went
Maybe
she hadn’t understood anything
Yet
she had listened for hours
When
you went
I
moved the begonias to the balcony
She
looked for you
Her
leaves were thrown away crimsonly
You
were at all the pictures
At
the ones I have looked at since you went
You
at all seasons
Those
at which I cried with rains
And
there are still in my wardrobe some of your summer
clothes
Those
that I smell at times
When
you were absent
When
you were absent
I
told the aquarium the times at which you were
present
The
fish at the aquarium were recognising you
They
were so little when you went
Look,
all got big now
Everyone
was recognising you
At
the district
Everyone
was asking you
It
was too hard to tell –believe me-
Everything
was hard without you
The
song we had listened on the last evening
Is
still on the gramophone
Whereas
the flowers in the vase
Were
dried
Your
circassian blue eyes
And
your words were absent for centuries in my room
Nobody
would know what we lived in this room
Well
that you came
Welcome
to my room
Believe
me, it was unbearable without you
On
this winter evening
While
only cold sweeps
Into
here
Into
this room
When
the door was opened
You
swept this time
-Welcome
Nida Öz
Turkish poet from Germany
(d.1955)
Flight
now
I am fleeing
from
somewhere of the night
to
your eyes
from
a silent
and
dark hole
my
inside escapes to mountains
to
the feet of oaks
my
heart is stepping on mines
my
hands are hanging on wires
yet
I come to you
the
blue t-shirt that you bought
by
your first salary is on me
it
too was worn out just like my years
it
turned pale it faded
after
my nightmares
I
wiped my sweat with it
It
listened to my problem on evenings
I
wiped the rusts at my bunk
I
smelled it at times
just
like a flower
-the
points that your hands touched-
I
wiped my glass my mouth
It
became a curtain
upon
wicked winds to my window
at
nights
and
by it I closed
my
eyes
to
the things I would not like to see
my
blue t-shirt has already worn out
me
already
my
hands worn out due to lime walls
my
tongue worn out due to preacher
my
ears - due to lies
my
eyes – due to seeing traitors
-and
my nights – due to dreams
but
you
did
not wear out in my heart yet
my
blue darling
now
I
am fleeing
from
somewhere of the night
my
soul wants to come to you
by
coming out of thin and dark holes
my
soul is stepping on the mines
my
soul is suffering while fleeing to your eyes
I
am covering my soul with my blue t-shirt
the
last cigarette smokes at my mouth
the
oak forests are at my nose
the
oak forests
become
too far I see
-you
become too far-
my
soul is bleeding
you
are bleeding in my heart
upon
a flight
-while
fleeing to your eyes-
my
blue t-shirt is on me
you
within me
die
with me
Nida
Öz
15.
01. 1996
Fake Bus Stops
-you have my
marbles-
I
here was a fragile city
where seagulls at sea
and pigeons at squares wake up –early-
a city in which the fishermen collect stars from the
water
malaguena was playing on fm 105
for a woman kissed at slums for the first time
instead of a prayer for rain
a prayer for love
at the single ghettos of the city
from all its shores
-oysters immigrated long time ago-
as mad as southwester and suicide
love
was cheap as fish and bread
none of the dances on the water
was for couples
when the nights were chilling at summer’s heat
feminine and masculine words
were not fitting each other well
II
in this city in which from where the sun rises is not
known
anything from the old times
they are free aren’t they:
“who cares”
when childish colors fell on the dreams
the woman just released the balloons at her hand
the marbles fell to the golden horn
they decided
to make love
at a fake bus stop
İstanbul 22-30 june 2006
Nida Öz
love has to be written by a long o[1]
When I was a kid, the only luxury at home was a baroque commode with mirror
that my father bought from his Greek friends who were leaving Turkey, and a
dinner table. But the most luxurious, the most valuable, the most special was a
music box that he found at an antique shop at Tahtakale. I wasn’t using it
frequently and setting it just a little so that it won’t break down. The notes
on each cog that brass spring turns when it was back to its initial state was
wonderful. Sometimes, while I was listening, I used to cry although I didn’t
know why.
It was autumn. Maybe the wizard within me was telling me “cry again”.
Suddenly the spring set free... I had set it only a little. All the notes
disappeared within a couple of seconds.
I could make no sense out of the music that was playing.
I gently opened the box... I worked hard for days and months to mend it,
but I couldn’t. I cried.
-But- this time I knew why I cried.
while the years are climbing a steep hillside
lilac perfume is lost in all the women’s hair
it is time to find another name for autumn
is it that the human makes the melodies cry
or the melodies make the human cry
whatever it is...
whether it was lived fully or not
love has to be written by a long o
the sun was right here yesterday
i was holding her hand
she used to cry
the earth used to walk by the feet of a latin singer
when she was hanging around totally wet in the palms
we did not see the seagulls of other seas
we often made love in stations for fun
the ships were waved at in vain
the dreams were ashes of our fancies
those that we saw at midnight
while we were covering our body by the blanket of
solitude
the counts of tiny victories within us
whatever it is...
whether it was lived fully or not
love has to be written by a long o
why did we hurt the trees
what was the use of forcing the days to pace back and
forth anyway
while lie was being mixed with the real
love tramped our pavements in vain
we thought all the fairy tales were real
however the films we were shooting were torn by many
parts
once upon a time there were some actors
the mirror was merely a glass if it didn’t have the foil
on the back
whatever it is...
whether it was lived fully or not
-for me- love has to be written by a long o
14-29 may 2006
Nida Öz
red
the man was looking there/ with eyes-for-rent
somebody had been hung to the wall
the light was leaking out of the blinds
the lamp would die away if you would blow it out/
regardless of what you do
in the fully naked flower in the vase
is the blood at the hands of jesus christ
the face of the painter was not contaminated by paint
the background of the canvas is
red
the woman was looking there/ with eyes-for-rent
the dream looked blurred
she had been told that/ life is the third door from the
end on the left hallway
the wood was decayed/ the key was rusty
she was composing all her songs in black
since her piano was sold
all the notes are
red
the kid was looking there/ with eyes-for-rent
a silhouette of a woman without breasts
everybody was whispering another lullaby to her/ she had
to sleep
she had to open the eyes of the earth early
life was not a large note/ it was a small change
“the eyedrop was large rivers flowing in the midst of it/
as long as the seas were polluted”
she had understood that the water was crying
that one on the wall was a big clock
red
when the sun was turning her back to the earth
everybody was looking there
bus stops are full of people/ the buses are wide empty
all the lights are
red
31 january 2006
Nida Öz
a –strange- may song
i
whenever i pass through that time tunnel
my dreams lie under a panzer
the windows of bookshops shatter
the pieces
fall over the universities
the streets are watered by blood
the books are burnt on the squares
the hands of earth do not warm up
whenever i hear a gunshot
bullets rain over taksim
after a demonstration
dead cars
the kids collect shells
on the back streets
the sky smells blood
whenever i pass over that street
the hair of a woman grows longer to death
her lips are cracked due to fear
that they took hamdi by grabbing his beard
and he was never back comes to my mind
the police turns to be the reaper in disguise
he rushes into the harvest
he does not let the way for young ears
while cypresses shed leaves
onto nameless graves
whenever may –the
first- arrives
the kids who sell newspapers
the elders who collects nails
-among
granite stones-
come to my door
that i was deceived comes to my mind
in the tulip trick
spring fest
a
–strange- may song
ii
poor deaths
turn into soil by fake “amen”s
while factory chimneys pollute the city
corruption is cleared
soldier, guard of honor
black-handed politicians
are recorded in liar history books
whenever “labor” is mentioned
dog-eat-dog world comes to my mind
and my people come to my mind
my people whose head is –still- in the clouds
01 may 2004
Nida Öz
Drama
that street has been named after you, I lately noticed it
not all can be seen from the steamy window
the sky turns pale whenever I finger it
the woman at the corner sings as autumn
while the sky lets the departure drink water
the pavement on the street sleeps open-top
this book has been dedicated to you, I lately noticed it
fog in its pages, a drama
they say it burned itself, i don’t believe
the libraries smell burnt
at Babiali, i fall down out of myself
this book has been dedicated to you, I lately noticed it
i miss my footing, when that happens,
they say, back streets were dirtied, don’t believe
who knows how many fishes passed this city
how many ships took a nap at fake harbors
this world has not been founded for us, I lately noticed
it
If I would have known, I would have already unplugged the
sun
nida oz
[1] The original title is
‘love should be written with a soft g’. Since it has a meaning peculiar to the
Turkish word for ‘love’ and a letter in the Turkish alphabet, it is freely
translated as ‘love has to be written by a long o’.
Kaynak: Gezgin, U.B. (2017). Dünyayı Şiirle Dolaşmak: 2000’den 2017’ye Dünya Şiiri Çevirileri [Globetrotting via Poetry: World Poetry Translations – Comp. and trans. Ulas Basar Gezgin].
DÜNYAYI ŞİİRLE DOLAŞMAK
2000’DEN 2017’YE DÜNYA ŞİİRİ ÇEVİRİLERİ
Derleyen ve Çeviren: Ulaş Başar Gezgin
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Oguibe, O. (2006). Kanımla bağlıyım ben bu ülkeye
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Noonuccal, O. (2014). Bumerang Yok Artık
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Engels, F. (2008/1838). Bedevi
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Çing, A. (2005). Paris Ağıdı
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ENDONEZYA ŞİİRİ
İsmail, T. (2009). Belki ben de bir hırsızım
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Terziyan, T. (2001). Çırağan Sarayı
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Horen Nar Bey (2014). Göçebe Ermeni’den Buluta
Horen Nar Bey (2014). Sürgünden Serçeye
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Derviş, M. (2002). Üstümüze kapanıyor dünya
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Brulé, G. (Yanık Gace). (2002). Gurbet türküsü
Garneau, S.- D. (2003). Kuş kafesi
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J. Baranski, ABD
R. Yarrow, ABD
M. Lysenko, Avustralya
L. Balabanova, Bulgaristan
j. kacian, ABD
H. Ludwig, ABD-Almanya
G. Terebess, Macaristan
D. Matas, Hırvatistan
D. Franin, Hırvatistan
D. Plazanin, Hırvatistan
B. Ross, ABD
B. Akio, Japonya
B. Natsuishi, Japonya
A. Deodhar, Hindistan
A. Kudryavitsky, Rusya
S. Stanford, Avustralya
R. D. Wilson, ABD
I. Prondzynski, Kenya
J. Antonini, Fransa
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Sri, S. (2005). Ulusal tarihler
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Yazarsız (2005). Yaradılış (Rig Veda)
Yazarsız (2005). Kumarbaz (Rig Veda)
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Al Ramli, M. (2007). Hayır Diyorum Benden Irak’ın Özgürleştirilmesine!
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Briffa, R. (2001). Aynalar
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Paudyal, L. (2014). Himalaya
Serchan, B. (2014). Bir Şiir
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Gezgin, U. B. (2007). Vietnam Şiiri’ne kısa bir giriş.
Nguyen Du (2016). Hanoi’un Gitaristi
Vu, D.L. (2014). Hattat
Do, T. N. Y. (2007). Konuklama
Van, Cao (2016). Gerçek Dünyada Varolmayan Beş Sabah.
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Xuan, D. (2014). Deniz
Dzenh, H. (2007). Vietnamlı genç hanım
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YUNAN ŞİİRİ
Kavafis, K. (2001). Derdi Üstlenmek Üzere.
Pezaros, P. D. (2001). Siklad Adaları Şarkısı- Sifnos
Voidis, H. (2001). Karanlık kent
DİĞER ÇEVİRİLER[5]
Yazarsız (2004). Tonga’lıyım beşikten mezara
Lermontov, M.Y. (2001). Tamara.
Kolbe, U. (2010). Kıyısında yaşadığımız su
Montale, E. (2010). Sorma bize o sözcüğü.
Noroes, E. (2010). Kayıp
Noroes, E. (2010). Guava
TÜRKÇE’DEN İNGİLİZCE’YE VE İSPANYOLCA’YA ÇEVİRİLER
Telli, Ahmet (2001). Si Vayas Se Derribaria Esta Ciudad [Gidersen Yıkılır Bu Kent].
Beyatlı, Yahya Kemal (2001). El Fin Del Septiembre [Eylül Sonu].
Budak, Abdülkadir (2003). La Consistencia [Kıvam].
Budak, Abdülkadir (2003). Consistency.
Günçe, Ergin (2017). Fascism for Kids [Çocuklar için Faşizm]
Appleyard, J.L. (2001). You, Southerner [Tú, del Sur]
Öz, Nida (1996/2002). Welcome.
Öz, Nida (1996/2002). Flight.
Öz, Nida (2006/2010). Fake bus stops [Sahte duraklar].
Öz, Nida (2006/2010). Love has to be written by a long o [Sevgi yumuşak g ile yazılmalı].
Öz, Nida (2006/2010). Red [kırmızı].
Öz, Nida (2004/2010). A –strange- may song [Bir garip mayıs türküsü].
Öz, Nida (nd/tarihsiz). Drama [dram].
Tavlan, Ergun (2002). Papa
Arslan, Yılmaz (2011). I listened to the Moon (Ay’ı dinledim)
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[1] Countee Cullen’ın ‘Miras’ adlı şiirinin çevirisi için bkz. Gezgin, U.B. (2017). Ben Bütün Karanlıkları Bunlarla Yendim: Şiir Eleştirileri (2000-2017).
[2] Diğer Çin ve Asya şiirleri için bkz. Gezgin, U. B. (2007). Asya yazıları. İzmir: Ara-lık Yayınevi.
[4] Daha fazlası için bkz. Paz, O. (2000). Kartal mı güneş mi? (İsp çev: U.B. Gezgin). İstanbul: Virtüel Yayınevi.
Jimenez, J. R. (2007). 50 İspanyol şiiri (çev. U. B. Gezgin).
Latin Amerika Şiiri Antolojisi - Derleyen ve İspanyolca’dan Çeviren: Ulaş Başar Gezgin
XII. Yüzyıldan XX. Yüzyıla İspanyol Şiiri Antolojisi - Derleyen ve İspanyolca’dan Çeviren: Ulaş Başar Gezgin
[5] Ayrıca bkz. Gezgin, U. B. (baskıda). Hollanda’dan Tayvan’a Şiir Çevirileri: Diğer Kitaplara Giren Çeviriler - Çeviren: Ulaş Başar Gezgin.
bkz. Gezgin, U. B. (baskıda). Yanardağlar Patladığında / Когда пробуждались вулканы - Bilimsel ve Yazınsal Çeviriler (1999-2017)- Çeviren: Ulaş Başar Gezgin
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