GOKČENUR Č.

Gokčenur Č. je rođen u Istanbulu 1971, a svoje detinjstvo proveo je u više turskih gradova. Diplomirao je na Fakultetu elektro-inženjerstva na Tehničkom univerzitetu u Istanbulu i ima master diplomu iz Poslovne administracije na Istanbulskom univerzitetu.

Počeo je da objavljuje pesme u turskim časopisima 1990. Njegova prva zbirka Priručnik za svaku knjigu objavljena je 2006, a druga Ostatak reči 2010. Obe knjige objavila je izdavačka kuća Yitik Ülke (Izgubljena zemlja). Njegovu treću zbirku Jedini način gledanja trinaest kosova odjednom objavila je 2011. izdavačka kuća I Libri Del Merlo, u Italiji, dvojezično na italijanskom i turskom.

Učestvovao je na više pesničkih i prevodnih radionica i festivala u Rigi, Vilnusu, Istanbulu, Atini, Tel-Avivu, Minhenu, Beogradu, Lodevu, Sofiji i Kundi. Pesme su mu prevođene na engleski, nemački, francuski, grčki, bugarski, švedski, portugalski, japanski, rumunski, letonski, litvanski, makedonski, srpski, hrvatski i hebrejski i objavljene u književnim časopisima.

Preveo je Volasa Stivensa, Pola Ostera i modernu japansku haiku antologiju na turski, a trenutno priprema antologiju moderne američke poezije.

Jedan je od pokretača i ko-direktora projekta Word Express (www.word-express.org)

Njegovo književno ime je Gokčenur Č.

-----------

Gokcenur C. (Turkey)

From the book We Are In The World, So Are Words, How Nice, Everyone’s Here, translated from Turkish by Vesna Gazdić, Treći Trg,  2012.

Your Name Is A Deer Howling Written In The Cyrillic Alphabet

Your name is a deer howling written in the cyrillic alphabet

a paper unfolds like a snow-clad scandinavian plain

which we sank into

for six weeks couldn’t cross on horseback

Master says

the thorn draws the bow

the whirling arrow becomes

a blue rose

deer springs, time stops

Love is a sharpshooter, cruel and nonexistent

hits the heart to wound

hits the shield to kill

The boy carves a flute in the forest his master unaware

the girl comes covering her breasts with bulgarian roses

she comes picking rosehips

from the barbed bushes

Master says

the thorn draws the bow

Love is something else or just this

a one armed, even blind archer

finds the softest point of every shell

Boy sleeps under his horse

Master sleeps, horses sleep, camp sleeps

deer comes down by  the lake, waterlilies covered with snow

comes down passing between tents

Your name is a deer howling written in the cyrillic alphabet

a paper unfolds like a snow-clad scandinavian plain

they have already gone, ashes, plucked bulgarian roses

the wolf keeps sniffing the deer’s hoof prints

Translated by Robyn Marsack and the poet at the Crear Workshop

 

You’re Far Away From Your Country Where I Am

You’re far away from your country where I am

day by day my poems

begin to resemble letters lost in the post:

You’ve fallen asleep on your long, banana-coloured couch,

your bun is undone, your glasses are about to fall from your fingers,

four of five apples in your plate have been eaten,

a book has a hair brush between pages to mark where you were,

a baltic blue blanket over your knees,

maybe you are dreaming a scene from a play with old voices:

You’re in our apartment, your mother

hasn’t gone mad yet, my brother hasn’t been conscripted

Zeki Müren sings “You’re far away now” on the radio

in a minute they will cut off the song and announce

that military forces are taking control

for the safety and security of the country,

in a minute you will say “I have to go away”

“I can’t come, because the Turkish...”

You have seen this play a thousand times,

but as you are about to wake up

for the first time you will notice a telegram

on the gramophone:

../don’t wake up../wind../

will drop a dry leaf../on your chest

/like news from me./

You’re far away from your country which is in a chaos

I’m alive for now

in love, in doubt and immune to being parted.

Translated by Robyn Marsack and the poet at the Crear Workshop

Balcony Of The Tower

“I’m not afraid of the dead,” the man said,"Nothingness,

the locust leaping onto the flesh of the summer, sudden rain,

the red-ant circus in the shadow of a stone.

Absence of words makes me far more afraid.

So I write. Endlessly I write. I write the same way I build this tower

in the place of the old well. That damned well

into which my father fell and broke his neck.”

(It was winter. A train was passing across the lowlands like a

snow-white gauze inside a sooty oil-lamp bottle. Soldiers brought

to the front were hanging out of the wagon windows waving

their helmets at the herd of wild horses racing alongside the train.

Children chopping wood in the courtyard. A provisions lorry

sunk into snow and boredom in the voice of the woman        

embracing the man on the balcony of the tower, saying “You must go”.

I mean, the usual evens of winter.

The next day the man fell from the tower and broke his neck.

The woman repeatedly knocked on the tower door at the usual time,

a lantern in one hand, umbrella in the other

the manuscript of the man's poems which she could not keep dry

between her teeth.

Behind the wind fear was hiding, sniffing at the woman.

Translated by Alexandra Buchler with Gökçenur Ç.

----

 

U svetu smo mi, u svetu su reči, ovde je sve tako savršeno, 

prevela sa turskog Vesna Gazdić, Treći Trg,  2012.

Ime ti je, ćirilicom pisano, rika jelena

Ime ti je, ćirilicom pisano, rika jelena
po papiru, otvorenom kao zavejana skandinavska visoravan

u kojoj smo utonuli ostali

šest nedelja naši konji nisu je mogli preći

Majstor kaže
trn zateže luk,

strela vazduhom fijuknu i

plava ruža postade,

jelen poskoči, vreme stade

Ljubav je nenadmašni strelac, surova; neživa

u srce ranjava
kroz oklop ubija

Dečak pravi frulu u šumi, ne zna da je majstor tu,

dolazi devojka, prekrila je bugarskim ružama grudi

dolazeći bere šipurak

u trnovitom šiblju

Majstor kaže
trn zateže luk,
ljubav je nešto drugo, a i ovo
strelac bez ruke, još i slep,
svakom oklopu najmekše mesto pronalazi

Pod svojim konjem dečak spava,
Spava i majstor, konji i kamp
jelen silazi na jezero lokvanjima zavejano,

prolazi između šatora

Ime ti je, ćirilicom pisano, rika jelena,
papir se otvara kao zavejana skandinavska visoravan,

čini se da su davno otišli; zgarišta, iščupane bugarske ruže,

vuk zastaje, njuši trag jelena

Daleko si od otadžbine, u otadžbini sam ja

Daleko si od otadžbine, u otadžbini sam ja,
moje pesme sve više liče na pisma u pošti izgubljena:
                                                      
U dugačkoj, banana žutoj naslonjači si usnula,

punđa ti se rasula, naočare iz ruke ispale na pod,

u tanjiru, četiri ogriska,od pet jabuka,
jedna knjiga, češalj u njoj,
prekrivač, prusko plav preko tvojih kolena,
možda snevaš scenu iz komada sa starim glasovima:

kod nas si, majka ti još nije izgubila razum,
mog brata još nisu regrutovali,
na radiju, Zeki Muren peva “Sada si daleko”,

utom, pesmu prekida saopštenje da oružane snage preuzimaju vlast

radi mira u zemlji,

utom, ti kažeš “ja moram da odem”,
”ja ne mogu, jer turski…”

Nebrojeno puta ovu scenu videla si,
dok si se budila sva u znoju;

ali prvi put primetićeš telegram                              
zgužvan na gramofonu:

../’polako, ne budi se../’vetar.. /’

kao vest od mene../’oboriće suvi list na tvoje grudi../’

Daleko si od otadžbine, zemljom ti vlada haos,
ja sam još živ,
voljen, nepoverljiv, imun na rastanke

TERASA NA KULI

Čovek reče: „Ne plašim se smrti. Ništavilo:

skakavac koji ti skoči na meso leti, iznenadni pljusak,

cirkus crvenih mrava u senci kamena.

Mnogo me više plaši odsustvo reči.

Zato pišem, pišem bez prestanka. Pišem kao što sam podigao kulu

na mestu gde je bunar bio nekada – taj nesrećni bunar u koji je moj otac

pao i slomio vrat –

(Padao je sneg. Voz je prolazio ravnicom poput snežno belog muslina u čađavoj petrolejci. Otpremani na front, vojnici su, obešeni sa prozora, mahali šlemovima stadu divljih konja koje se trkalo sa vozom. Natovaren kamion zaglavljen u snegu, deca koja cepaju drva u dvorištu i bezvoljan glas žene koja grli čoveka na terasi kule i kaže: „Moraš da kreneš”. Jednom rečju, običan zimski dan.)

Sledećeg dana čovek je pao sa kule i slomio vrat,

u uobičajeno vreme, žena je uporno kucala na vrata

u jednoj ruci fenjer, u drugoj kišobran

a među zubima rukopis njegove poezije, da ga ne pokvasi.

Strah, skriven u vetru, njušio je ženu.