Category Archives: culture

Sil Baştan – Rojin

Gücün var mı sevgilim,
Derin sularda inci tanesi aramaya?
Cesaretin kaldıysa
Hala benle aşktan konuşmaya
Söyle canım sevgilim
Hayat bize oyun oynuyor olabilir mi?
Yorgun gibi bir halin var
Duyguların karışık olabilir mi?
Sil baştan başlamak gerek bazen
Hayatı sıfırlamak
Sil baştan sevmek gerek bazen
Herşeyi unutmak
Sanki bugün son günmüş gibi
Dolu dolu yaşamak istiyorum ben
Her ne çıkarsa yoluma
Selam verip yürümek istiyorum ben
Sil baştan başlamak gerek bazen
Hayatı sıfırlamak
Sil baştan sevmek gerek bazen
Herşeyi unutmak


Rumi 2

Love is longing and longing, the pain of being being parted;
No illness is rich enough for the distress of the heart,
A lover’s lament surpasses all other cries of pain.
Love is the royal threshold to God’s mystery.
The carnival of small affections and polite attachments
Which litter and consume our passing time
is no match to Love which pulses behind this play.
It’s easy to talk endlessly about Love,
To live Love is to be seized by joy and bewilderment;
Love is not clear-minded, busy with images and argument.
Language is too precocious, too impudent, too sane
To stop the molten lava of Love which churns the blood,
This practicing energy burns the tongue to silence;
The knowing pen is disabled, servile paper
Shrivels in the fire of Love. Bald reason too is an ass
Explaining Love, deceived by spoilt lucidity.
Love is dangerous offering no consolation.
Only those who are ravaged by Love know Love,
The sun alone unveils the sun to those who have
The sense to receive the senseless and not turn away.
Cavernous shadows weigh down your vision with dross,
But the rising sun splits the ashen moon in empty half.
The outer sun is our daily miracle in timely
Birth and death, the inner sun
Dazzles the inner eye in a timeless space.
Our daily sun but a working star in a galaxy of stars,
Our inner sun is One, the dancing nuance of eternal light.
You must be set alight by the inner sun,
You have to live you Love or else
You’ll end in words.

Mathnavi 1.109

Murathan ’95

Karanlik odada üç gölge;
Ikili ilişkileri kuramayan insanlar,
üçlü ilişkileri deniyorlar.


Listen oh listen to my plaintive cry
Listen to my my longing or else I die
From the sweet home of my bed I was torn
So my pain and crucial longing was born.

With so many secrets I sing aloud
But none sees nor hears in this crowd
Oh for a friend to know my burning state
That our souls may mingle and contemplate.

The flame of Love discourses in me
The wine of Love so enforces me.
Do you wish to know the fire, the flow
Listen my listener then you shall know.

Mathnavi 1.1

My Way – For the End is Near

And now, the end is near

And so I face the final curtain
My friend, I’ll say it clear
[I’ll] state my case, of which I’m certain
I’ve loved a life that’s full
I traveled each and every highway
And more, much more than that,
I did it my way…

Regrets, I had a few
But then again, [too] few to mention
I did what I had to do
and saw it through without exemption,
I planned each charted course,
each careful step along the highway
And more, much more than that,
I did it my way…

Yes, there were times,
I’m sure you knew,
When I bit off
more than I could chew
But through it all,
when there was doubt
I ate it up… spit it out
I faced it all and I stood tall
and did it my way…

I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried
I’ve had my fill, my share of losing
And now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing
To think I did all that
And may I say, not in a shy way,
“Oh, no, oh, no, not me, I did it my way”.

For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught.
To say the words he truly feels
and not the words of one who kneels,
The record shows I took the blows
and did it my way…

Oh, no, oh, no, not me,
I did it my way…

“Donî monî mal ava, Xwedê kurê we bike zava. (Doni moni eviniz sen olsun, insallah oglunuz damat olsun.) Serê salê binê salê, Xwedê kurekî bide Kevanîya malê (Yillin basi yillin sonu, Allah bir cocuk versin ev sahibine.) Qerqus merqus, xwedê kurekê bavêye dergûs, para min kakil û mewij (Karakus marakus, Allah bir cocuk atsin besiginize, benim hakkima da düssün ceviziçi ile üzüm.) Serê salê binê salê, pîr bi qûrban qopê kalê. (Yilin basi yilin sonu , yaslilar kurban olsun dedenin kamburuna.)”

In less than a summer, less than six weeks even, all this will be simple past to you. For now, it’s unimaginable, almost, and yet when it comes – while it’s actually happening in the present tense – none of it really surprises you, not even the thing with the gun.
It’s no more crazy than people without homes taking over one of the city’s dead spaces and using it. It’s just that that was crazy in a good way, and the thing with the gun is crazy in a bad way.

Lane Ashfeldt – California über alles
In Punk Fiction – an anthology of short stories inspired by punk