and I lost my time dreaming without sleeping sleeping while walking
wherever I passed by I found my absence I am nowhere
Except the nothingness but I’m hiding at the top of the bowels At the place where the lightning has hit too often a heart where every word left its keenness and where my life drops to the slightest move.
Translated from the French poem of Pierre Reverdy, “Tard dans la vie”(1960).
See the edges of the buildings – White buildings, red buildings! What monstrous and numerous are those things! From the upper highness, As from viewing up from their legs, They are giantly erupting like trees. But what are these? What are these? Not like trees that arise from the seeds, Are they just there? Just like that?!
Ask who did build those buildings – Roofed buildings, bald buildings! What squared shape they have, What eminence some of them holds. But who asks about them? And who cares after all?
See all those what’s heard of buildings – Greek buildings, Ottoman buildings! Does mortal eyes’ seeing see these things? The glazed ceramics and corinthian crinklings Under the seas and upon the skies, The art of the architect’s, Or the pain of the masons by whom the brick lies?
See nothing what’s in the buildings – Commercial buildings, industrial buildings! Even the one who sits, stands in these things Sees only prisons fenced in wall by wall. As in a zoo, they are inclosed in the buildings. People see people only feeding When running out of the buildings.
See the monstrous, numerous buildings – Breathing buildings, oppressing buildings! They eat up the landscape And even other buildings. In them, people and people and people, Working and eating without seeing The buildings and buildings and buildings, Digesting the people, the look While they are seething and eating us till we go. Though, they’re not seeing what those buildings do Because they are just buildings after all.
Pop. The first left. Pop. Pop. The second and third. Pop. Pop. Pop. Going becomes a hype. Pop. Another one. Pop. Pop. I feel it salty to leave. Pop. I feel fever to go. Pop. Hot pressure. Pop. Pop. Pop. They go with pleasure. Pop. Popop. What’s going on? Popop. Pop. Popop. Is it a must to go? Pop. My ears are buzzing. Pop. The world’s reeling. Pop. Silence. Pop. Silence. Silence. Maybe, it’s the last. Silence. Maybe, it’s over. Sure. We are in safe. Stayed many of us. Out of the yellow mass. Yes! I told you. Don’t mess with me. Silence. Alas! Pop.
The Violin was amongst my first inspirations as a child gifted by poetry, instead of happiness. The childish poem sounded somewhat like these lines, but in my mother tongue: (Even if poetry is a language itself.) “My heart is like a violin with its cords; When I’m easy on them, it plays kindly,” (Nice metaphor; wasn’t I a smart kid?) “But when I force on it, it cries up and breaks, Leaving every heart in a broken silence.” (Oh, woow, that’s the ol’ me.) This is the poem on which I got the warning: “Sane kids don’t write such gibberish larking!”. That was harming, but the world harmed me more than such words; so, I didn’t stop writing because of a badly criticized poem, named: The Violin. However, I felt weird towards that instrument from then. I watched weirdly the rich kids playing on them freely; without nobody telling to them: You are insane Doing what you do, that rubbish larking. That was hard to understand that time why one’s art was seen crazy, and other’s playing was genius. But after some materialistically and socially hitting slaps on my face, I understood how it is exactly working with this terrible human race: The rich that follows and serves the example of enjoying being will be never replaced by the deep thinker wrapped up in grieving. Realizing it was sad, but truth is enlightening. This is why I returned to this magical instrument, now, with its amazing sounds that leave my heart happily crying. Just a decade and some years before, I was comparing my heart to those cords that can make such a beauty the Earth is barely able to hold, within such a sadness, within such a chance to fail and ruin everything, leaving rooms in heart-torn silence. This divine instruments must not be played but by the devil who knows what is true sin, and how gets fallen a daredevil. Let the devil take the cords, let him take my heart with them, too. I’ve needed no more than to truly know what is hiding in this world and this heart that makes me love a sad and gloomy while also pompous violin playing.