Old Souls

Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality. We slowly drove – He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility – We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun – Or rather – He passed Us – The Dews drew quivering and Chill – For only Gossamer, my Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle – We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was scarcely visible – The Cornice – in the Ground – Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity – - Emily Dickinson, Because I could not stop for Death

siyah beyaz tuşlarında piyanomun seni çalıyorum şimdi çaldıkça çoğalıyorsun odada sen arttıkça ben kayboluyorum seni doğuruyorum geceye adını koyuyorum aya bakarak her şey sen oluyor her yer sen ben ölüyorum sesini duyuyorum rüyalarımda gözlerimi kamaştırıyor ışığın rüzgar sen gibi dokunuyor bana ben doğuyorum duymak istediklerimi söylemiyorsun hiç dokunmuyorsun bana sen gibi bir şimşek çakıyor tam kalbime düşüyor yıldırımı ben gidiyorum - Özdemir Asaf, Hoşçakal

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. - Dylan Thomas, Do not go gentle into that good night

The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.   - Elizabeth Bishop, One Art

Bilirsin ki burada değilim artık Ihlamurlar çiçek açtığı zaman... Gelir benim yüreğimde toplanır, Dağların üstünden sıyrılan duman. Bir yanım mosmordur, bir yanım beyaz, Bir yanım karakış, bir yanım ilk yaz. Can evime bakışların saplanır; Ihlamurlar çiçek açtığı zaman... Ihlamurlar çiçek açtığı zaman; Ne sen gurbetçisin, ne ben sılacı. Senden gayrısına bakmam mümkün mü; Gözlerimi esir alan dağlardan. Kapımı üç defa çalan postacı “Adresinde yok! ” Diye notlar düşer, Eski adresimde bir hüzün eser; Ihlamurlar çiçek açtığı zaman... Eski adresimse kurumuş bir gül, Gizemli bir ıtır, domur domur kan, Yaba yaba yelde savrulur gönül, Firkatli turnalar geçer uzaktan. Dalgınlığım debimetre tanımaz, Başım çarpar bir gemi bordasına Düşerim bir girdabın ortasına Ihlamurlar çiçek açtığı zaman... Birden bezeklenir sevda haritam, Ihlamurlar çiçek açtığı zaman... Lâleler toplarım ben tutam tutam, Bizim için çalar kıvrak bir keman. Gök papatya, yer ise lâle bahçesi, Aşka ışık dokur kuşların sesi. Seninle

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;                          But O heart! heart! heart!                             O the bleeding drops of red,                                Where on the deck my Captain lies,                                   Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;                          Here Captain! dear father!                             This arm beneath your head!                                It is some dream that on the deck,                                  You’ve fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and sti

You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful cries? Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard ’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin’ in my own backyard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history’s shame I rise Up from a past that’s rooted in pain I rise I'm a bl

Once the world was perfect, and we were happy in that world. Then we took it for granted. Discontent began a small rumble in the earthly mind. Then Doubt pushed through with its spiked head. And once Doubt ruptured the web, All manner of demon thoughts Jumped through— We destroyed the world we had been given For inspiration, for life— Each stone of jealousy, each stone Of fear, greed, envy, and hatred, put out the light. No one was without a stone in his or her hand. There we were, Right back where we had started. We were bumping into each other In the dark. And now we had no place to live, since we didn't know How to live with each other. Then one of the stumbling ones took pity on another And shared a blanket. A spark of kindness made a light. The light made an opening in the darkness. Everyone worked together to make a ladder. A Wind Clan person climbed out first into the next world, And then the other clans, the children of those clans, their children, And their children, all t

Twelve o'clock. Along the reaches of the street Held in a lunar synthesis, Whispering lunar incantations Dissolve the floors of memory And all its clear relations, Its divisions and precisions, Every street lamp that I pass Beats like a fatalistic drum, And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium. Half-past one, The street lamp sputtered, The street lamp muttered, The street lamp said, 'Regard that woman Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door Which opens on her like a grin. You see the border of her dress Is torn and stained with sand, And you see the corner of her eye Twists like a crooked pin.' The memory throws up high and dry A crowd of twisted things; A twisted branch upon the beach Eaten smooth, and polished As if the world gave up The secret of its skeleton, Stiff and white. A broken spring in a factory yard, Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left Hard and curled and ready to snap. Half

He does not think that I haunt here nightly :    How shall I let him know That whither his fancy sets him wandering    I, too, alertly go?— Hover and hover a few feet from him    Just as I used to do, But cannot answer the words he lifts me—    Only listen thereto! When I could answer he did not say them:    When I could let him know How I would like to join in his journeys    Seldom he wished to go. Now that he goes and wants me with him    More than he used to do, Never he sees my faithful phantom    Though he speaks thereto. Yes, I companion him to places    Only dreamers know, Where the shy hares print long paces,    Where the night rooks go; Into old aisles where the past is all to him,    Close as his shade can do, Always lacking the power to call to him,    Near as I reach thereto! What a good haunter I am, O tell him,    Quickly make him know If he but sigh since my loss befell him    Straight to his side I go. Tell him a faithful one is doing    All that love can do Still that

Beyond the steady rock the steady sea, In movement more immovable than station, Gathers and washes and is gone. It comes, A slow obscure metonymy of motion, Crumbling the inner barriers of the brain. But the crossed rock braces the hills and makes A steady quiet of the steady music, Massive with peace. And listen, now: The foam receding down the sand silvers Between the grains, thin, pure as virgin words, Lending a sheen to Nothing, whispering. - Yvor Winters,  The Fable 

 I am the only one here.   I stand in my one place and I can see a good piece down the road. I am yonder, further than the chunk of your stone. Right now, directly, I am persimmon falling free and the prisoner opening up in me. Don’t come through my door and want to run my house. I am the angel who sweep air in and out my own dancing body. I got good eyes. I can see. A good piece down the road. Clear to God murmuring in me. My head is the burning bush. What I hold in my hand is the promised land. I set my people free in me. And we walk without wandering like people named after mere plants, because we are tree and high-stepping roots cake-walking in this promised place.   Where I go is where I am now. Don’t mess with me: you hurt yourself. In the middle of my stride now. I am walking yes indeed I am walking through my own house. I am walking yes indeed on my own piece of road. Toting my own load and yours and mine. I tell you I feel fine and clear this morning even when it’s night and a

We watched from the house as the river grew, helpless and terrible in its unfamiliar body.    Wrestling everything into it, the water wrapped around trees until their life-hold was broken. They went down, one by one, and the river dragged off their covering. Nests of the herons, roots washed to bones,    snags of soaked bark on the shoreline:    a whole forest pulled through the teeth    of the spillway. Trees surfacing singly, where the river poured off into arteries for fields below the reservation. When at last it was over, the long removal,    they had all become the same dry wood.    We walked among them, the branches    whitening in the raw sun. Above us drifted herons, alone, hoarse-voiced, broken, settling their beaks among the hollows. Grandpa said, These are the ghosts of the tree people    moving among us, unable to take their rest.  Sometimes now, we dream our way back to the heron dance.    Their long wings are bending the air    into circles through which they fall.    Th

The truth is this: every monster you have met or will ever meet was once a human being with a soul that was as soft and light as silk Someone stole that silk from their soul and turned them into this So when you see a monster next always remember do not fear the thing before you fear the thing that created it instead. - Nikita Gill,  The Truth About Monsters   

Seni düşünürken Bir çakıl taşı ısınır içimde Bir kuş gelir yüreğimin ucuna konar Bir gelincik açılır ansızın Bir gelincik sinsi sinsi kanar Seni düşünürken Bir erik ağacı tepeden tırnağa donanır Deliler gibi dönmeğe başlar Döndükçe yumak yumak çözülür Çözüldükçe ufalır küçülür Çekirdeği henüz süt bağlamış Masmavi bir erik kesilir ağzımda Dokundukça yanar dudaklarım Seni düşünürken Bir çakıl taşı ısınır içimde. - Bedri Rahmi Eyüboğlu, Çakıl

Güzel olan Her günü seninle tekrar tekrar yaşamak Erimek yarını olmayan zamanlarda Durdurmak bir yerde bütün saatleri Bütün kuralları kırıp parçalamak Sonra varmak o yerlere Mevsimlere dur demek Kar yağarken çiçek açtırmak ağaçlara Güneşi bir akşam saatinde tutup bırakmamak Sonra doldurmak ay ışığını kadehlere Delicesine içmek Ve unutabilmek her şeyi ansızın Sevmek seni en yücesiyle sevgilerin Birlikte geçmiş, gelecek bütün çağları aşmak Güzel olan Sevmek seni Tanrılar gibi Seninle Tanrılaşmak... Bir gün bu akan sele dur diyeceğim, göreceksin Ne bu şehir kalacak Ne bu duygusuz sürü Bu korkunç kalabalık Her vapur seni getirecek bana Bütün istasyonlarda seni bekleyeceğim Kapılar sana açılacak Senin için söylenecek şarkılar Şiirler senin için yazılacak Her evde bir resmin Her meydanda bir heykelin olacak Ve sen kimi gün bir rüzgar gibi Kimi gün denizler gibi, bulutlar gibi Kopup ötelerden, ötelerden Yalnız bana geleceksin Bir gün bu akan sele dur diyeceğim göreceksin. Ben eskimeyen tek gü

Beni en güzel günümde Sebepsiz bir keder alır. Bütün ömrümün beynimde Acı bir tortusu kalır. Anlıyamam kederimi, Bir ateş yakar derimi, İçim dar bulur yerimi, Gönlüm dağlarda bunalır. Ne kış, ne yazı isterim, Ne bir dost yüzü isterim, Hafif bir sızı isterim, Ağrılar, sancılar gelir. Yanıma düşer kollarım, Görünmez olur yollarım, En sevgili emellerim Önüme ölü serilir... Ne bir dost, ne bir sevgili, Dünyadan uzak bir deli... Beni sarar melankoli: Kafamın içersi ölür. - Sabahattin Ali, Melankoli