tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86847182397549215092024-03-16T04:12:58.755+03:00Gül Biçimli DefterErdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.comBlogger1724125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-965933219550867292024-03-05T19:40:00.000+03:002024-03-05T19:40:24.264+03:00Fantasia of the Unconscious / D. H. Lawrence<div>"What sex is, we don’t know, but it must be some sort of fire. For it always communicates a sense of warmth, of glow. And when this glow becomes a pure shine, then we feel the sense of beauty. We all have the fire of sex slumbering or burning inside us. If we live to be ninety, it is still there. Or, if it dies, we become one of those ghastly living corpses which are unfortunately becoming more numerous in the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sex is our deepest form of consciousness. It is utterly non-ideal, non-mental. It is pure blood-consciousness. It is the basic consciousness of the blood, the nearest thing in us to pure material consciousness."</div><div><br /></div><div>D. H. Lawrence ~ (Fantasia of the Unconscious, 1922)<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYv4tdqOizolMo1ftjoPZxpbcbY-CuZwPIW7n2nv15pYjkSH0Ncc1AcFUt-qQRRMC10P8pT-xZzE_pWkUNGzGyo9h6NUV-ZaxE0n_Ojykwt2DpUiSkvUszjOXJoCb9z4rl2D6I1oDD84rAVKl5_UoxOhFvkJywOVibmLK-s3B1Rhs_pA2aI73G33h/s2560/Photo%20by%20Mikhail%20Tishkoff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1695" data-original-width="2560" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYv4tdqOizolMo1ftjoPZxpbcbY-CuZwPIW7n2nv15pYjkSH0Ncc1AcFUt-qQRRMC10P8pT-xZzE_pWkUNGzGyo9h6NUV-ZaxE0n_Ojykwt2DpUiSkvUszjOXJoCb9z4rl2D6I1oDD84rAVKl5_UoxOhFvkJywOVibmLK-s3B1Rhs_pA2aI73G33h/w400-h265/Photo%20by%20Mikhail%20Tishkoff.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Mikhail Tishkoff</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-78047031705424563142024-03-01T23:53:00.002+03:002024-03-01T23:53:35.170+03:00Mani che si cercano / ©Sogni Di Ieri<div>Mani che si cercano</div><div>s'intrecciano</div><div>togliendo voce alle parole</div><div>diventando musica che scorre sulla pelle</div><div>fatta di respiri</div><div>calore</div><div>desiderio</div><div>in quell'incastro perfetto</div><div>d'appartenenza.</div><div><br /></div><div>©Sogni Di Ieri<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheejI_ZZrPk1hk9E4T2Pv_Cw2JTqXVcUKKz0WKbMMDGwq4VqWUGUhrZfsPc4YM4FLBtPDrMMmTXH5UecZmBpOIUXMFdQ5o8Gaah-x6RF06cEyzUaX7yqgxPECwiuMugqsiLxS2sgw3jmE9IZDYqliDDWDsgBC7qttoE_GkH4auln1DmjX_51kbvLjt/s2560/Photo%20by%20Mikhail%20Tishkoff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1707" data-original-width="2560" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheejI_ZZrPk1hk9E4T2Pv_Cw2JTqXVcUKKz0WKbMMDGwq4VqWUGUhrZfsPc4YM4FLBtPDrMMmTXH5UecZmBpOIUXMFdQ5o8Gaah-x6RF06cEyzUaX7yqgxPECwiuMugqsiLxS2sgw3jmE9IZDYqliDDWDsgBC7qttoE_GkH4auln1DmjX_51kbvLjt/w400-h266/Photo%20by%20Mikhail%20Tishkoff.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Mikhail Tishkoff</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-17575187615792097972024-02-29T23:09:00.000+03:002024-02-29T23:09:20.913+03:00La Tregua / Mario Benedetti<div>“Me gustan sus labios, quiero decir el gusto, el modo como se hunden, como se entreabren, como se escapan. Naturalmente, no es la primera vez que besa. ¿Y eso qué? Después de todo es un alivio volver a besar en la boca y con confianza y con cariño.”</div><div><br /></div><div>Mario Benedetti ~ (La Tregua, 1960)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"I like her lips, I mean to say, their taste, the way they submerge themselves, open halfway, and slip away. Naturally, it’s not the first time she’s kissed someone. So what? After all, it’s a relief to kiss on the mouth again, with trust and affection." </div><div><br /></div><div>Mario Benedetti ~ (The Truce, 1960)</div><div><br /></div><div>Translated from the Spanish by Harry Morales<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6oVbFH1dSe2xe8PAgdwNIvjRGFXzkQJwsEfy6_kRPWs773ppGOIKiEbiTB0ENhKfXzrm-egFgWcdwiM2JAhP0TMoqGXdrHnuFXLr8Azqsvz_kDzaiysXyNcbJcEuioAv4TU3DfWRSTf-x4NvrUoACvx0TRNG5CkJT2VrVesUu7JWQVjuATiPOquAT/s640/Photo%20by%20Amanda%20Carlson.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6oVbFH1dSe2xe8PAgdwNIvjRGFXzkQJwsEfy6_kRPWs773ppGOIKiEbiTB0ENhKfXzrm-egFgWcdwiM2JAhP0TMoqGXdrHnuFXLr8Azqsvz_kDzaiysXyNcbJcEuioAv4TU3DfWRSTf-x4NvrUoACvx0TRNG5CkJT2VrVesUu7JWQVjuATiPOquAT/w400-h400/Photo%20by%20Amanda%20Carlson.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Amanda Carlson</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-55359594358273594122024-02-26T01:57:00.002+03:002024-02-26T01:57:33.993+03:00Era come la melodia di un pianoforte... / ©Sogni Di Ieri<div>Era come la melodia di un pianoforte...</div><div>Morbida intrigante</div><div>e al tempo stesso esplosiva</div><div>violenta...</div><div>Come la passione..</div><div><br /></div><div>©Sogni Di Ieri<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhksRroQp2IrNAjRF2DxHnw34kTcGVSfwcbAG0GORDwSVoLfGAV11Eob_hzIgZ6hDH_e687rkdZN7AgyCi-O9V0N2FvhytEJvX7KHuXAg_NUguV5NnhkuyIXuPkpBOKXb4alVPaodrFMGU56sOA4tjoSjyISY4arTygAOsp_JM8EA53nXdUXqNd6-eW/s1500/Photo%20by%20Antonio%20Girlando.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhksRroQp2IrNAjRF2DxHnw34kTcGVSfwcbAG0GORDwSVoLfGAV11Eob_hzIgZ6hDH_e687rkdZN7AgyCi-O9V0N2FvhytEJvX7KHuXAg_NUguV5NnhkuyIXuPkpBOKXb4alVPaodrFMGU56sOA4tjoSjyISY4arTygAOsp_JM8EA53nXdUXqNd6-eW/w266-h400/Photo%20by%20Antonio%20Girlando.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Antonio Girlando</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-60806832027720710492024-02-24T22:56:00.000+03:002024-02-24T22:56:10.232+03:00No quisiera que lloviera / Cristina Peri Rossi<div>No quisiera que lloviera</div><div>te lo juro</div><div>que lloviera en esta ciudad</div><div>sin ti</div><div>y escuchar los ruidos del agua</div><div>al bajar</div><div>y pensar que allí donde estás viviendo</div><div>sin mí</div><div>llueve sobre la misma ciudad</div><div>Quizá tengas el cabello mojado</div><div>el teléfono a mano</div><div>que no usas</div><div>para llamarme</div><div>para decirme</div><div>esta noche te amo</div><div>me inundan los recuerdos de ti</div><div>discúlpame,</div><div>la literatura me mató</div><div>pero te le parecías tanto.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cristina Peri Rossi</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Non vorrei che piovesse</div><div>ti giuro</div><div>che piovesse in questa città</div><div>senza di te</div><div>e ascoltare i rumori dell’acqua</div><div>scendere</div><div>e pensare che lì dove stai abitando</div><div>senza di me</div><div>piove sulla stessa città.</div><div>Forse avrai i capelli bagnati</div><div>il telefono portatile</div><div>che non usi mai</div><div>per chiamarmi</div><div>per dirmi</div><div>questa notte ti amo</div><div>m’inondano i ricordi di te</div><div>scusami,</div><div>la letteratura mi ha ucciso</div><div>ma le assomigliavi tanto.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cristina Peri Rossi</div><div><br /></div><div>Traduzione di Antonio Nazzaro<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5l6_8BruJPTSzz0YtnPZVEVZeVm4jNhG9yhY-SSeaENDmzIt1U6Vqk4MPQTNautXkpiq3Q5cERa2Nxa0Verq-gFDdwjw07YvVh6GR3DKJX0PnV1ziU3XQ2NrivyNgXX5DTjrLUVNuiN5aMV8zhuKCvzA6jZtBlNshvjmZGGY8pZtFmGMohNlTtSK/s1644/Unknown%20photographer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1644" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5l6_8BruJPTSzz0YtnPZVEVZeVm4jNhG9yhY-SSeaENDmzIt1U6Vqk4MPQTNautXkpiq3Q5cERa2Nxa0Verq-gFDdwjw07YvVh6GR3DKJX0PnV1ziU3XQ2NrivyNgXX5DTjrLUVNuiN5aMV8zhuKCvzA6jZtBlNshvjmZGGY8pZtFmGMohNlTtSK/w293-h400/Unknown%20photographer.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unknown photographer</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-7235224391172712822024-02-23T21:07:00.000+03:002024-02-23T21:07:34.718+03:00Sono una donna.. / ©Sogni Di Ieri<div>Sono una donna..</div><div><br /></div><div>Aspra e dolcissima sì...</div><div>Ma solo quanto basta.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sono unghie affilate</div><div>e petali di rose.</div><div><br /></div><div>Non sono bianco nè nero</div><div>perchè ho mille sfumature.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dico e mi contraddico</div><div>perchè vivo i miei contrasti*.</div><div><br /></div><div>Non darmi per scontata</div><div><br /></div><div>Amo perdermi</div><div>perchè tu possa ritrovarmi</div><div>sempre uguale</div><div>eppure diversa.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mai banale</div><div><br /></div><div>Sì sono una donna</div><div>e tutto ciò che ne consegue.</div><div><br /></div><div>©Sogni Di Ieri<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-Cl_PKp0NMVJKv8Ij7U0y3kcd05fdh02yhml-8sNZZyI1xpdYqZw31C76OJbQqVQfK46NE_2pXkE8-3_c-_MuSu9PILCCw70p0EgDjc6wMDjqiZEbJDSiLtKRV47Hj5JyFkJQ_eNmw45QokyYIU7tUS0sXNDTHhbcL6iXaUnQI0WDSdgqmlnrTvo/s2048/Monica%20Bellucci,%202002,%20by%20Willy%20Rizzo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-Cl_PKp0NMVJKv8Ij7U0y3kcd05fdh02yhml-8sNZZyI1xpdYqZw31C76OJbQqVQfK46NE_2pXkE8-3_c-_MuSu9PILCCw70p0EgDjc6wMDjqiZEbJDSiLtKRV47Hj5JyFkJQ_eNmw45QokyYIU7tUS0sXNDTHhbcL6iXaUnQI0WDSdgqmlnrTvo/w400-h266/Monica%20Bellucci,%202002,%20by%20Willy%20Rizzo.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monica Bellucci, 2002, by Willy Rizzo</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-87300089287094502272024-02-21T23:38:00.005+03:002024-02-21T23:38:58.162+03:00Isola d'incanto / ©Sogni Di Ieri<div>Isola d'incanto</div><div>appariva ai tuoi occhi</div><div>la mia nuda schiena</div><div>approdo sicuro</div><div>a te naufrago</div><div>in balía delle mie maree..</div><div><br /></div><div>©Sogni Di Ieri<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjllhARvdLngBvOOrkFlR7qWkiWBf7Yt-cLP9-HbTWfzb_ESzrxkxWZVa90ISjL8VQ-fGnBrje0ToRbN4xP5pMpLVpGxB0J8So9QYvySsaGjpOueXq-FU-Mgjjg-hYwzRNtZPptY69pA_URSpP-HjBnY7T72oGKDpR6pJ7VVM-tIkf56D6OVAe9gg6X/s800/Photo%20by%20Valery%20Vasiliev.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjllhARvdLngBvOOrkFlR7qWkiWBf7Yt-cLP9-HbTWfzb_ESzrxkxWZVa90ISjL8VQ-fGnBrje0ToRbN4xP5pMpLVpGxB0J8So9QYvySsaGjpOueXq-FU-Mgjjg-hYwzRNtZPptY69pA_URSpP-HjBnY7T72oGKDpR6pJ7VVM-tIkf56D6OVAe9gg6X/w268-h400/Photo%20by%20Valery%20Vasiliev.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Valery Vasiliev</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-11967094432157170172024-02-19T23:19:00.000+03:002024-02-19T23:19:17.719+03:00Siamo tutti come diamanti grezzi.. / ©Sogni Di Ieri<div>Siamo tutti</div><div>come diamanti grezzi..</div><div>Fino a quando non arriva</div><div>quel qualcuno che scorge</div><div>la tua luce, la scopre</div><div>e la fa brillare in tutta la sua</div><div>splendida caratura</div><div><br /></div><div>©Sogni Di Ieri<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidCdrOIbEqYZXnnHyUkCJTI3LxisHF5mxWu5cBv7UEJWM8qdK1-zxrGd-v6SLZxnJuzN-8jOFiZNF-39rvB0Kj1Or1hgNrh63sn9tEcIXxtmaKuHTBrgJba6bnn9NSpwdnv63bkmA0fceN6qmryT4AHtIQmtlbWZdM8tXXsld0Ksf8X6mxZc6Pesfj/s1350/Model%20Anastasia%20Reshetova.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidCdrOIbEqYZXnnHyUkCJTI3LxisHF5mxWu5cBv7UEJWM8qdK1-zxrGd-v6SLZxnJuzN-8jOFiZNF-39rvB0Kj1Or1hgNrh63sn9tEcIXxtmaKuHTBrgJba6bnn9NSpwdnv63bkmA0fceN6qmryT4AHtIQmtlbWZdM8tXXsld0Ksf8X6mxZc6Pesfj/w320-h400/Model%20Anastasia%20Reshetova.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Model Anastasia Reshetova</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-73015170243590757542024-02-15T01:12:00.002+03:002024-02-15T01:12:36.508+03:00A Lover's Song / Audre Lorde<div>A Lover's Song</div><div><br /></div><div>Give me fire and I will sing you morning </div><div>Finding you heart </div><div>And a birth of fruit</div><div>For you, a flame that will stay beauty </div><div>Song will take us by by the hand </div><div>And lead us back to light.</div><div><br /></div><div>Give me fire and I will sing you evening </div><div>Asking you water </div><div>And quick breath </div><div>No farewell winds like a willow switch </div><div>Against my body </div><div>But a voice to speak </div><div>In a dark room.</div><div><br /></div><div>Audre Lorde<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxnEkj7OveqBF738bsPRYUjlSV0fhZMzXkB8sjtE8xXqXjH4EV8AOwLAw8UewOTCwx3d5vWG05YPNrTwUyIpONmyeNwXMpBSNlqhRUBrXasUW-rph-xSChUevFtoy1xbK6AkSeZgBEir7M2Yd4lVy-xgc75LM7MuovHQJdLKLhksrYZP4D49q3Wq4n/s883/Photo%20by%20Celine%20Perrier%20Andrea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="883" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxnEkj7OveqBF738bsPRYUjlSV0fhZMzXkB8sjtE8xXqXjH4EV8AOwLAw8UewOTCwx3d5vWG05YPNrTwUyIpONmyeNwXMpBSNlqhRUBrXasUW-rph-xSChUevFtoy1xbK6AkSeZgBEir7M2Yd4lVy-xgc75LM7MuovHQJdLKLhksrYZP4D49q3Wq4n/w400-h271/Photo%20by%20Celine%20Perrier%20Andrea.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Celine Perrier Andrea</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-77869172083801546142024-01-24T19:04:00.001+03:002024-01-24T19:04:29.728+03:00Brief an Oskar Pollak / Franz Kafka<div>"Ich glaube, man sollte überhaupt nur solche Bücher lesen, die einen beißen und stechen. Wenn das Buch, das wir lesen, uns nicht mit einem Faustschlag auf den Schädel weckt, wozu lesen wir dann das Buch? Damit es uns glücklich macht, wie Du schreibst? Mein Gott, glücklich wären wir eben auch, wenn wir keine Bücher hätten, und solche Bücher, die uns glücklich machen, könnten wir zur Not selber schreiben. Wir brauchen aber die Bücher, die auf uns wirken wie ein Unglück, das uns sehr schmerzt, wie der Tod eines, den wir lieber hatten als uns, wie wenn wir in Wälder verstoßen würden, von allen Menschen weg, wie ein Selbstmord, ein Buch muß die Axt sein für das gefrorene Meer in uns. Das glaube ich."</div><div><br /></div><div>Franz Kafka ~ (Brief an Oskar Pollak, 27 Januar 1904)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"I think we ought to read only books that bite and sting us. If the book we are reading doesn’t shake us awake like a blow to the skull, why bother reading it in the first place? So that it can make us happy, as you put it? Good God, we’d be just as happy if we had no books at all; books that make us happy we could, in a pinch, also write ourselves. What we need are books that hit us like a most painful misfortune, like the death of someone we loved more than we love ourselves, that make us feel as though we had been banished to the woods, far from any human presence, like suicide. A book must be the ax for the frozen sea within us. That is what I believe.”</div><div><br /></div><div>Franz Kafka ~ (Letter to Oskar Pollak, 27 January 1904)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i>[other english translate]</i></div><div><br /></div><div>"I think we should only read books that bite and stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a punch to the head, what are we reading for? To make us happy, as you write? My God, we would be happy if we didn’t have books, and we could write books that make us happy ourselves if necessary. But we need the books that hit us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, as if we were cast out into forests, away from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. This is what I think."</div><div><br /></div><div>Franz Kafka ~ (Letter to Oskar Pollak, 27 January 1904)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Bizi ısıran ve bizi zehirleyen kitapları okumalıyız. Okuduğumuz kitap kafamıza balyoz indirilmiş gibi bizi uyandırmıyor ise, neden okuma zahmetine girelim ki? Senin dediğin gibi, bizi mutlu kılsın diye mi? Aman Tanrım, hiç kitap olmasaydı da o denli mutlu olurduk. Kendimizi azıcık sıkarsak bizi mutlu edecek kitapları biz de yazabiliriz. Bize gerekli olan, en acı verecek talihsizlik gibi bize vuran kitaplar. Kendimizden çok sevdiğimiz birinin ölümü gibi vuran, insanlardan uzaklara, ormanlara sürgün edilmişiz duygusu veren, intihar gibi kitaplar. Kitap, içimizdeki donmuş denize inen balta gibi olmalı. Ben buna inanıyorum."</div><div><br /></div><div>Franz Kafka ~ (Oskar Pollak'a Mektup, 27 Ocak 1904)</div><div><br /></div><div>Çeviri: Füsun Elioğlu</div><div><br /></div><div><i>(Metnin geçtiği kitap: Okumanın Tarihi / Alberto Manguel; Yapı Kredi Yayınları 2001)</i><br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCH8TDXmnWaw_9cWQK89uz8VExnm3IZ-skuYhMpnEXwzDOKY8FNEyiWaBf43DUZy5ZVBgzcMqV64arFGHZC20HALoKtl6Jf1H4QRnm6FBVGvv-_QSWWOzU_KTnKWkXG2kSviOqVXB6tI1v68mDZiK57h60yiK6tv_MkESopDbB4GvbMB3bFRohxT0y/s1400/Franz%20Kafka%20by%20Minh%20Nguyen%20(Illustrator).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCH8TDXmnWaw_9cWQK89uz8VExnm3IZ-skuYhMpnEXwzDOKY8FNEyiWaBf43DUZy5ZVBgzcMqV64arFGHZC20HALoKtl6Jf1H4QRnm6FBVGvv-_QSWWOzU_KTnKWkXG2kSviOqVXB6tI1v68mDZiK57h60yiK6tv_MkESopDbB4GvbMB3bFRohxT0y/w400-h400/Franz%20Kafka%20by%20Minh%20Nguyen%20(Illustrator).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Franz Kafka by Minh Nguyen (Illustrator)</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-63211180954323592892024-01-23T16:02:00.003+03:002024-01-23T16:02:57.301+03:00Siddhartha / Hermann Hesse<div>“So she thoroughly taught him that one cannot take pleasure without giving pleasure, and that every gesture, every caress, every touch, every glance, every last bit of the body has its secret, which brings happiness to the person who knows how to wake it. She taught him that after a celebration of love the lovers should not part without admiring each other, without being conquered or having conquered, so that neither is bleak or glutted or has the bad feeling of being used or misused.”</div><div><br /></div><div>Hermann Hesse ~ (Siddhartha)<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvrCnr43MsAqsGIyn4p0xeUlhWhQl6pCk8VAQzKbkc_RTmnmP1OpGWO7J1k2n3oNFgjuPoyVUcm3f4sCz6JG0WBhcRs4lSKrSPNEHAunP_cgMcWdlq7BmTVxdA6Ixboj2IxoOLyspJEuY7v6vO9-mfqNs3z2qmz1K67_GTz2fZ9aeKa_JAQR9-p56b/s1600/Linda%20Evangelista%20and%20Kyle%20MacLachlan%20for%20Vogue%20Italia,%20September%201993,%20by%20Steven%20Meisel.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvrCnr43MsAqsGIyn4p0xeUlhWhQl6pCk8VAQzKbkc_RTmnmP1OpGWO7J1k2n3oNFgjuPoyVUcm3f4sCz6JG0WBhcRs4lSKrSPNEHAunP_cgMcWdlq7BmTVxdA6Ixboj2IxoOLyspJEuY7v6vO9-mfqNs3z2qmz1K67_GTz2fZ9aeKa_JAQR9-p56b/w320-h400/Linda%20Evangelista%20and%20Kyle%20MacLachlan%20for%20Vogue%20Italia,%20September%201993,%20by%20Steven%20Meisel.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Linda Evangelista and Kyle MacLachlan <br />for Vogue Italia, September 1993, <br />by Steven Meisel</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-17054421147569501232023-12-13T19:24:00.000+03:002023-12-13T19:24:11.183+03:00Life / Arseny Tarkovsky<div>Life</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't believe in omens or fear</div><div>Forebodings. I flee from neither slander</div><div>Nor from poison. Death does not exist.</div><div>Everyone's immortal. Everything is too.</div><div>No point in fearing death at seventeen,</div><div>Or seventy. There's only here and now, and light;</div><div>Neither death, nor darkness, exists.</div><div>We're all already on the seashore;</div><div>I'm one of those who'll be hauling in the nets</div><div>When a shoal of immortality swims by.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you live in a house - the house will not fall.</div><div>I'll summon any of the centuries,</div><div>Then enter one and build a house in it.</div><div>That's why your children and your wives</div><div>Sit with me at one table, -</div><div>The same for ancestor and grandson:</div><div>The future is being accomplished now,</div><div>If I raise my hand a little,</div><div>All five beams of light will stay with you.</div><div>Each day I used my collar bones</div><div>For shoring up the past, as though with timber,</div><div>I measured time with geodetic chains</div><div>And marched across it, as though it were the Urals.</div><div><br /></div><div>I tailored the age to fit me.</div><div>We walked to the south, raising dust above the steppe;</div><div>The tall weeds fumed; the grasshopper danced,</div><div>Touching its antenna to the horse-shoes - and it prophesied,</div><div>Threatening me with destruction, like a monk.</div><div>I strapped my fate to the saddle;</div><div>And even now, in these coming times,</div><div>I stand up in the stirrups like a child.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm satisfied with deathlessness,</div><div>For my blood to flow from age to age.</div><div>Yet for a corner whose warmth I could rely on</div><div>I'd willingly have given all my life,</div><div>Whenever her flying needle</div><div>Tugged me, like a thread, around the globe.</div><div><br /></div><div>Arseny Tarkovsky ~ (Life: Selected Poems)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Hayat</div><div><br /></div><div>Önseziye inanmam, hurafelere güvenmem.</div><div>Korkum yok iftiradan ve zehirden.</div><div>Ölüm yok, dünyada.</div><div>Herkes ölümsüz. Her şey ölümsüz.</div><div>On yedi yaşındayken de korkma ölümden,</div><div>Yetmiş yaşındayken de.</div><div>Yalnızca gerçeklik ve ışık vardır.</div><div>Karanlık ve ölüm yoktur dünyamızda.</div><div>Hepimiz bir denizin kıyısındayız.</div><div>Ve ben ağı çekenlerdenim.</div><div>Ölümsüzlük geçip giderken.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bir evde yaşayın. O ev asla çökmeyecek.</div><div>İstediğim bir çağı getireceğim.</div><div>İçine girip evimi yapacağım.</div><div>Bu yüzden çocuklarınız ekmeğimi paylaşıyor</div><div>Ve masama oturuyor eşleriniz.</div><div>Sofram atalarımıza açık, torunlarımıza da.</div><div>Gelecek şimdiden tasarlandı.</div><div>Elimi kaldırdığımda,</div><div>Beş ışın göndereceğim size.</div><div>Ben geçen her günle güçlendim.</div><div>Ve pınarlarımı topladım etrafıma.</div><div>Zamanı ölçtüm, dünyayı aşarak.</div><div>Ve Ural Dağları'ndan geçer gibi</div><div>Geçtim içinden.</div><div><br /></div><div>Kendime göre bir yüzyıl seçtim.</div><div>Güneye akın ettik, bozkırlarda</div><div>toza toprağa bulandık.</div><div>Otlar yandı. Bir çekirge sıçradı.</div><div>At nalına dokunup öleceğim.</div><div>Kehanetinde bulundu bir keşiş gibi.</div><div>Kaderimi terkime atıp taşıdım ben.</div><div>Şimdi gelecek günlerin önünde</div><div>Bir çocuk gibi duruyorum.</div><div>Masum ve temiz.</div><div>Ölümsüzlüğüm yeter bana.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yeter ki kanım aksın asırlarca damarlarımdan.</div><div>Biraz sıcaklık ve güvenli bir barınak için</div><div>Hayatımı verebilirdim</div><div>Kendi isteğimle ve özgürce.</div><div>Onun uçuşan iğneleri, sürüklemezdi beni.</div><div>Dünyayı dolaşan iplik gibi.</div><div><br /></div><div>Arseny Tarkovsky<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJlapJ_YyNiYTiagBsJ_fqWaHXEq95m4WGolpnvvNuo9AHKHprMjEAHqPWlgd8XyfdWtlR_gYStDy36pks0HQebVIdJv1kCGTyC9XLjj2JNBbeLqETnkniIOb58tZdZlwRAphkKLnehlV6UmaLD5w1wtwPYtp1ejiH3_4sacnffEte_B6M1QrRv8XT/s2048/Solovki,%20White%20Sea,%20Russia,%201992,%20by%20Pentti%20Sammallahti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="2048" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJlapJ_YyNiYTiagBsJ_fqWaHXEq95m4WGolpnvvNuo9AHKHprMjEAHqPWlgd8XyfdWtlR_gYStDy36pks0HQebVIdJv1kCGTyC9XLjj2JNBbeLqETnkniIOb58tZdZlwRAphkKLnehlV6UmaLD5w1wtwPYtp1ejiH3_4sacnffEte_B6M1QrRv8XT/w400-h165/Solovki,%20White%20Sea,%20Russia,%201992,%20by%20Pentti%20Sammallahti.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Solovki, White Sea, Russia, 1992, by Pentti Sammallahti</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-30598914864469226992023-12-11T18:18:00.000+03:002023-12-11T18:18:11.538+03:00Kafka's Last Love: The Mystery Of Dora Diamant / Kathi Diamant<div>Letters from the Doll:</div><div><br /></div><div>At 40, Franz Kafka (1883-1924), who never married or had children, while walking through a park in Berlin, encountered a girl who was crying because she had lost her favourite doll. Touched and moved by her disappointment and sadness, he helped her look for her doll. Their search was unsuccessful</div><div>Kafka told her he would come help her look again the next day, but they still failed to find the girl's doll</div><div>So, he gave her a letter, written by the doll, saying "please don't cry. I took a trip to see the world. I will write letters to you about my adventures."</div><div>Thus began a story which continued until the end of Kafka's life</div><div>During their catch-ups in the park, Kafka read the letters from the doll, carefully written with all of her adventures</div><div>Finally, after some time, Kafka decided to bring the girl's doll back to her (he bought one). Her beloved doll had finally returned to Berlin</div><div>"This doesn't look like my doll at all!" said the girl</div><div>Kafka handed her another letter in which the doll wrote, "my travels have changed me." She hugged her new doll, and took her home</div><div>A year later, Kafka died</div><div>When the girl had grown to adulthood, she found inside the doll (still a treasured possession) a tiny letter, signed by Kafka...</div><div>"Everything you love will probably be lost, but in the end, love will return in another way."</div><div><br /></div><div>Kafka's Last Love: The Mystery Of Dora Diamant</div><div><br /></div><div>Author: Kathi Diamant</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Bebekten Mektuplar:</div><div><br /></div><div>Hiç evlenmemiş ve çocuğu olmayan Franz Kafka (1883-1924), Berlin'de bir parkta yürürken, en sevdiği oyuncak bebeğini kaybettiği için ağlayan, küçük bir kız çocuğuyla tanıştı.</div><div>Kafka çocukla birlikte, bebeği başarısız bir şekilde aradı.</div><div>Ertesi gün onunla, bebeğini aramak için yeniden buluşmayı istediğini söyledi.</div><div>Fakat bebeği bulamadılar. Kafka, kıza bebek tarafından yazılmış bir mektup verdi. Mektupta "Lütfen ağlama,</div><div>dünyayı görmek için bir geziye çıktım. Sana maceralarım hakkında yazacağım", diyordu.</div><div>Böylece, Kafka'nın yaşamının sonuna kadar devam edecek bir hikâye başladı.</div><div>Kafka küçük kıza, bebeğin maceralarının yazılmış olduğu mektuplarını okur ve akabinde çocuğun çok güzel bulduğu konuşmalar yapardı.</div><div>Sonunda Kafka, Berlin'e dönmeden önce oyuncak bebeği (bir tane satın aldı) geri getirdi.</div><div>"Hiç bebeğime benzemiyor," dedi kız.</div><div>Kafka, bebeğin yazdığı bir başka mektup daha verdi: "Seyahatlerim beni değiştirdi." Küçük kız yeni bebeği kucakladı ve onunla mutlu bir şekilde evine gitti.</div><div>Bir yıl sonra Kafka öldü.</div><div>Yıllar sonra, bir yetişkin olan kız, bebeğin içinde bir mektup buldu; mektupta şöyle yazıyordu:</div><div>"Sevdiğin her şey muhtemelen kaybolacak, ama sonunda sevgi başka bir şekilde geri dönecek."</div><div><br /></div><div>Kafka'nın Son Aşkı: Dora Diamant'ın Gizemi</div><div><br /></div><div>Yazar: Kathi Diamant<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRZbms0sip2OPxVUdH6jtK4pQBN1ssUcfZvGvZiyy_ned962Wfvlykko4tBSj6dNBqfgGSuwWdrcbceC1fEaS1mh8HH5SHHwEOTxb8RBOOxLRvxfHYXzDrQHazrGscrmmyzVSo1b36f7d93taSDlf08WKluKq5jdU_ZoF2k8J2otb8MuivJKH2VNu0/s1281/Artwork%20by%20Isabel%20Tornet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1281" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRZbms0sip2OPxVUdH6jtK4pQBN1ssUcfZvGvZiyy_ned962Wfvlykko4tBSj6dNBqfgGSuwWdrcbceC1fEaS1mh8HH5SHHwEOTxb8RBOOxLRvxfHYXzDrQHazrGscrmmyzVSo1b36f7d93taSDlf08WKluKq5jdU_ZoF2k8J2otb8MuivJKH2VNu0/w338-h400/Artwork%20by%20Isabel%20Tornet.jpg" width="338" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artwork by Isabel Tornet</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-56939281103530969932023-12-10T01:30:00.000+03:002023-12-10T01:30:34.349+03:00Estoy tan solo como este gato, ... / Julio Cortázar<div>"Estoy tan solo como este gato, y mucho más solo porque lo sé y él no." </div><div><br /></div><div>Julio Cortázar</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm as alone as that cat, much more alone because I know it and he doesn't."</div><div><br /></div><div>Julio Cortázar ~ (Blow-Up and Other Stories)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Sono solo come questo gatto e molto di più, solo perché io lo so, lui no."</div><div><br /></div><div>Julio Cortázar ~ (e il suo gatto Theodor Adorno)<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZgrGfIBXYDy9azDFq20F3430w_whOwFufNv5_UvuihQInQIxKS7VcIBSFbNNMN8xKxG8DGY-wBpQI-eJQrSvpc8W0mnRX0LUVT_2XHPGsopbq7LOnwlg2RMFVhr5q193uVkuMWG0EdY5CAErofC3jAAdeFVrzZvqspdAPAufT7wcUnp2CKSOomq2R/s750/Julio%20Cort%C3%A1zar%20and%20his%20cat%20Theodor%20Adorno.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="501" data-original-width="750" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZgrGfIBXYDy9azDFq20F3430w_whOwFufNv5_UvuihQInQIxKS7VcIBSFbNNMN8xKxG8DGY-wBpQI-eJQrSvpc8W0mnRX0LUVT_2XHPGsopbq7LOnwlg2RMFVhr5q193uVkuMWG0EdY5CAErofC3jAAdeFVrzZvqspdAPAufT7wcUnp2CKSOomq2R/w400-h268/Julio%20Cort%C3%A1zar%20and%20his%20cat%20Theodor%20Adorno.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Julio Cortázar and his cat Theodor Adorno</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-67633264565499465702023-12-08T19:09:00.000+03:002023-12-08T19:09:24.071+03:00Autumnal / Ernest Dowson<div>Autumnal</div><div><br /></div><div>Pale amber sunlight falls across</div><div>The reddening October trees,</div><div>That hardly sway before a breeze</div><div>As soft as summer: summer's loss</div><div>Seems little, dear! on days like these.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let misty autumn be our part!</div><div>The twilight of the year is sweet:</div><div>Where shadow and the darkness meet</div><div>Our love, a twilight of the heart</div><div>Eludes a little time's deceit.</div><div><br /></div><div>Are we not better and at home</div><div>In dreamful Autumn, we who deem</div><div>No harvest joy is worth a dream?</div><div>A little while and night shall come,</div><div>A little while, then, let us dream.</div><div><br /></div><div>Beyond the pearled horizons lie</div><div>Winter and night: awaiting these</div><div>We garner this poor hour of ease,</div><div>Until love turn from us and die</div><div>Beneath the drear November trees.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ernest Dowson ~ (The Poems And Prose Of Ernest Dowson)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Herbstlich</div><div><br /></div><div>Gelbbraune Sonne, die sich fahl ergeht,</div><div>Oktoberbäume, die in Rötung übergehen</div><div>kaum schwankend, wenn die Winde wehen,</div><div>sanft wie der Sommer. Dass er nun geht,</div><div>scheint nichtig, Liebes, wenn wir solches sehen.</div><div><br /></div><div>Der Herbst sei unser, seine Nebelsicht,</div><div>die Jahresdämmerung in ihrer Lieblichkeit:</div><div>Wo sich der Schatten eint mit Dunkelheit,</div><div>tarnt unsere Liebe, ein Herzensdämmerlicht,</div><div>ein kleines bisschen den Betrug der Zeit.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sind wir nicht heimisch und viel besser dran</div><div>im traumerfüllten Herbst, die wir befinden,</div><div>nie traumeswertes Ernteglück zu finden?</div><div>Ein wenig noch, dann kommt die Nacht heran,</div><div>ein wenig noch, dann lass uns Träume winden.</div><div><br /></div><div>Jenseits des Perlenhorizontes liegen</div><div>der Winter und die Nacht: sind sie bereit,</div><div>bewahren wir der kurzen Stunde Leichtigkeit,</div><div>bevor die Liebe weicht und unter trüben</div><div>Novemberbäumen geht für alle Zeit.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ernest Dowson</div><div><br /></div><div>Übersetzung Frank Freimuth</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Autunnale</div><div><br /></div><div>La pallida luce ambrata gocciola attraverso</div><div>gli arrossenti alberi d’Ottobre</div><div>che a stento ondeggiano nella brezza</div><div>soffice come l’estate: la perdita dell’estate</div><div>sembra ora così sopportabile, cara, in giorni come questi.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lascia che il brumoso autunno faccia parte di noi!</div><div>Il crepuscolo dell’anno è zuccherino:</div><div>laddove ombre e oscurità incontrano</div><div>il nostro amore, un tramonto nel cuore</div><div>elude l’inganno del passare del tempo.</div><div><br /></div><div>Non è per noi migliore e più familiare</div><div>l’onirico Autunno, per noi che riteniamo</div><div>che nessuna gioia sia degna d’un sogno?</div><div>Verranno le notti,</div><div>e noi sogneremo, lasciateci sognare.</div><div><br /></div><div>Aldilà degli orizzonti perlati riposano</div><div>l’inverno e la notte: li aspetteremo</div><div>ammassando queste poche ore di gioia,</div><div>sino a che l’amore scapperà via da noi e morirà</div><div>sotto agli alberi del cupo Novembre.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ernest Dowson</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Otoñal</div><div><br /></div><div>La luz ámbar pálida cae sobre</div><div>los árboles octubrinos rojizos,</div><div>que apenas se balancean ante una brisa</div><div>tan suave como el verano: la pérdida del verano</div><div>parece poca cosa, querido, en días como estos.</div><div><br /></div><div>¡Dejemos que la brumosa otoñal sea nuestra part!</div><div>El crepúsculo del año es dulce:</div><div>donde la sombra y la oscuridad se encuentran,</div><div>nuestro amor, un crepúsculo del corazón,</div><div>escapa un poco del engaño del tiempo.</div><div><br /></div><div>¿No estamos mejor y en casa</div><div>en el otoño de ensueño, nosotros que creemos</div><div>que ninguna alegría de cosecha vale un sueño?</div><div>Un poco de tiempo y llegará la noche,</div><div>un poco de tiempo, entonces, dejemos que soñemos.</div><div><br /></div><div>Más allá de los horizontes perlados yacen</div><div>el invierno y la noche: esperándolos,</div><div>cosechamos esta pobre hora de tranquilidad,</div><div>hasta que el amor se aleje de nosotros y muera</div><div>bajo los tristes árboles de noviembre.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ernest Dowson</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Otoñal [otra traducción]</div><div><br /></div><div>La luz del sol de color ámbar pálido cae sobre los</div><div>árboles de octubre enrojecidos,</div><div>que apenas se balancean ante una brisa</div><div>Tan suave como el verano: la pérdida del verano ¡</div><div>Parece poco, querido! en días como estos</div><div><br /></div><div>¡Que el otoño brumoso sea nuestra parte!</div><div>El crepúsculo del año es dulce:</div><div>donde la sombra y la oscuridad se encuentran con</div><div>nuestro amor, un crepúsculo del corazón</div><div>elude el engaño de un poco de tiempo.</div><div><br /></div><div>¿No estamos mejor y en casa</div><div>En el otoño de ensueño, nosotros que consideramos que</div><div>No hay alegría de cosecha vale un sueño?</div><div>Un ratito y la noche vendrán.</div><div>Un ratito, entonces, soñemos.</div><div><br /></div><div>Más allá de los horizontes perlados yacen</div><div>Invierno y noche: aguardando estos</div><div>Recolectamos esta pobre hora de tranquilidad,</div><div>Hasta que el amor se aleje de nosotros y muera </div><div>Debajo de los tristes árboles de noviembre.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ernest Dowson</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Un pâle rayon de soleil ambré tombe sur</div><div>les arbres d'octobre rougissants, </div><div>qui ne vacillent guère devant une brise</div><div>aussi douce que l'été : la perte de l'été</div><div>semble peu chère ! en des jours comme ceux-ci."</div><div><br /></div><div>Ernest Dowson ~ (Automnal)<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejFPXi3TPCh2VIy1i_kz4r6eodjEWFkJ6i75DCJ-3C9FwHZKMOTBF4E4mtL1HW_r6oJmPHaNpJeoJLbMgFaui826omcRV1lv8ou6anzom1RF4OxJwXOgqq9gRHBpBXPM6s7AGVOHBa0Op062xJCTSxraOzlngpUVlyEI84PtO__dUeYWPHnBDJ7Yv/s1799/Photo%20by%20Niko%20Laurila.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1799" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejFPXi3TPCh2VIy1i_kz4r6eodjEWFkJ6i75DCJ-3C9FwHZKMOTBF4E4mtL1HW_r6oJmPHaNpJeoJLbMgFaui826omcRV1lv8ou6anzom1RF4OxJwXOgqq9gRHBpBXPM6s7AGVOHBa0Op062xJCTSxraOzlngpUVlyEI84PtO__dUeYWPHnBDJ7Yv/w320-h400/Photo%20by%20Niko%20Laurila.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Niko Laurila</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-13599635296217510492023-11-21T02:04:00.000+03:002023-11-21T02:04:11.028+03:00Escrito con tinta verde / Octavio Paz<div>Escrito con tinta verde</div><div><br /></div><div>La tinta verde crea jardines, selvas, prados,</div><div>follajes donde cantan las letras,</div><div>palabras que son árboles,</div><div>frases que son verdes constelaciones.</div><div> </div><div>Deja que mis palabras, oh blanca, desciendan y te cubran</div><div>como una lluvia de hojas a un campo de nieve,</div><div>como la yedra a la estatua,</div><div>como la tinta a esta página.</div><div> </div><div>Brazos, cintura, cuello, senos,</div><div>la frente pura como el mar,</div><div>la nuca de bosque en otoño,</div><div>los dientes que muerden una brizna de yerba.</div><div> </div><div>Tu cuerpo se constela de signos verdes</div><div>como el cuerpo del árbol de renuevos.</div><div>No te importe tanta pequeña cicatriz luminosa:</div><div>mira al cielo y su verde tatuaje de estrellas.</div><div><br /></div><div>Octavio Paz</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Semillas para un himno (1943-1955) ~ El girasol (1943-1948)</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Written in Green Ink</div><div><br /></div><div>Green ink makes garden, forest, fields,</div><div>trees full of leaves where letters sing,</div><div>words that are trees,</div><div>phrases appearing as green constellations.</div><div><br /></div><div>Permit my words' descent cover your whiteness</div><div>like a rain of leaves on a field of snow,</div><div>like ivy on the statue,</div><div>ink on this page.</div><div><br /></div><div>Arms, waist, neck, breasts,</div><div>forehead pure as the sea,</div><div>a neck of forests in the fall,</div><div>teeth biting a blade of grass.</div><div><br /></div><div>Your body is constellated in green images</div><div>like a tree's body, covered with green shoots.</div><div>Never mind the scar, little and luminous:</div><div>look up at the sky and its green tattoo of stars.</div><div><br /></div><div>Octavio Paz </div><div><br /></div><div>Translated by Muriel Rukeyser</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Scritto con inchiostro verde</div><div><br /></div><div>L’inchiostro verde crea giardini, selve, prati,</div><div>fogliame dove cantano le lettere,</div><div>parole che son alberi,</div><div>frasi che sono costellazioni.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tu bianca, lascia che le mie parole scendano e ti ricoprano</div><div>Come una pioggia di foglie su un campo di neve,</div><div>come l’edera su una statua,</div><div>come l’inchiostro su questo foglio.</div><div><br /></div><div>Braccia, cintura, collo, seni,</div><div>la fronte pura come il mare,</div><div>la nuca di bosco d’autunno,</div><div>i denti che mordono un filo d’erba.</div><div><br /></div><div>Il tuo corpo è costellato di segni verdi</div><div>Come il corpo dell’albero dalle gemme.</div><div>Non ti importi di tante piccole cicatrici luminose</div><div>Guarda il cielo e il suo verde tatuaggio di stelle.</div><div><br /></div><div>Octavio Paz</div><div><br /></div><div><i>(Escrito con tinta verde, da Libertà sulla parola, 1958 ~ Traduzione di Giuseppe Bellini)</i><br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqhLkr1cEvsdLJUoDr73GY-IiFDNZ84XqqRMrQ3N7NIdxx_2Hek3_4r_YWwtwgAYwL0kpTH6oKVDcFz3XThLT1GtJc1id4BeyJhIDMiSWX1KXy2fxZ0DyaeNBCqT8DY62xArOVzBAr69E04e8c-6dKI9NtXMMpYJ_8frKPFQTLqXRW_yy6pzd89tby/s2048/Photo%20by%20David%20Dubnitskiy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1368" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqhLkr1cEvsdLJUoDr73GY-IiFDNZ84XqqRMrQ3N7NIdxx_2Hek3_4r_YWwtwgAYwL0kpTH6oKVDcFz3XThLT1GtJc1id4BeyJhIDMiSWX1KXy2fxZ0DyaeNBCqT8DY62xArOVzBAr69E04e8c-6dKI9NtXMMpYJ_8frKPFQTLqXRW_yy6pzd89tby/w268-h400/Photo%20by%20David%20Dubnitskiy.jpeg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by David Dubnitskiy</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-31938982004001993792023-11-04T23:23:00.000+03:002023-11-04T23:23:35.752+03:00Instead of telling me I'm sexy, / ©Jolanta Liza K<p>Instead of telling me I'm sexy,<br />tell me I'm beautiful.<br />And instead of asking if I will go to bed with you,<br />ask if I'll let you take me to the end of the world.<br />Then I will give myself to you without doubts....</p><p>©Jolanta Liza K<br /><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgejEhBHCik1P6lE24s4WjhvHSgmFfw0yO71tdKWIMSuMdhrH00uX4SXj37drZGt5zAvvpCYEUyoxcf5v-sj_YMhwZw6ZdY-EovBjzG8AUAvPiYJpDqhgVwzHG0SLfKumUg2-PsGUgian6FNMbUs5NVHa-EKInj0grb6BGnRXM4LpXgIrtyr44KqIsO/s1280/Photo%20by%20Mikhail%20Tishkoff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1280" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgejEhBHCik1P6lE24s4WjhvHSgmFfw0yO71tdKWIMSuMdhrH00uX4SXj37drZGt5zAvvpCYEUyoxcf5v-sj_YMhwZw6ZdY-EovBjzG8AUAvPiYJpDqhgVwzHG0SLfKumUg2-PsGUgian6FNMbUs5NVHa-EKInj0grb6BGnRXM4LpXgIrtyr44KqIsO/w400-h264/Photo%20by%20Mikhail%20Tishkoff.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Mikhail Tishkoff</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-29532430774012004062023-11-04T21:08:00.002+03:002023-11-04T21:08:23.543+03:00Touch me / ©Jolanta Liza K<div>Touch me</div><div>With a word, a gesture, a look</div><div>Let me feel you</div><div>Let me tremble</div><div>Don't be just a memory anymore.</div><div><br /></div><div>©Jolanta Liza K<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSdYqP5YPE_A3GDRZtylZJpvwsf5f1eiIMxfEF9xkc2Ra0ZowKuwvWpo8iPlKIvxjn4P_UyZQUNG5uF5Qt3oiwj_AMVJvURlNEuXpYY1skKI621Vht2Z1kLZqqnLYXPeiF42-1hvk1AFGsVc9aoDB4oFBoMFM9QxI9oPjJMnar9mI4SvkX6xmnUenS/s1350/Photo%20by%20Mikhail%20Tishkoff.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSdYqP5YPE_A3GDRZtylZJpvwsf5f1eiIMxfEF9xkc2Ra0ZowKuwvWpo8iPlKIvxjn4P_UyZQUNG5uF5Qt3oiwj_AMVJvURlNEuXpYY1skKI621Vht2Z1kLZqqnLYXPeiF42-1hvk1AFGsVc9aoDB4oFBoMFM9QxI9oPjJMnar9mI4SvkX6xmnUenS/w320-h400/Photo%20by%20Mikhail%20Tishkoff.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Mikhail Tishkoff</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-44313727089840196002023-10-30T23:26:00.002+03:002023-10-30T23:26:32.766+03:00Were we not friends from childhood? / Emily Brontë<div>'Were we not friends from childhood?</div><div>Have I not loved thee long?</div><div>As long as thou, the solemn night,</div><div>Whose silence wakes my song.</div><div><br /></div><div>'And when thy heart is resting</div><div>Beneath the church-aisle stone,</div><div>I shall have time for mourning,</div><div>And thou for being alone.'</div><div><br /></div><div>Emily Brontë ~ (The Night; Wind)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>“Non siamo amici dall’infanzia?</div><div>Non ti amo già da molto tempo?</div><div>Da quando tu hai amato la notte</div><div>il cui silenzio risveglia il mio canto.</div><div> </div><div>“E quando il tuo cuore sarà adagiato</div><div>sotto la lapide di un cimitero</div><div>avrò tutto il tempo di rimpiangerti</div><div>e tu di stare sola”.</div><div><br /></div><div>Emily Brontë ~ (Il vento notturno)</div><div><br /></div><div>Traduzione di Loredana Foresta</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>“¿No fuimos amigos en la infancia?</div><div>¿No te he amado hace mucho tiempo?</div><div>Mientras tú, la noche solemne,</div><div>Mi canto despertabas con tu silencio.'</div><div><br /></div><div>“Que cuando repose tu corazón</div><div>Bajo la fría lápida de cemento,</div><div>Yo tendré tiempo para el lamento,</div><div>Y tú para estar sola.”</div><div><br /></div><div>Emily Brontë ~ (El viento nocturno)<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivL_eJGNfwPe6EyquJIPxEkwitooBpb_Aar4xBJkTtZsYAUbRqOBUjhRsv5MVBDYuossHa4wGS_l8plb4K86rRReHVh9FtWVuMGZhg1vUSQ6A25tDIIg6cGNTVOWKmoECiA4CakdU7KPN1ut3bE7WCk6cvr8HiM8l5cO773XhDGIsZobNJ7Pz3q4mW/s770/Emily%20(2022).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivL_eJGNfwPe6EyquJIPxEkwitooBpb_Aar4xBJkTtZsYAUbRqOBUjhRsv5MVBDYuossHa4wGS_l8plb4K86rRReHVh9FtWVuMGZhg1vUSQ6A25tDIIg6cGNTVOWKmoECiA4CakdU7KPN1ut3bE7WCk6cvr8HiM8l5cO773XhDGIsZobNJ7Pz3q4mW/w364-h400/Emily%20(2022).jpg" width="364" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emily (2022)</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-72597179628294483692023-10-27T21:34:00.000+03:002023-10-27T21:34:25.125+03:00Dans le crépuscule fané / Guillaume Apollinaire<div>Dans le crépuscule fané</div><div><br /></div><div>Dans le crépuscule fané</div><div>Où plusieurs amours se bousculent</div><div>Ton souvenir gît enchaîné</div><div>Loin de nos ombres qui reculent</div><div><br /></div><div>Ô mains qu'enchaîne la mémoire</div><div>Et brûlantes comme un bûcher</div><div>Où le dernier des phénix noire</div><div>Perfection vient se jucher</div><div><br /></div><div>La chaîne s'use maille à maille</div><div>Ton souvenir riant de nous</div><div>S'enfuir l'entends-tu qui nous raille</div><div>Et je retombe à tes genoux</div><div><br /></div><div>Guillaume Apollinaire</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>In the evening light that’s faded</div><div><br /></div><div>In the evening light that’s faded</div><div>Where our several loves brush by</div><div>Your memory lies enchained</div><div>Far from our shades that die</div><div><br /></div><div>O hands bound by memory</div><div>Burning like a funeral pyre</div><div>Where the last black Phoenix</div><div>Perfection comes to respire</div><div><br /></div><div>Link by link the chain wears thin</div><div>Deriding us your memory</div><div>Flies ah hear it you who rail</div><div>I kneel again at your feet</div><div><br /></div><div><i>(Vitam Impendere Amori: To Threaten Life for Love)</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Guillaume Apollinaire</div><div><br /></div><div>Translated by A.S. Kline</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Bu solan alacakaranlıkta </div><div><br /></div><div>Bu solan alacakaranlıkta </div><div>İtiş kakış bir yığın aşk </div><div>Hatıran zincirli yerde yatmakta</div><div>Kaçışan karaltılarımızdan uzak</div><div><br /></div><div>O eller hafıza zincire vurmuş</div><div>Üstüste odunlar gibi alevlerinde </div><div>Kendi küllerinden doğan masaldaki kuş </div><div>Neredeyse konup yanacak halde</div><div><br /></div><div>Aşınırken halka halka zincir </div><div>Hatıran gülerek ikimize </div><div>Duy kaçar bizden bizimle eğlenir </div><div>Kapanırım yeniden dizlerine </div><div><br /></div><div>Guillaume Apollinaire</div><div><br /></div><div>Çeviri: Necati Cumalı<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNMkWEw2XtgNp5A0KZD___vHYFhc-ERTWdkTgHgkojzlzVzlCMi9134f0N7XyOV342oHShr2xmKaiWitHFU7t2GrEZFGR9k6nD-5nFpudbE9TZzQmnfr8kGXvwu6wWyoVBgrFyLQeANiqYl8YG0ErSEqF9ZAA2Puh7MNSjGZOiYwgaOjhmGpSFAlsa/s1600/The%20Love%20of%20Life%20by%20Giuseppe%20Pellizza%20da%20Volpedo%20(1868-1907).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1519" data-original-width="1600" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNMkWEw2XtgNp5A0KZD___vHYFhc-ERTWdkTgHgkojzlzVzlCMi9134f0N7XyOV342oHShr2xmKaiWitHFU7t2GrEZFGR9k6nD-5nFpudbE9TZzQmnfr8kGXvwu6wWyoVBgrFyLQeANiqYl8YG0ErSEqF9ZAA2Puh7MNSjGZOiYwgaOjhmGpSFAlsa/w400-h380/The%20Love%20of%20Life%20by%20Giuseppe%20Pellizza%20da%20Volpedo%20(1868-1907).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Love of Life by Giuseppe Pellizza da Volpedo</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-5047172223299998962023-10-09T22:57:00.016+03:002023-10-20T18:24:29.712+03:00The Unbearable Lightness of Being / Milan Kundera<div>"Nor had she ever asked herself the questions that plague human couples: Does he love me? Does he love anyone more than me? Does he love me more than I love him? Perhaps all the questions we ask of love, to measure, test, probe, and save it, have the additional effect of cutting it short. Perhaps the reason we are unable to love is that we yearn to be loved, that is, we demand something (love) from our partner instead of delivering ourselves up to him demand-free and asking for nothing but his company."</div><div><br /></div><div>Milan Kundera ~ (The Unbearable Lightness of Being)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Non si è mai posta quelle domande che torturano le coppie umane: mi ama? ha mai amato qualcuna più di me? mi ama più di quanto lo ami io? Forse tutte queste domande rivolte all'amore, che lo misurano, lo indagano, lo esaminano, lo sottopongono a interrogatorio, riescono anche a distruggerlo sul nascere. Forse non siamo capaci di amare proprio perchè desideriamo essere amati, vale a dire vogliamo qualcosa (l'amore) dall'altro invece di avvicinarci a lui senza pretese e volere solo la sua semplice presenza." </div><div><br /></div><div>Milan Kundera ~ (L'insostenibile leggerezza dell'essere)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Jamás se ha planteado los interrogantes que torturan a las parejas humanas: ¿me ama?, ¿ha amado a alguien más que a mí?, ¿me ama más de lo que yo le amo a él? Es posible que todas estas preguntas que inquieren acerca del amor, que lo miden, lo analizan, lo investigan, lo interrogan, también lo destruyan antes de que pueda germinar. Es posible que no seamos capaces de amar precisamente porque deseamos ser amados, porque queremos que el otro nos dé algo (amor), en lugar de aproximarnos a él sin exigencias y querer sólo su mera presencia."</div><div><br /></div><div>Milan Kundera ~ (La insoportable levedad del ser)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Hiçbir zaman kendi kendine; insan çiftlerine yaşamı zehir eden soruları da sormamıştı: Beni seviyor mu? Benden daha çok sevdiği bir başkası var mı? Benim sevdiğimden daha çok seviyor mu beni? aşkı ölçmek, sınamak, denemek ve kurtarmak için aşka yönelttiğimiz bütün bu sorular belki de her şeyin yanısıra aşkı kısaltmaya da yarıyor. Belki de sevemememizin nedeni çok sevmek istememiz, yani karşımızdaki kişiden hiçbir istekte bulunmaksızın, ondan onunla birlikte olmaktan başka bir şey istemeksizin kendimizi ona verecek yerde ondan bir şey (aşk) talep etmemizdir."</div><div><br /></div><div>Milan Kundera ~ (Varolmanın Dayanılmaz Hafifliği)<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqFZFg6YhIjrTxjjmdciBPEu8N0X3sPlOjiGnLoF4BqGupOOji3GVTlu1GtL9sY3nZFPXsFMCNwCEjl0R-RjzyGIDNCQyZjU9CoMyKITZyNfpEzdyChKs6UeAmUmepjEXxvmqxRGiNQcBHDCPP3iNgnp_q3yTd2ExQRpdCrEWvaLzkKuyRdw_UPgo/s2048/The%20Unbearable%20Lightness%20of%20Being%20(1988).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1356" data-original-width="2048" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqFZFg6YhIjrTxjjmdciBPEu8N0X3sPlOjiGnLoF4BqGupOOji3GVTlu1GtL9sY3nZFPXsFMCNwCEjl0R-RjzyGIDNCQyZjU9CoMyKITZyNfpEzdyChKs6UeAmUmepjEXxvmqxRGiNQcBHDCPP3iNgnp_q3yTd2ExQRpdCrEWvaLzkKuyRdw_UPgo/w400-h265/The%20Unbearable%20Lightness%20of%20Being%20(1988).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Unbearable Lightness of Being (1988)</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-44739803081150820272023-08-20T22:07:00.000+03:002023-08-20T22:07:22.761+03:00For the Sake of a Single Poem / Rainer Maria Rilke<div>For the Sake of a Single Poem</div><div><br /></div><div>Ah, poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime, and a lone one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)—they are experiences.</div><div><br /></div><div>For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn’t pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else—); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the stars, and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that.</div><div><br /></div><div>You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labor, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves—only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.</div><div><br /></div><div>Rainer Maria Rilke</div><div><br /></div><div>Translated by Stephen Mitchell / (The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke)<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyUyBSO9HHH1xmK5iNAFcFf5IBcDf3YxuRaQ4aWyaOJgG9IzsvSrwr5PJJQc5MTUxwrxhTa-29iQWCgcD1w5m73LqRju2t-i9rXLuzYkUc_ZAQfEqLp7BcIDAXtKAR3Lj1zbqp81HvwHxfCZJeEWbnJrFpWsJ2BtBGH3PBlNOnxbTjyd0FUUXgpZao/s1440/Photo%20by%20@wauba.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1079" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyUyBSO9HHH1xmK5iNAFcFf5IBcDf3YxuRaQ4aWyaOJgG9IzsvSrwr5PJJQc5MTUxwrxhTa-29iQWCgcD1w5m73LqRju2t-i9rXLuzYkUc_ZAQfEqLp7BcIDAXtKAR3Lj1zbqp81HvwHxfCZJeEWbnJrFpWsJ2BtBGH3PBlNOnxbTjyd0FUUXgpZao/w400-h300/Photo%20by%20@wauba.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by @wauba</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-67605332559971578672023-08-20T16:46:00.003+03:002023-08-20T22:09:21.185+03:00Te desnudas igual / Jaime Sabines<div>Te desnudas igual</div><div><br /></div><div>Te desnudas igual que si estuvieras sola</div><div>y de pronto descubres que estás conmigo.</div><div>¡Cómo te quiero entonces</div><div>entre las sábanas y el frío!</div><div><br /></div><div>Te pones a flirtearme como a un desconocido</div><div>y yo te hago la corte ceremonioso y tibio.</div><div>Pienso que soy tu esposo</div><div>y que me engañas conmigo.</div><div><br /></div><div>¡Y como nos queremos entonces en la risa</div><div>de hallarnos solos en el amor prohibido!</div><div>(Después, cuando pasó, te tengo miedo</div><div>y siento un escalofrío.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Jaime Sabines</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>You undress yourself</div><div><br /></div><div>You undress yourself as if you were alone</div><div>and suddenly you discover you are with me.</div><div>How I love you then</div><div>between the bed sheets and the cold!</div><div><br /></div><div>You flirt with me as with a stranger</div><div>and I court you, ceremonious and lukewarm.</div><div>I think I am your husband</div><div>and you are unfaithful to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>How we love each other then in the laughter</div><div>of finding ourselves alone in prohibited love!</div><div>(Afterwards, when it is over, I am afraid of you</div><div>and I shiver.)<br /><br />Jaime Sabines</div><div><br /></div><div>Translation by Carlos Ochoa<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib8AtJu19xlIu2c6CMaW_9L2j70tZIhvMboE83fBcGVbHEQkjKPoFYuwyGbAZLljLW-eVGkhgb5tZuZTGBhUrDJ_MyeGr6SvVa0eNbfPl0ac8aEadsHTYSSH5Xww4xOvRIYe23qZnoKcdbnyvCk5F2tOwBYplWT6s4TKXY6oSMQbhsC2qDPiVXC0ri/s1205/Photo%20by%20Mecuro%20B%20Cotto.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1205" data-original-width="1114" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib8AtJu19xlIu2c6CMaW_9L2j70tZIhvMboE83fBcGVbHEQkjKPoFYuwyGbAZLljLW-eVGkhgb5tZuZTGBhUrDJ_MyeGr6SvVa0eNbfPl0ac8aEadsHTYSSH5Xww4xOvRIYe23qZnoKcdbnyvCk5F2tOwBYplWT6s4TKXY6oSMQbhsC2qDPiVXC0ri/w370-h400/Photo%20by%20Mecuro%20B%20Cotto.jpg" width="370" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Mecuro B Cotto</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-3311164523976643452023-08-15T20:13:00.019+03:002023-08-18T11:48:15.569+03:00Trueque / Mario Benedetti<div>Trueque</div><div><br /></div><div>Me das tu cuerpo patria y yo te doy mi río</div><div>tú noches de tu aroma / yo mis viejos acechos</div><div>tú sangre de tus labios / yo manos de alfarero</div><div>tú el césped de tu vértice / yo mi pobre ciprés</div><div><br /></div><div>me das tu corazón ese verdugo</div><div>y yo te doy mi calma esa mentira</div><div>tú el vuelo de tus ojos / yo mi raíz al sol</div><div>tú la piel de tu tacto / yo mi tacto en tu piel</div><div><br /></div><div>me das tu amanecida y yo te doy mi ángelus</div><div>tú me abres tus enigmas / yo te encierro en mi azar</div><div>me expulsas de tu olvido / yo nunca te he olvidado</div><div>te vas te vas te vienes / me voy me voy te espero.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mario Benedetti ~ "El amor, las mujeres y la vida" (1995)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Scambio</div><div><br /></div><div>Mi dai il tuo corpo patria e io ti do il mio fiume</div><div>tu notti del tuo aroma / io i miei vecchi agguati</div><div>tu sangue delle tue labbra / io mani da vassaio</div><div>tu il cespuglio della tua collina / io il mio povero cipresso</div><div><br /></div><div>mi dai il tuo cuore quel carnefice</div><div>e io ti do la mia calma questa bugia</div><div>tu il volo dei tuoi occhi / io la mia radice al sole </div><div>tu la pelle del tuo tatto / io il mio tatto sulla tua pelle</div><div><br /></div><div>mi dai la tua Alba e io ti do il mio vespro</div><div>tu mi apri i tuoi misteri / io ti chiudo nel mio caos</div><div>mi espelli dal tuo oblio / io mai ti ho dimenticato</div><div>te ne vai te ne vien / io me ne vado e ti aspetto.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mario Benedetti ~ "L'amore, le donne e la vita" (1995)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Takas</div><div><br /></div><div>Bana bedenini verdin memleketimi ve ben de nehrimi veriyorum sana</div><div>sen kendi rayihandan geceleri / ben eski takiplerimi </div><div>sen dudaklarındaki kanı / ben cömlekçi ellerimi </div><div>sen zirvelerindeki çimeni / ben zavallı servilerimi</div><div><br /></div><div>bana yüreğimi veriyorsun şu celladı</div><div>sana sükunetimi veriyorum şu yalanı </div><div>sen gözlerinin uçuşunu / ben güneşe inen kökümü</div><div>sen dokunuştaki tenini / ben tenindeki dokunuşumu</div><div><br /></div><div>sen bana gün doğumunu veriyorsun ben de sana sabah duamı</div><div>sen bana kendi muammalarımı açıyorsun / ben seni kendi kaderime kapatıyorum </div><div>sen beni unutuşlarından dışlıyorsun / ben seni hiç unutmadım ki</div><div>gidiyor gidiyor geliyorsun / gidiyor gidiyor seni bekliyorum.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mario Benedetti</div><div><br /></div><div>İspanyolcadan çeviren Bülent Kale</div><div><br /></div><div><i>(Aşk Kadınlar ve Hayat / Ayrıntı Yayınları / Birinci Basım: İstanbul, Eylül 2015)</i><br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUhvpQ8Lu4mvF8WSMmMmdJknoQJ-k-V9JuFOAyeXX6R9ASHMZJZcBmGCoEUMu9FrHbr08mLt1V_A8f52x-exkT84m7MNP9-s1Nk-ITfbDIrfNHLIUAFgFsSmYb1roZKv7ZK2n-JzUIVNk0GoVh_nV3f5DAcxAvxrJKAkAZH-1qsrEfwbQNyeeV-5-l/s1280/Unknown%20photographer.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="823" data-original-width="1280" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUhvpQ8Lu4mvF8WSMmMmdJknoQJ-k-V9JuFOAyeXX6R9ASHMZJZcBmGCoEUMu9FrHbr08mLt1V_A8f52x-exkT84m7MNP9-s1Nk-ITfbDIrfNHLIUAFgFsSmYb1roZKv7ZK2n-JzUIVNk0GoVh_nV3f5DAcxAvxrJKAkAZH-1qsrEfwbQNyeeV-5-l/w400-h258/Unknown%20photographer.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unknown photographer</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8684718239754921509.post-28537108368018417242023-08-13T23:19:00.001+03:002023-08-13T23:19:27.735+03:00Henry and June / Anaïs Nin<div>"There are two ways to reach me: by way of kisses or by way of the imagination. But there is a hierarchy: the kisses alone don't work."</div><div><br /></div><div>Anaïs Nin ~ (Henry and June)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Ci sono due modi di arrivare fino a me: con i baci o con l'immaginazione. Ma c'è una gerarchia: i baci da soli non funzionano."</div><div><br /></div><div>Anaïs Nin ~ (Henry e June)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Il y a deux façons de me séduire : par les baisers ou par l'imagination. Mais il y a une hiérarchie : les baisers seuls ne marchent pas."</div><div><br /></div><div>Anaïs Nin ~ (Henry et June)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Hay dos maneras de llegar a mí: por medio de besos o por medio de la imaginación. Pero hay una jerarquía: los besos por sí solos no funcionan."</div><div><br /></div><div>Anaïs Nin ~ (Henry y June)<br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD4-RItR78NQVKQYZi2D6pdh3tg8EOJokCGLgMdK1Aog49WDGKyA57Sf4ZMvMy2Dnt-aQYFQw7DFd-99PoiBdydLWw5Mly3PeToVV4oc9fNxDzUaZL1ojBoxNUxKAn0HvnshFZ1IVzxGrgLwqMwfWmIy9pL2XoGjdu8ZhU1M1I_2XPu8eFhPfesrCn/s1350/Model%20Olga%20Kobzar%20shot%20by%20Dima%20Ignatov.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1009" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD4-RItR78NQVKQYZi2D6pdh3tg8EOJokCGLgMdK1Aog49WDGKyA57Sf4ZMvMy2Dnt-aQYFQw7DFd-99PoiBdydLWw5Mly3PeToVV4oc9fNxDzUaZL1ojBoxNUxKAn0HvnshFZ1IVzxGrgLwqMwfWmIy9pL2XoGjdu8ZhU1M1I_2XPu8eFhPfesrCn/w299-h400/Model%20Olga%20Kobzar%20shot%20by%20Dima%20Ignatov.jpg" width="299" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Model Olga Kobzar shot by Dima Ignatov</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Erdinç Durukanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03727227739372686289noreply@blogger.com0