fide korkmazer erken


In a Daisy Field

I’m rolling
in a poetry field,
Where so many daisies abound,
A soft breeze bringing their mist.

I’m smelling them,
Satisfied with watching their
White, yellow appearance,
So I don’t need to write a poem.

Then your name is echoed
Amongst the petals,
Spreading this wonderful sound
All around the waving daisies.

It’s enough to hear
The most beautiful name I’ve ever known.
We smile to each other,
Me and the daisies.


The Red Roses

The red roses are in the vase
On the coffee table,
They were in your hand
On the way home last night.

Their colour shines
As if to show they’re so proud.

Silent are the red roses,
They don’t want to disturb love.

Is red the colour of love?
Ambitious and arrogant?
Then why do I have this fear of losing it?
My heart deeply asks
What will happen to love
When they wither.

The red roses stand still!


Naughty Love

Love was hidden
Under the table.
I went there
To get it
But hit my head

Love was in the kitchen.
I cooked some soup
To taste it,
But it burned my tongue.

I decided to find it
In my dreams.
I had a good sleep last night
But couldn’t see anything.

Damn you, love!
Get out from under the table.
Come here!
I’ll cook you in the kitchen
And taste you in my dream this night!


They Called Me To The Country Of Poetry

One evening
They called me
To the Country of Poetry.

They said,
“Come quickly!
If not,
No tickets will remain.”

The streets of the Country of Poetry
Have flowers on the pavements.
They smell
So distinctively.

Travelers pass along the streets.
They disappear,
Leaving something scribbled on a scrap of paper…
Some odd writings.

Some people read them
Others throw them away.
But they are inexhaustible
Those odd scribblings.

Travelers come
To the Country of Poetry.
And sometimes are unable to procure
A return ticket.

They drift along
The narrow streets
And pick up flowers
With unusual formations.

There’s a free
Ticket available.
A one-way ticket.

I salute the ones who stay
In the Country of Poetry,
For it’s the country of
The lonely, poor and peculiar.

It’s not possible for you
To enter –
Unless you really are a poet.


Song of Peace

On the ground,
a man is walking,
a soldier driving his tank.

There are flowers
on both sides of the road
No one sees the flowers.

The man is killed
His family cries
and so do the flowers.

The man and the soldier,
meet beneath the ground
and grow flowers
in an eternal garden….

The road is empty
There are neither men
nor soldiers,
just flowers
waving in the evening breeze
singing the song of peace,

But nobody hears.



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