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Dear Jill
good to meet the other day.
I have some more web material for you as follows -
NIHAT ZIYALAN
AFTER A SUNKEN SHIP
Translated by Gündo du Gencer
don't recall the day
I was launched, after I'm gone
that I was spoiled
with my name paraded
on the heaving seas
the sleeping of the dolphins
in my shadow
their licking my body with their fish smells
racing my speed
that, do recall
'cause it's like life that water is
cut with each arrival
forget after me
how I was drowned
my lungs scorched
with the hellos
and the good-byes
that, do forget
'cause it's like life to be drowned
don't gather after me
my scattered body
my memories
the remnants of my cry
let them float on the sea
let them wave
those, don't gather
'cause they're like life, the waves
don't cry after me
such is the sea
with its dizzying smell
caressing waves
its merciless storm
and its absolute calm
don't cry
'cause it's like life, the sea
say after me
he once was a haughty
and a distant ship
so glad he hit the bottom now
we saw recently
waves scattering his pieces
this, do say
'cause it's like life, man is
*
WAHID SA'ADEH
MIGRATION
Translation by Anne Fairbairn
When they left they did not lock their doors;
they left water in the basin for the nightingale
and the stray dog that use to visit them.
On the dining table, they left bread, a pitcher of
water
and a tin of sardines.
They said nothing before they left, but their silence
was like a covenant
with the door, the pitcher and the bread on the table.
The road, the only thing to feel their footsteps,
could not see them afterwards,
however it did eventually.
But one day it became numbed by the wheat carried
along it from dawn till dusk
and from doors it had seen leaving their place in the
walls.
The sea recalled that some sardines had flopped into
it,
swimming on to unknown places.
Those who remained in the village
said that a stray dog would come each evening
and howl in front of their house.
*
ANGELIKA FREMD
accident victims
when the tins come
out bent, the foreman
gestures with his hand
and I know he means for
me to come and look.
in silence we stare
at the damage and i
think it's like looking
at accident victims lying
bruised and broken on the road.
and sometimes there
is blood; the beetroot juice
leaking out onto the
factory floor.
the foreman's mouth
moves like a big carp's
i can't hear him above
the dragon roar of
the engines and i shrug
my shoulders and nod.
and even if i could
hear the words i wouldn't
understand, not without my
friend who tells me
what he says.
i always wonder why
he shows me the battered
cans. i just slice the fruit
in season. my friend says
where i came from a lot
has been destroyed and he
thinks i'll understand.
*
RUARK LEWIS
FALSE NARRATIVES 3
Such a hesitant flame your leg on the table more than
I do not a figure just how plain the language is of
exchange chases the lip it swirls is not seen criss
crossed his tongue is made of wonder or of stone cold
whether silence may be better in the case of
foreigners just that windless breathing speaks to me
and i go down to have the worst news to tell in
unframed niceties it does not cannot and for reasons
like this sits still stuns him not to evacuate but to
peddle the bike and remedy his sort of endless
consequence. First the toe then in the end the fine
area of the face of the man half gone down at sunset
*
I hope the formats on Wadih's piece survives
I'm exhausted
did you trasnscribe BLOOD of Anntigone Kefala, let me
know and I will set it up
thanks
Ruark
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