13 Aralık 2023 Çarşamba

Life / Arseny Tarkovsky

Life

I don't believe in omens or fear
Forebodings. I flee from neither slander
Nor from poison. Death does not exist.
Everyone's immortal. Everything is too.
No point in fearing death at seventeen,
Or seventy. There's only here and now, and light;
Neither death, nor darkness, exists.
We're all already on the seashore;
I'm one of those who'll be hauling in the nets
When a shoal of immortality swims by.

If you live in a house - the house will not fall.
I'll summon any of the centuries,
Then enter one and build a house in it.
That's why your children and your wives
Sit with me at one table, -
The same for ancestor and grandson:
The future is being accomplished now,
If I raise my hand a little,
All five beams of light will stay with you.
Each day I used my collar bones
For shoring up the past, as though with timber,
I measured time with geodetic chains
And marched across it, as though it were the Urals.

I tailored the age to fit me.
We walked to the south, raising dust above the steppe;
The tall weeds fumed; the grasshopper danced,
Touching its antenna to the horse-shoes - and it prophesied,
Threatening me with destruction, like a monk.
I strapped my fate to the saddle;
And even now, in these coming times,
I stand up in the stirrups like a child.

I'm satisfied with deathlessness,
For my blood to flow from age to age.
Yet for a corner whose warmth I could rely on
I'd willingly have given all my life,
Whenever her flying needle
Tugged me, like a thread, around the globe.

Arseny Tarkovsky ~ (Life: Selected Poems)




Hayat

Önseziye inanmam, hurafelere güvenmem.
Korkum yok iftiradan ve zehirden.
Ölüm yok, dünyada.
Herkes ölümsüz. Her şey ölümsüz.
On yedi yaşındayken de korkma ölümden,
Yetmiş yaşındayken de.
Yalnızca gerçeklik ve ışık vardır.
Karanlık ve ölüm yoktur dünyamızda.
Hepimiz bir denizin kıyısındayız.
Ve ben ağı çekenlerdenim.
Ölümsüzlük geçip giderken.

Bir evde yaşayın. O ev asla çökmeyecek.
İstediğim bir çağı getireceğim.
İçine girip evimi yapacağım.
Bu yüzden çocuklarınız ekmeğimi paylaşıyor
Ve masama oturuyor eşleriniz.
Sofram atalarımıza açık, torunlarımıza da.
Gelecek şimdiden tasarlandı.
Elimi kaldırdığımda,
Beş ışın göndereceğim size.
Ben geçen her günle güçlendim.
Ve pınarlarımı topladım etrafıma.
Zamanı ölçtüm, dünyayı aşarak.
Ve Ural Dağları'ndan geçer gibi
Geçtim içinden.

Kendime göre bir yüzyıl seçtim.
Güneye akın ettik, bozkırlarda
toza toprağa bulandık.
Otlar yandı. Bir çekirge sıçradı.
At nalına dokunup öleceğim.
Kehanetinde bulundu bir keşiş gibi.
Kaderimi terkime atıp taşıdım ben.
Şimdi gelecek günlerin önünde
Bir çocuk gibi duruyorum.
Masum ve temiz.
Ölümsüzlüğüm yeter bana.

Yeter ki kanım aksın asırlarca damarlarımdan.
Biraz sıcaklık ve güvenli bir barınak için
Hayatımı verebilirdim
Kendi isteğimle ve özgürce.
Onun uçuşan iğneleri, sürüklemezdi beni.
Dünyayı dolaşan iplik gibi.

Arseny Tarkovsky

Solovki, White Sea, Russia, 1992, by Pentti Sammallahti

11 Aralık 2023 Pazartesi

Kafka's Last Love: The Mystery Of Dora Diamant / Kathi Diamant

Letters from the Doll:

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
Kafka told her he would come help her look again the next day, but they still failed to find the girl's doll
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."
Thus began a story which continued until the end of Kafka's life
During their catch-ups in the park, Kafka read the letters from the doll, carefully written with all of her adventures
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
"This doesn't look like my doll at all!" said the girl
Kafka handed her another letter in which the doll wrote, "my travels have changed me." She hugged her new doll, and took her home
A year later, Kafka died
When the girl had grown to adulthood, she found inside the doll (still a treasured possession) a tiny letter, signed by Kafka...
"Everything you love will probably be lost, but in the end, love will return in another way."

Kafka's Last Love: The Mystery Of Dora Diamant

Author: Kathi Diamant




Bebekten Mektuplar:

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.
Kafka çocukla birlikte, bebeği başarısız bir şekilde aradı.
Ertesi gün onunla, bebeğini aramak için yeniden buluşmayı istediğini söyledi.
Fakat bebeği bulamadılar. Kafka, kıza bebek tarafından yazılmış bir mektup verdi. Mektupta "Lütfen ağlama,
dünyayı görmek için bir geziye çıktım. Sana maceralarım hakkında yazacağım", diyordu.
Böylece, Kafka'nın yaşamının sonuna kadar devam edecek bir hikâye başladı.
Kafka küçük kıza, bebeğin maceralarının yazılmış olduğu mektuplarını okur ve akabinde çocuğun çok güzel bulduğu konuşmalar yapardı.
Sonunda Kafka, Berlin'e dönmeden önce oyuncak bebeği (bir tane satın aldı) geri getirdi.
"Hiç bebeğime benzemiyor," dedi kız.
Kafka, bebeğin yazdığı bir başka mektup daha verdi: "Seyahatlerim beni değiştirdi." Küçük kız yeni bebeği kucakladı ve onunla mutlu bir şekilde evine gitti.
Bir yıl sonra Kafka öldü.
Yıllar sonra, bir yetişkin olan kız, bebeğin içinde bir mektup buldu; mektupta şöyle yazıyordu:
"Sevdiğin her şey muhtemelen kaybolacak, ama sonunda sevgi başka bir şekilde geri dönecek."

Kafka'nın Son Aşkı: Dora Diamant'ın Gizemi

Yazar: Kathi Diamant

Artwork by Isabel Tornet

10 Aralık 2023 Pazar

Estoy tan solo como este gato, ... / Julio Cortázar

"Estoy tan solo como este gato, y mucho más solo porque lo sé y él no." 

Julio Cortázar




"I'm as alone as that cat, much more alone because I know it and he doesn't."

Julio Cortázar ~ (Blow-Up and Other Stories)




"Sono solo come questo gatto e molto di più, solo perché io lo so, lui no."

Julio Cortázar ~ (e il suo gatto Theodor Adorno)

Julio Cortázar and his cat Theodor Adorno

8 Aralık 2023 Cuma

Autumnal / Ernest Dowson

Autumnal

Pale amber sunlight falls across
The reddening October trees,
That hardly sway before a breeze
As soft as summer: summer's loss
Seems little, dear! on days like these.

Let misty autumn be our part!
The twilight of the year is sweet:
Where shadow and the darkness meet
Our love, a twilight of the heart
Eludes a little time's deceit.

Are we not better and at home
In dreamful Autumn, we who deem
No harvest joy is worth a dream?
A little while and night shall come,
A little while, then, let us dream.

Beyond the pearled horizons lie
Winter and night: awaiting these
We garner this poor hour of ease,
Until love turn from us and die
Beneath the drear November trees.

Ernest Dowson ~ (The Poems And Prose Of Ernest Dowson)




Herbstlich

Gelbbraune Sonne, die sich fahl ergeht,
Oktoberbäume, die in Rötung übergehen
kaum schwankend, wenn die Winde wehen,
sanft wie der Sommer. Dass er nun geht,
scheint nichtig, Liebes, wenn wir solches sehen.

Der Herbst sei unser, seine Nebelsicht,
die Jahresdämmerung in ihrer Lieblichkeit:
Wo sich der Schatten eint mit Dunkelheit,
tarnt unsere Liebe, ein Herzensdämmerlicht,
ein kleines bisschen den Betrug der Zeit.

Sind wir nicht heimisch und viel besser dran
im traumerfüllten Herbst, die wir befinden,
nie traumeswertes Ernteglück zu finden?
Ein wenig noch, dann kommt die Nacht heran,
ein wenig noch, dann lass uns Träume winden.

Jenseits des Perlenhorizontes liegen
der Winter und die Nacht: sind sie bereit,
bewahren wir der kurzen Stunde Leichtigkeit,
bevor die Liebe weicht und unter trüben
Novemberbäumen geht für alle Zeit.

Ernest Dowson

Übersetzung Frank Freimuth




Autunnale

La pallida luce ambrata gocciola attraverso
gli arrossenti alberi d’Ottobre
che a stento ondeggiano nella brezza
soffice come l’estate: la perdita dell’estate
sembra ora così sopportabile, cara, in giorni come questi.

Lascia che il brumoso autunno faccia parte di noi!
Il crepuscolo dell’anno è zuccherino:
laddove ombre e oscurità incontrano
il nostro amore, un tramonto nel cuore
elude l’inganno del passare del tempo.

Non è per noi migliore e più familiare
l’onirico Autunno, per noi che riteniamo
che nessuna gioia sia degna d’un sogno?
Verranno le notti,
e noi sogneremo, lasciateci sognare.

Aldilà degli orizzonti perlati riposano
l’inverno e la notte: li aspetteremo
ammassando queste poche ore di gioia,
sino a che l’amore scapperà via da noi e morirà
sotto agli alberi del cupo Novembre.

Ernest Dowson




Otoñal

La luz ámbar pálida cae sobre
los árboles octubrinos rojizos,
que apenas se balancean ante una brisa
tan suave como el verano: la pérdida del verano
parece poca cosa, querido, en días como estos.

¡Dejemos que la brumosa otoñal sea nuestra part!
El crepúsculo del año es dulce:
donde la sombra y la oscuridad se encuentran,
nuestro amor, un crepúsculo del corazón,
escapa un poco del engaño del tiempo.

¿No estamos mejor y en casa
en el otoño de ensueño, nosotros que creemos
que ninguna alegría de cosecha vale un sueño?
Un poco de tiempo y llegará la noche,
un poco de tiempo, entonces, dejemos que soñemos.

Más allá de los horizontes perlados yacen
el invierno y la noche: esperándolos,
cosechamos esta pobre hora de tranquilidad,
hasta que el amor se aleje de nosotros y muera
bajo los tristes árboles de noviembre.

Ernest Dowson




Otoñal [otra traducción]

La luz del sol de color ámbar pálido cae sobre los
árboles de octubre enrojecidos,
que apenas se balancean ante una brisa
Tan suave como el verano: la pérdida del verano ¡
Parece poco, querido! en días como estos

¡Que el otoño brumoso sea nuestra parte!
El crepúsculo del año es dulce:
donde la sombra y la oscuridad se encuentran con
nuestro amor, un crepúsculo del corazón
elude el engaño de un poco de tiempo.

¿No estamos mejor y en casa
En el otoño de ensueño, nosotros que consideramos que
No hay alegría de cosecha vale un sueño?
Un ratito y la noche vendrán.
Un ratito, entonces, soñemos.

Más allá de los horizontes perlados yacen
Invierno y noche: aguardando estos
Recolectamos esta pobre hora de tranquilidad,
Hasta que el amor se aleje de nosotros y muera 
Debajo de los tristes árboles de noviembre.

Ernest Dowson




"Un pâle rayon de soleil ambré tombe sur
les arbres d'octobre rougissants, 
qui ne vacillent guère devant une brise
aussi douce que l'été : la perte de l'été
semble peu chère ! en des jours comme ceux-ci."

Ernest Dowson ~ (Automnal)

Photo by Niko Laurila

21 Kasım 2023 Salı

Escrito con tinta verde / Octavio Paz

Escrito con tinta verde

La tinta verde crea jardines, selvas, prados,
follajes donde cantan las letras,
palabras que son árboles,
frases que son verdes constelaciones.
 
Deja que mis palabras, oh blanca, desciendan y te cubran
como una lluvia de hojas a un campo de nieve,
como la yedra a la estatua,
como la tinta a esta página.
 
Brazos, cintura, cuello, senos,
la frente pura como el mar,
la nuca de bosque en otoño,
los dientes que muerden una brizna de yerba.
 
Tu cuerpo se constela de signos verdes
como el cuerpo del árbol de renuevos.
No te importe tanta pequeña cicatriz luminosa:
mira al cielo y su verde tatuaje de estrellas.

Octavio Paz

Semillas para un himno (1943-1955) ~ El girasol (1943-1948)




Written in Green Ink

Green ink makes garden, forest, fields,
trees full of leaves where letters sing,
words that are trees,
phrases appearing as green constellations.

Permit my words' descent cover your whiteness
like a rain of leaves on a field of snow,
like ivy on the statue,
ink on this page.

Arms, waist, neck, breasts,
forehead pure as the sea,
a neck of forests in the fall,
teeth biting a blade of grass.

Your body is constellated in green images
like a tree's body, covered with green shoots.
Never mind the scar, little and luminous:
look up at the sky and its green tattoo of stars.

Octavio Paz 

Translated by Muriel Rukeyser




Scritto con inchiostro verde

L’inchiostro verde crea giardini, selve, prati,
fogliame dove cantano le lettere,
parole che son alberi,
frasi che sono costellazioni.

Tu bianca, lascia che le mie parole scendano e ti ricoprano
Come una pioggia di foglie su un campo di neve,
come l’edera su una statua,
come l’inchiostro su questo foglio.

Braccia, cintura, collo, seni,
la fronte pura come il mare,
la nuca di bosco d’autunno,
i denti che mordono un filo d’erba.

Il tuo corpo è costellato di segni verdi
Come il corpo dell’albero dalle gemme.
Non ti importi di tante piccole cicatrici luminose
Guarda il cielo e il suo verde tatuaggio di stelle.

Octavio Paz

(Escrito con tinta verde, da Libertà sulla parola, 1958 ~ Traduzione di Giuseppe Bellini)

Photo by David Dubnitskiy

4 Kasım 2023 Cumartesi

Instead of telling me I'm sexy, / ©Jolanta Liza K

Instead of telling me I'm sexy,
tell me I'm beautiful.
And instead of asking if I will go to bed with you,
ask if I'll let you take me to the end of the world.
Then I will give myself to you without doubts....

©Jolanta Liza K

Photo by Mikhail Tishkoff

Touch me / ©Jolanta Liza K

Touch me
With a word, a gesture, a look
Let me feel you
Let me tremble
Don't be just a memory anymore.

©Jolanta Liza K

Photo by Mikhail Tishkoff

30 Ekim 2023 Pazartesi

Were we not friends from childhood? / Emily Brontë

'Were we not friends from childhood?
Have I not loved thee long?
As long as thou, the solemn night,
Whose silence wakes my song.

'And when thy heart is resting
Beneath the church-aisle stone,
I shall have time for mourning,
And thou for being alone.'

Emily Brontë ~ (The Night; Wind)




“Non siamo amici dall’infanzia?
Non ti amo già da molto tempo?
Da quando tu hai amato la notte
il cui silenzio risveglia il mio canto.
 
“E quando il tuo cuore sarà adagiato
sotto la lapide di un cimitero
avrò tutto il tempo di rimpiangerti
e tu di stare sola”.

Emily Brontë ~ (Il vento notturno)

Traduzione di Loredana Foresta




“¿No fuimos amigos en la infancia?
¿No te he amado hace mucho tiempo?
Mientras tú, la noche solemne,
Mi canto despertabas con tu silencio.'

“Que cuando repose tu corazón
Bajo la fría lápida de cemento,
Yo tendré tiempo para el lamento,
Y tú para estar sola.”

Emily Brontë ~ (El viento nocturno)

Emily (2022)

27 Ekim 2023 Cuma

Dans le crépuscule fané / Guillaume Apollinaire

Dans le crépuscule fané

Dans le crépuscule fané
Où plusieurs amours se bousculent
Ton souvenir gît enchaîné
Loin de nos ombres qui reculent

Ô mains qu'enchaîne la mémoire
Et brûlantes comme un bûcher
Où le dernier des phénix noire
Perfection vient se jucher

La chaîne s'use maille à maille
Ton souvenir riant de nous
S'enfuir l'entends-tu qui nous raille
Et je retombe à tes genoux

Guillaume Apollinaire




In the evening light that’s faded

In the evening light that’s faded
Where our several loves brush by
Your memory lies enchained
Far from our shades that die

O hands bound by memory
Burning like a funeral pyre
Where the last black Phoenix
Perfection comes to respire

Link by link the chain wears thin
Deriding us your memory
Flies ah hear it you who rail
I kneel again at your feet

(Vitam Impendere Amori: To Threaten Life for Love)

Guillaume Apollinaire

Translated by A.S. Kline




Bu solan alacakaranlıkta 

Bu solan alacakaranlıkta 
İtiş kakış bir yığın aşk 
Hatıran zincirli yerde yatmakta
Kaçışan karaltılarımızdan uzak

O eller hafıza zincire vurmuş
Üstüste odunlar gibi alevlerinde 
Kendi küllerinden doğan masaldaki kuş 
Neredeyse konup yanacak halde

Aşınırken halka halka zincir 
Hatıran gülerek ikimize 
Duy kaçar bizden bizimle eğlenir 
Kapanırım yeniden dizlerine 

Guillaume Apollinaire

Çeviri: Necati Cumalı

The Love of Life by Giuseppe Pellizza da Volpedo

9 Ekim 2023 Pazartesi

The Unbearable Lightness of Being / Milan Kundera

"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."

Milan Kundera ~ (The Unbearable Lightness of Being)




"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."  

Milan Kundera ~ (L'insostenibile leggerezza dell'essere)




"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."

Milan Kundera ~ (La insoportable levedad del ser)




"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."

Milan Kundera ~ (Varolmanın Dayanılmaz Hafifliği)

The Unbearable Lightness of Being (1988)

20 Ağustos 2023 Pazar

For the Sake of a Single Poem / Rainer Maria Rilke

For the Sake of a Single Poem

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.

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.

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.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Translated by Stephen Mitchell / (The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke)

Photo by @wauba

Te desnudas igual / Jaime Sabines

Te desnudas igual

Te desnudas igual que si estuvieras sola
y de pronto descubres que estás conmigo.
¡Cómo te quiero entonces
entre las sábanas y el frío!

Te pones a flirtearme como a un desconocido
y yo te hago la corte ceremonioso y tibio.
Pienso que soy tu esposo
y que me engañas conmigo.

¡Y como nos queremos entonces en la risa
de hallarnos solos en el amor prohibido!
(Después, cuando pasó, te tengo miedo
y siento un escalofrío.)

Jaime Sabines




You undress yourself

You undress yourself as if you were alone
and suddenly you discover you are with me.
How I love you then
between the bed sheets and the cold!

You flirt with me as with a stranger
and I court you, ceremonious and lukewarm.
I think I am your husband
and you are unfaithful to me.

How we love each other then in the laughter
of finding ourselves alone in prohibited love!
(Afterwards, when it is over, I am afraid of you
and I shiver.)

Jaime Sabines

Translation by Carlos Ochoa

Photo by Mecuro B Cotto

15 Ağustos 2023 Salı

Trueque / Mario Benedetti

Trueque

Me das tu cuerpo patria y yo te doy mi río
tú noches de tu aroma / yo mis viejos acechos
tú sangre de tus labios / yo manos de alfarero
tú el césped de tu vértice / yo mi pobre ciprés

me das tu corazón ese verdugo
y yo te doy mi calma esa mentira
tú el vuelo de tus ojos / yo mi raíz al sol
tú la piel de tu tacto / yo mi tacto en tu piel

me das tu amanecida y yo te doy mi ángelus
tú me abres tus enigmas / yo te encierro en mi azar
me expulsas de tu olvido / yo nunca te he olvidado
te vas te vas te vienes / me voy me voy te espero.

Mario Benedetti ~ "El amor, las mujeres y la vida" (1995)




Scambio

Mi dai il tuo corpo patria e io ti do il mio fiume
tu notti del tuo aroma / io i miei vecchi agguati
tu sangue delle tue labbra / io mani da vassaio
tu il cespuglio della tua collina / io il mio povero cipresso

mi dai il tuo cuore quel carnefice
e io ti do la mia calma questa bugia
tu il volo dei tuoi occhi / io la mia radice al sole 
tu la pelle del tuo tatto / io il mio tatto sulla tua pelle

mi dai la tua Alba e io ti do il mio vespro
tu mi apri i tuoi misteri / io ti chiudo nel mio caos
mi espelli dal tuo oblio / io mai ti ho dimenticato
te ne vai te ne vien / io me ne vado e ti aspetto.

Mario Benedetti ~ "L'amore, le donne e la vita" (1995)




Takas

Bana bedenini verdin memleketimi ve ben de nehrimi veriyorum sana
sen kendi rayihandan geceleri / ben eski takiplerimi 
sen dudaklarındaki kanı / ben cömlekçi ellerimi 
sen zirvelerindeki çimeni / ben zavallı servilerimi

bana yüreğimi veriyorsun şu celladı
sana sükunetimi veriyorum şu yalanı 
sen gözlerinin uçuşunu / ben güneşe inen kökümü
sen dokunuştaki tenini / ben tenindeki dokunuşumu

sen bana gün doğumunu veriyorsun ben de sana sabah duamı
sen bana kendi muammalarımı açıyorsun / ben seni kendi kaderime kapatıyorum 
sen beni unutuşlarından dışlıyorsun / ben seni hiç unutmadım ki
gidiyor gidiyor geliyorsun / gidiyor gidiyor seni bekliyorum.

Mario Benedetti

İspanyolcadan çeviren Bülent Kale

(Aşk Kadınlar ve Hayat / Ayrıntı Yayınları / Birinci Basım: İstanbul, Eylül 2015)

Unknown photographer

13 Ağustos 2023 Pazar

Henry and June / Anaïs Nin

"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."

Anaïs Nin ~ (Henry and June)




"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."

Anaïs Nin ~ (Henry e June)




"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."

Anaïs Nin ~ (Henry et June)




"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."

Anaïs Nin ~ (Henry y June)

Model Olga Kobzar shot by Dima Ignatov

10 Ağustos 2023 Perşembe

Delta Of Venus / Anaïs Nin

"The most haunting woman is the one we cannot find in the crowded café when we are looking for her, the one that we must hunt for, and seek out through the disguises of her stories."

Anaïs Nin ~ (Delta Of Venus: Erotica by Anaïs Nin)




"La mujer más obsesiva es aquella que no puede encontrarse en el café atestado donde uno la está buscando, aquella que debemos cazar y perseguir a través de los disfraces que adopta en sus historias."

Anaïs Nin ~ (Delta de Venus)




"La donna più attraente è quella che non riusciamo mai a trovare in un caffè affollato, quando la cerchiamo, è quella a cui si deve dare la caccia, e scovare sotto i travestimenti delle sue storie."

Anaïs Nin ~ (Il delta di Venere)




"En çekici kadın, onu aradığımızda kalabalık bir kafede bulamayacağımız, öykülerindeki gizler aracılığıyla arayıp bulmamız, yakalamamız gereken kadındır."

Anaïs Nin ~ (Venüs Üçgeni)

My edit: Monica Bellucci

Into the Wild / Jon Krakauer

"Some people feel like they don't deserve love. They walk away quietly into empty spaces, trying to close the gaps of the past."

Jon Krakauer ~ (Into the Wild)




"Algunas personas sienten que no merecen el amor. Ellos se alejan silenciosamente en espacios vacíos, tratando de cerrar las brechas del pasado."

Jon Krakauer ~ (Hacia Rutas Salvajes)




"Ci sono persone convinte di non meritare l'amore. Loro si allontanano in silenzio dentro spazi vuoti, cercando di chiudere le brecce al passato."

Jon Krakauer ~ (Nelle natura selvaggia)

Photo by Gabriel Guerrero Caroca

9 Ağustos 2023 Çarşamba

Instead of telling me I'm sexy, / ©Jolanta Liza K

Instead of telling me I'm sexy,
tell me I'm beautiful.
And instead of asking if I will go to bed with you,
ask if I'll let you take me to the end of the world.
Then I will give myself to you without doubts....

©Jolanta Liza K

Olga Kobzar for Playboy.
Shot by Ana Dias

It's that time when it's warm, / ©Jolanta Liza K

It's that time when it's warm, when the sun gets close, the mornings bring the scent of summer and the evenings allow you to catch your breath. It's not hard to love life in the summer, because it's the time of year when you can usually stop time. If only for a moment...

©Jolanta Liza K

Olga Kobzar for Playboy. Shot by Ana Dias

I still a moment. / ©Jolanta Liza K

I still a moment.
I'll wait for you.
And then...
I'll wait one more moment.
And every moment after that.
I will also wait.
On you.

©Jolanta Liza K

Photo by Federica Ella

6 Ağustos 2023 Pazar

Versos Orgásmicos / ©Claudia Fontena

Versos Orgásmicos

Quiero que dibujes con tú boca cada parte de mi piel....
Tú lengua esculpa mis montes....
Tus dedos el cincel....
Juega con mis curvas, dame placer...
Se mi Donatello.....
Usame bien....
Aprovecha mi lienzo....
se derrama de miel....
Dame de tú néctar....
Usalo también...
Moja mis labios sedientos por él....
Marca mi carne ....
Hazme enloquecer...
Aún no uses tú miembro....
Talla  mi piel...
Usa mis sentidos....
Moja mi cuerpo
Sacudelo sobre él...
Frota tú néctar
Dame de comer...

©Claudia Fontena

Lidia Savoderova by Ivan Warhammer

5 Ağustos 2023 Cumartesi

Un rostro... no muestra tú realidad / ©Claudia Fontena

Un rostro... no muestra tú realidad
Te maquillas y ya está...
Oculta la tristeza qué has de llevar...
Un lindo labial y lista está...
Luego sonríes sin mirar atrás....

Pero dime tú, hombre que sufriendo estás!
Como ocultas tú realidad?
No hay maquillajes ni labial...
Debes continuar y tus lágrimas tragar
Debes ser fuerte ante la sociedad....
Una mochila grande que cargar
Pues no se te permite mostrar frágilidad

Grita sin parar, nuestros lamentos nadie los escuchará....
Tendremos qué seguir...
En esta película sin fin...

Ambos protagonistas...
Queriendo huir
A un mundo virtual...
Qué es frio en fin....

Acompañados están
Por personas que no saben amar
Pues solo quieren ver
Otro capítulo por contar...

Ven y huyamos a la realidad...
Este mundo nos quiere acabar
Sigamos fingiendo
Nuestros lamentos...
en esta fria realidad.

©Claudia Fontena

Photo by Federica Ella

4 Ağustos 2023 Cuma

Cierra tus ojos... / ©Claudia Fontena

Cierra tus ojos...
Siente la brisa en tú rostro...
Imagina qué te beso
Dónde estés el viento será tú compañia...
Volarán mis caricias...
Tocarán tú cuerpo...
Quisiera huir de esta selva de cemento...
Ir en busca de mi paraíso perfecto...
Correr descalza...
Olvidar los conceptos....
Ser libre un momento...
Ir a tú encuentro...
Soy solitaria, no es un defecto
Siento qué es perfecto....
Puedo irme sin pretextos...
Dar un saltó de fe por lo qué siento
Dejar de huir...
Ya es él momento....

©Claudia Fontena

Isabeli Fontana for Lui Magazine,
September 2016, by Eduardo Rezende

3 Ağustos 2023 Perşembe

Il tempo invecchia in fretta / Antonio Tabucchi

"Pensò ai venti della vita, perché ci sono venti che accompagnano la vita: lo zefiro soave, il vento caldo della gioventù che poi il maestrale si incarica di rinfrescare, certi libecci, lo scirocco che accascia, il vento gelido di tramontana. Aria, pensò, la vita è fatta d’aria, un soffio e  e del resto anche noi non siamo nient’altro che un soffio, respiro, poi un giorno la macchina si ferma e il respiro finisce." 

Antonio Tabucchi ~ (brano tratto da "iI tempo invecchia in fretta")

.... perché il mio vento preferito è il maestrale quello che rinfresca oggi la mia vita. È il vento perfetto e stiano.lontani il più possibile il libeccio e lo scirocco che portano solo sciagure di caldo , umidità e senso di immobilità. Voglio vivere avvolta nel maestrale e quando dovrà cambiare vento, gelida tramontana sia...."un soffio.e via !

©Maria Emanuela Pagani




"He thoughts of the winds in life, because there are winds that accompany life: the soft zephyr, the warm wind of youth that later the mistral takes upon itself to cool down, certain southwesterly winds, the sirocco that weakens you, the icy mistral. Air, he thought, life is made of air, a breath and that’s it, and after all we too are nothing but a puff, a breath, then one day the machine stops and that breath ends."

Antonio Tabucchi ~ (Message from the Shadows: Selected Stories)

Translators: Janice M. Thresher, Tim Parks.




"Pensó en los vientos de la vida, porque hay vientos que acompañan la vida: el céfiro suave, el viento cálido de la juventud que más tarde el maestral se encarga de refrescar, ciertos ábregos, el siroco que te abate, el viento gélido de tramontana. Aire, pensó, la vida está hecha de aire, un soplo y ya está, y por lo demás tampoco nosotros dejamos de ser soplo, aliento, nada más; después, un día, la máquina se detiene y el aliento se termina."

Antonio Tabucchi ~ (El tiempo envejece deprisa)

Isabeli Fontana for Lui Magazine, September 2016,
by Eduardo Rezende

19 Temmuz 2023 Çarşamba

Poetry led me by the hand out of madness. / Anne Sexton

"Poetry led me by the hand out of madness." ~ Anne Sexton

"I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life." ~ Anne Sexton

(Interview with Anne Sexton / Patricia Marx and Anne Sexton)

Anne Sexton, 1974, photo by Arthur Furst

18 Temmuz 2023 Salı

I have locked you in my heart; / ©Jolanta Liza K

I have locked you in my heart;
You will never come out again;
I threw away the keys;
You will never find them.

©Jolanta Liza K

Love

Slept, naked, in my arms / ©Jolanta Liza K

Slept, naked, in my
arms
And it's not that,
that she was naked, but that she was mine and forever.

©Jolanta Liza K

Love

5 Temmuz 2023 Çarşamba

It hurts to love. ... /Susan Sontag

"It hurts to love. It's like giving yourself to be flayed and knowing that at any moment the other person may just walk off with your skin.”

Susan Sontag ~ (Reborn: Journals and Notebooks, 1947-1963)


"Human sexuality is, quite apart from Christian repressions, a highly questionable phenomena, and belongs, at least potentially, among the extreme rather than ordinary experiences of humanity.  Tamed as it may be, sexuality remains one of the demonic forces in human consciousness –pushing us at intervals close to taboo and dangerous desires, which range from the impulse to commit sudden arbitrary violence upon another person to the voluptuous yearning for extinction of one’s consciousness, for death itself. Even on the level of simple physical sensation and mood, making love surely resembles having an epileptic fit at least as much, if not more, than it does eating a meal or conversing with someone.  Everyone has felt (at least in fantasy) the erotic glamor of physical cruelty and erotic lure in things that are vile and repulsive. These phenomena form a part of the genuine spectrum of sexuality, and if they are not to be written off as mere neurotic aberrations , the picture looks different from the one promoted by enlightened public opinion, and less simple.  

One could plausibly argue that it is for quite sound reasons that the while capacity for sexual ecstasy is inaccessible to most people – given that sexuality is something, like nuclear energy, which may prove amenable to domestication through scruple, but then again may not. That few people regularly, or perhaps ever, experience their sexual capacities at this unsettling pitch doesn’t mean that the extreme is not authentic, or that the possibility of it doesn’t haunt them anyway. (Religion is probably, after sex, the second oldest resource which human beings have available to themselves for blowing their minds. Yet among the multitude of the pious, the number who have ventured very far into that state of consciousness must be fairly small,too) There is, demonstrably, something incorrectly designed and potentially disorientating in the human sexual capacity – at least in the capacities of man-in-civilization.  Man, the sick animal, bears within him an appetite which can drive him mad.  Such is the understanding of sexuality – as something beyond good and evil, beyond love, beyond sanity; as a resource for ordeal and for breaking through the limits of consciousness – that informs the French literary canon I’ve been discussing.  

The Story of O, with its project for completely transcending personality, entirely presumes this dark and complex vision of sexuality so far removed from the hopeful view sponsored American Freudianism and liberal culture. The woman who is given no other name than O progresses simultaneously towards her own extinction as a human being and her fulfillment as a sexual being. It’s hard to imagine how anyone would ascertain whether there exists truly, empirically, anything in “nature” or human consciousness that supports such a split.  But it seems understandable that the possibility has always haunted man, as accustomed as he is to decrying such a split.  .  .

Perhaps the deepest spiritual resonance of the career of pornography in its “modern” Western phase under consideration here is this vast frustration of human passion and seriousness since the old religious imagination, with its secure monopoly on the total imagination, began in the late eighteenth century to crumble. The ludicrousness and lack of skill of most pornographic writing, films, and painting is obvious to everyone who has ever been exposed to them.  What is less often remarked about the typical products of the pornographic imagination is their pathos.  Most pornography – the books discussed here cannot be excepted – points to something more general than even sexual damage. I mean the traumatic failure of modern capitalist society to provide authentic outlets for the perennial human flair for high-temperature visionary obsessions, to satisfy the appetite for exalted self-transcending modes of concentration and seriousness..  The need of human beings to transcend “the personal” is no less profound than to be a person, an individual. But this society serves that need poorly.  It provides mainly demonic vocabularies in which to situate that need and from which to initiate action and construct rites of behavior.  One is offered a choice among vocabularies of thought and action which are not merely self-transcending but self-destructive.

Susan Sontag ~ (The Pornographic Imagination)


Love

4 Temmuz 2023 Salı

Güller Dolusu Annem / Erdinç Durukan

Güller Dolusu Annem

Annem
Güller dolusu annem
Çamaşır yıkıyor avluda
Yemek yapıyor mutfakta
Annem
Güller dolusu evimizde

Annemin sesi
Çarşıda, pazarda, sokaklarda
"Uğurlar olsun"

Annem
Güller dolusu mantosunun
İçinde ben
Bazı geceler 
Anneannemden gelirken

Annem
Güller dolusu annem
Yatıyor şimdi
Güllerle

Erdinç Durukan


Annem

1 Temmuz 2023 Cumartesi

Your feet / Erdinç Durukan

Your feet

to Alice

love is your feet at the sunset
your footprints in the sand
is worth thousands of poems

Erdinç Durukan

Alice

30 Haziran 2023 Cuma

Love is kind of like when you see a fog in the morning, ... /Charles Bukowski

"Love is kind of like when you see a fog in the morning, when you wake up before the sun comes out. It’s just a little while, and then it burns away... Love is a fog that burns with the first daylight of reality."

Charles Bukowski




"El amor es parecido a cuando ves una niebla en la mañana cuando despiertas antes de que salga el sol. Es solo un pequeño momento, y luego desaparece... El amor es una niebla que se incendia con la primer luz del día de la realidad."

Charles Bukowski




"L’amore ... è come quando vedi la nebbia la mattina prima che sorga il sole. Dura poco e poi scompare. L’amore è una nebbia che scompare all’apparire della realtà."

Charles Bukowski


Photo by Andrea Erl

26 Haziran 2023 Pazartesi

The special moment in when couples ... / Fabian Perez

"The special moment in when couples said goodbye at a train station without knowing when they would next meet again. When distances become eternal and therefore the farewells. Separations were raw and painful."

Fabian Perez


Painting: The Train Station II, by Fabian Perez

23 Haziran 2023 Cuma

14 Haziran 2023 Çarşamba

You are touching the nature / Erdinç Durukan

You are touching the nature
I'm touching the shadow
The light knows it

Erdinç Durukan


Photo by Stanko Abadžić

31 Mayıs 2023 Çarşamba

Letters to a Young Poet / Rainer Maria Rilke

"What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. To walk inside yourself and meet no one for hours — that is what you must be able to attain. To be solitary as you were when you were a child, when the grown-ups walked around involved with matters that seemed large and important because they looked so busy and because you didn’t understand a thing about what they were doing.

And when you realize that their activities are shabby, that their vocations are petrified and no longer connected with life, why not then continue to look upon it all as a child would, as if you were looking at something unfamiliar, out of the depths of your own solitude, which is itself work and status and vocation? Why should you want to give up a child’s wise not-understanding in exchange for defensiveness and scorn, since not understanding is, after all, a way of being alone, whereas defensiveness and scorn are participation in precisely what, by these means, you want to separate yourself from."

Rainer Maria Rilke ~ (Letters to a Young Poet)





"Lo único que por cierto hace falta es esto: Soledad, grande íntima soledad. Adentrarse en sí mismo, y durante horas y horas, no encontrar a nadie... Esto es lo que importa saber conseguir. Estar solos como estuvimos solos cuando niños, mientras en derredor nuestro iban los mayores de un lado para otro, enredados en cosas que parecían importantes y grandes, sólo porque ellos se mostraban atareados, y porque nosotros nada entendíamos de sus quehaceres.

Ahora bien: si un día se acaba por descubrir cuán pobres son sus ocupaciones, y se echa de ver que sus profesiones están yertas y faltas ya de todo nexo con la vida, ¿por qué no seguir entonces mirando todo eso con los ojos de la infancia, como si fuese algo extraño? ¿Por qué no mirarlo todo desde la profundidad de nuestro propio mundo, desde las extensas regiones de nuestra propia soledad, que es también trabajo y dignidad y oficio? ¿Por qué empeñarse en querer cambiar el sabio no-entender del niño por un espíritu constantemente en guardia y lleno de desprecio frente a los demás, ya que no comprender es estar solo, mientras defenderse y despreciar equivale a tomar parte en aquello de lo cual uno quiere precisamente desligarse por tales medios?"

Rainer Maria Rilke ~ (Cartas a un joven poeta)





"L’essenziale è certo solo questo: solitudine, solitudine interiore grande. Pentrare in se stessi e non incontrare nessuno per ore: ecco cosa si deve raggiungere. Essere soli come si era soli da bambini, quando gli adulti gironzolavano alle prese con cose che parevano importanti e grandi, perché i grandi apparivano indaffarati e non si capiva nulla delle loro azioni.

E quando un giorno si intuisce che le loro occupazioni sono miserabili, i loro mestieri pietrificati e non più connessi alla vita, allora perché non continuare a guardare, come i bambini, a tutto questo come a qualcosa di estraneo, dalla profondità del proprio mondo, dalla vastità della propria solitudine che è essa stessa lavoro, rango e mestiere? Perché voler scambiare il saggio non-comprendere di un bambino con il rifiuto e il disprezzo quando la solitudine è proprio non-comprendere, mentre il rifiuto e il disprezzo sono un modo per prendere parte a ciò da cui ci si vuole separare per mezzo loro."

Rainer Maria Rilke ~ (Lettere a un giovane poeta)

Traduzione di Marco Rincione





"Bizlere gereken şudur: Yalnızlık, büyük bir içsel yalnızlık. Kendi içine yürümek ve saatler boyu kimselere rastlamamak. İşte erişilmesi gereken şey bizler için. Erişkinler büyük ve önemli buldukları nesnelerle sarmaş dolaş sağa sola koşuşurken, yalnızlık içinde yaşayan bir çocuk gibi tıpkı, erişkinlerin hamaratlıklarına bir anlam veremeyen ve yaptıkları işlerden bir şey anlamayan bir çocuk gibi.

Ve bir gün gelip büyüklerin uğraşılarındaki zavallılık sırıttı mı, büyüklerin iş güçleri katılaşıp donarak yaşamla tüm bağlarını yitirdi mi, siz neden yine eski çocuk gözlerinizle yabancı bir nesneyi izler gibi bunu izlemeyesiniz? Neden kendi dünyanızın derinliğinden, neden iş, paye ve meslek gibi nesnelerin yerini tutan yalnızlığınızın enginliğinden yapmayasınız bunu? Neden bir çocuğun olup bitenlere o bilgelik dolu akıl erdiremeyişini bir kenara itip onun yerine kendinizi savunmayı ve karşınızdakini aşağılamayı geçiresiniz? Anlamak yalnızlıktır çünkü; savunma ve aşağılama ise, bunlardan yararlanarak sözde kendinizi kendisinden ayırmak istediğiniz nesneye karşı ilgi duymaktır."

Rainer Maria Rilke ~ (Genç Bir Şaire Mektuplar)

Türkçesi: Kâmuran Şipal / Aralık Yayınları


Photo by Gabriel Guerrero Caroca

Ogni blocco di pietra ... / Michelangelo

"Ogni blocco di pietra ha una statua dentro di sé ed è compito dello scultore scoprirla." ~ Michelangelo




"Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it." ~ Michelangelo




"Cada bloque de piedra tiene una estatua en su interior y es la tarea del escultor de descubrirla." ~ Michelangelo


Photo by Jean Jacques Andre

20 Mayıs 2023 Cumartesi

The Great Gatsby / F. Scott Fitzgerald

"No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart."

F. Scott Fitzgerald ~ (The Great Gatsby)




"Non c'è fuoco né gelo tale da sfidare ciò che un uomo può accumulare nel proprio cuore."

F. Scott Fitzgerald ~ (Il grande Gatsby)




"No hay fuego ni frío que pueda desafiar a lo que un hombre guarda entre los fantasmas de su corazón."

F. Scott Fitzgerald ~ (El gran Gatsby)




"Yalnız bir insanın hayalinde biriktirdiklerini hiçbir taze tutku, hiçbir yeni ateş yok edemez."

F. Scott Fitzgerald ~ (Muhteşem Gatsby)


Photo by Gabriel Guerrero Caroca

30 Nisan 2023 Pazar

La femminilità è come una poesia. ... / Alda Merini

"La femminilità è come una poesia. Non si ferma a ciò che vedi, ma a quello che ti lascia immaginare." ~ Alda Merini




"La feminidad es como la poesía. Ella no se detiene ante lo que ves, sino en lo que te deja imaginar." ~ Alda Merini




"Femininity is like a poem. She doesn't stop at what you see, but what it lets you imagine." ~ Alda Merini


Unknown photographer

28 Nisan 2023 Cuma

Rayuela / Julio Cortázar

"Amor mío, no te quiero por vos ni por mí ni por los dos juntos, no te quiero porque la sangre me llame a quererte, te quiero porque no sos mía, porque estás del otro lado, ahí donde me invitás a saltar y no puedo dar el salto, porque en lo más profundo de la posesión no estás en mí, no te alcanzo, no paso de tu cuerpo, de tu risa, hay horas en que me atormenta que me ames (cómo te gusta usar el verbo amar, con qué cursilería lo vas dejando caer sobre los platos y las sábanas y los autobuses), me atormenta tu amor que no me sirve de puente porque un puente no se sostiene de un solo lado, jamás Wright ni Le Corbusier van a hacer un puente sostenido de un solo lado, y no me mires con esos ojos de pájaro, para vos la operación del amor es tan sencilla, te curarás antes que yo y eso que me querés como yo no te quiero."

Julio Cortázar ~ (Rayuela)





"My love, I don't love you for you or for me or for both of us together, I don't love you because my blood calls me to love you, I love you because you're not mine, because you're on the other side, there where you invite me to jump and I can't take the leap, because in the depths of possession you are not in me, I can't reach you, I can't get past your body, your laughter, there are hours when it torments me that you love me (how you like to use the verb to love, with what cheesy are you going to drop it on the plates and the sheets and the buses), your love torments me that does not serve as a bridge because a bridge does not hold on one side, Wright nor Le Corbusier will never make a sustained bridge on one side, and don't look at me with those bird eyes, for you the operation of love is so simple, you will heal before I do and that you love me like I don't love you."

Julio Cortázar ~ (Hopscotch)





"Amore mio, non ti amo né per te né per me, nemmeno per tutti e due insieme, non ti amo perché il sangue mi sprona ad amarti, ti amo perché non sei mia, perché stai dall’altra parte, là, dove mi inviti a saltare e io non posso, perché nel più profondo del possesso non sei in me, non ti raggiungo, non passo dal tuo corpo, dal tuo riso, ci sono ore in cui mi tormenta che mi ami (quanto ti piace usare il verbo amare, con quanta vistosità lo lasci scivolare sui piatti e le lenzuola e le corriere), mi tormenta il tuo amore che non mi funge da ponte perché un ponte non si sostiene mai da un lato solo, mai Wright o Le Corbusier avrebbero potuto concepire un ponte sostenuto da un solo lato, e non mi guardare con quei occhi da passerotto, per te l’operazione dell’amore e così semplice, guarirai prima di me, per quanto tu mi ami come non ti amo io."

Julio Cortázar ~ (Rayuela – Capitolo 93 "prima parte")

Trad. di M. Fernàndez






"Mon amour, je ne t’aime pas pour toi, ni pour moi, ni pour tous les deux ensemble, je ne t’aime pas parce que le sang me pousse à t’aimer, je t’aime parce que tu n’es pas mienne, parce que tu es de l’autre côté, m’invitant à sauter pour te rejoindre mais je ne peux pas sauter, parce que, au plus profond de la possession, tu n’es pas en moi, je ne t’atteins pas, je ne dépasse pas ton corps, ton rire, il y a des heures où cela me tourmente que tu m’aimes (avec quelle facilité tu emploies le verbe aimer, avec quel mauvais goût tu le laisses tomber sur les plats, les draps, les autobus), ton amour me tourmente, car il ne me sert pas de pont, jamais Wright ou Le Corbusier ne feront de pont soutenu d’un seul côté, et ne me regarde pas avec ces yeux d’oiseau, pour toi l’opération amour est si simple, tu guériras avant moi bien que tu m’aimes plus que je ne t’aime."

Julio Cortázar ~ (Marelle)

Traduit de l’espagnol par Laure Guille-Bataillon (partie roman) et Françoise Rosset (partie essai).





"Sevgilim, seni senin için sevmiyorum, benim için de, ne de ikimiz için, seni seviyorum, çünkü kanım sana tutulmaya iteliyor beni, seni seviyorum, çünkü benim değilsin, çünkü öte yakadasın, başka bir yerden beni çağırıyorsun, atla diyorsun, tut, bul beni, ulaşamam ben, atlayamam, çünkü sahiplenme duygusunun derinlerine inersen sen bende değilsin ki, sana ulaşamıyorum, bedenini aşıp geçemiyorum, gülüşünün ötesi neresi, bazı saatler var ki beni seviyor olman sarsıyor beni, şaşkınım (sevmek fiilini ne de kolay türden kullanıyorsun, yemeklere çarşafların üstüne, otobüslere saldığın hava ve tat berbat), bana olan sevgin altüst ediyor beni, çünkü bana köprü olmuyorsun, Wright olsun, Le Corbusier olsun, asla tek taraftan karaya bağlı bir köprü yapamayacaklar; böyle serçe gözlerinle bakma bana kuş kafa, senin için aşk basit bir iş, bir işlem, sen benden önce iyileşeceksin hem, her ne kadar benim seni sevdiğimden daha da çok seviyor olsan da beni, böyle."

Julio Cortázar ~ (Seksek)


Photo by Resa Rot