Ta. That'll teach me. Was he a mate of Cevat Sakir, the 'Fisherman of Halikarnas' by any chance?

god bless all the ney and neyzen fans..

Dinle neyden, zirâ o birşeyler anlatmada
Ayrılıklardan şikâyet etmededir.
Ney der ki: Beni kamışlıktan kopardıklarından beri,
İniltim kadın - erkek herkesi ağlattı.
Ayrılık bağrımı delik deşik eylesin,
Tâ ki aşk derdini anlatabileyim.
Mevlana

Albeit contemporaries, there are no recorded meetings of Cevat Şakir and Neyzen Tevfik, who were, anyway, from fairly different social strata. Also, the first poem that Rauf posted is wrongly attributed to Neyzen Tevfik; it's by a police chief who wrote it about ten or so years ago. I do like it, mind.

I memorized this poem once. Well, it was actually mandatory in my Spanish class...

To me this last poem of Rizal is a haunting, beautiful poem that sums up his passion and love for his country. He penned his "Last Farewell" on the eve of his execution, Dec. 29, 1896. The next day, Rizal, who then was just 35, was shot and killed by a firing squad by order of the the Spanish authorities. They declared Rizal as enemy for his subversive literary works and for the charge of aiding the people responsible for a revolt. This last poem he wrote actually had a huge political impact that eventually led to self-governance. According to some, it is probably the most sublime of all poems related to martyrdom in modern history, some of whose lines vibrate with a Castilian felicity that no translation could ever capture, Tambien por ti la diera, la diera por tu bien!

I also adore his two novels, NOLI ME TANGERE (Touch Me Not) and EL FILIBUSTERISMO (The Filibuster).

MI ULTIMO ADIOS (in original text; the title was later given by his friend as Rizal left it without one)

¡Adiós, Patria adorada, región del sol querida,
Perla del mar de oriente, nuestro perdido Edén!
A darte voy alegre la triste mustia vida,
Y fuera más brillante, más fresca, más florida,
También por ti la diera, la diera por tu bien.
En campos de batalla, luchando con delirio,
Otros te dan sus vidas sin dudas, sin pesar;
El sitio nada importa, ciprés, laurel o lirio,
Cadalso o campo abierto, combate o cruel martirio,
Lo mismo es si lo piden la patria y el hogar.
Yo muero cuando veo que el cielo se colora
Y al fin anuncia el día tras lóbrego capuz;
si grana necesitas para teñir tu aurora,
Vierte la sangre mía, derrámala en buen hora
Y dórela un reflejo de su naciente luz.
Mis sueños cuando apenas muchacho adolescente,
Mis sueños cuando joven ya lleno de vigor,
Fueron el verte un día, joya del mar de oriente,
Secos los negros ojos, alta la tersa frente,
Sin ceño, sin arrugas, sin manchas de rubor.
Ensueño de mi vida, mi ardiente vivo anhelo,
¡Salud te grita el alma que pronto va a partir!
¡Salud! Ah, que es hermoso caer por darte vuelo,
Morir por darte vida, morir bajo tu cielo,
Y en tu encantada tierra la eternidad dormir.
Si sobre mi sepulcro vieres brotar un día
Entre la espesa yerba sencilla, humilde flor,
Acércala a tus labios y besa al alma mía,
Y sienta yo en mi frente bajo la tumba fría,
De tu ternura el soplo, de tu hálito el calor.
Deja a la luna verme con luz tranquila y suave,
Deja que el alba envíe su resplandor fugaz,
Deja gemir al viento con su murmullo grave,
Y si desciende y posa sobre mi cruz un ave,
Deja que el ave entone su cántico de paz.
Deja que el sol, ardiendo, las lluvias evapore
Y al cielo tornen puras, con mi clamor en pos;
Deja que un ser amigo mi fin temprano llore
Y en las serenas tardes cuando por mí alguien ore,
¡Ora también, oh Patria, por mi descanso a Dios!
Ora por todos cuantos murieron sin ventura,
Por cuantos padecieron tormentos sin igual,
Por nuestras pobres madres que gimen su amargura;
Por huérfanos y viudas, por presos en tortura
Y ora por ti que veas tu redención final.
Y cuando en noche oscura se envuelva el cementerio
Y solos sólo muertos queden velando allí,
No turbes su reposo, no turbes el misterio,
Tal vez acordes oigas de cítara o salterio,
Soy yo, querida Patria, yo que te canto a ti.
Y cuando ya mi tumba de todos olvidada
No tenga cruz ni piedra que marquen su lugar,
Deja que la are el hombre, la esparza con la azada,
Y mis cenizas, antes que vuelvan a la nada,
El polvo de tu alfombra que vayan a formar.
Entonces nada importa me pongas en olvido.
Tu atmósfera, tu espacio, tus valles cruzaré.
Vibrante y limpia nota seré para tu oído,
Aroma, luz, colores, rumor, canto, gemido,
Constante repitiendo la esencia de mi fe.
Mi patria idolatrada, dolor de mis dolores,
Querida Filipinas, oye el postrer adiós.
Ahí te dejo todo, mis padres, mis amores.
Voy donde no hay esclavos, verdugos ni opresores,
Donde la fe no mata, donde el que reina es Dios.
Adiós, padres y hermanos, trozos del alma mía,
Amigos de la infancia en el perdido hogar,
Dad gracias que descanso del fatigoso día;
Adiós, dulce estranjera, mi amiga, mi alegría,
Adiós, queridos seres, morir es descansar.

In English:

Farewell, my adored Land, region of the sun caressed,
Pearl of the Orient Sea, our Eden lost,
With gladness I give you my Life, sad and repressed;
And were it more brilliant, more fresh and at its best,
I would still give it to you for your welfare at most.

On the fields of battle, in the fury of fight,
Others give you their lives without pain or hesitancy,
The place does not matter: cypress laurel, lily white,
Scaffold, open field, conflict or martyrdom's site,
It is the same if asked by home and Country.

I die as I see tints on the sky b'gin to show
And at last announce the day, after a gloomy night;
If you need a hue to dye your matutinal glow,
Pour my blood and at the right moment spread it so,
And gild it with a reflection of your nascent light!

My dreams, when scarcely a lad adolescent,
My dreams when already a youth, full of vigor to attain,
Were to see you, gem of the sea of the Orient,
Your dark eyes dry, smooth brow held to a high plane
Without frown, without wrinkles and of shame without stain.

My life's fancy, my ardent, passionate desire,
Hail! Cries out the soul to you, that will soon part from thee;
Hail! How sweet 'tis to fall that fullness you may acquire;
To die to give you life, 'neath your skies to expire,
And in your mystic land to sleep through eternity!

If over my tomb some day, you would see blow,
A simple humble flow'r amidst thick grasses,
Bring it up to your lips and kiss my soul so,
And under the cold tomb, I may feel on my brow,
Warmth of your breath, a whiff of your tenderness.

Let the moon with soft, gentle light me descry,
Let the dawn send forth its fleeting, brilliant light,
In murmurs grave allow the wind to sigh,
And should a bird descend on my cross and alight,
Let the bird intone a song of peace o'er my site.

Let the burning sun the raindrops vaporize
And with my clamor behind return pure to the sky;
Let a friend shed tears over my early demise;
And on quiet afternoons when one prays for me on high,
Pray too, oh, my Motherland, that in God may rest I.

Pray thee for all the hapless who have died,
For all those who unequalled torments have undergone;
For our poor mothers who in bitterness have cried;
For orphans, widows and captives to tortures were shied,
And pray too that you may see your own redemption.

And when the dark night wraps the cemet'ry
And only the dead to vigil there are left alone,
Don't disturb their repose, don't disturb the mystery:
If you hear the sounds of cittern or psaltery,
It is I, dear Country, who, a song t'you intone.

And when my grave by all is no more remembered,
With neither cross nor stone to mark its place,
Let it be plowed by man, with spade let it be scattered
And my ashes ere to nothingness are restored,
Let them turn to dust to cover your earthly space.

Then it doesn't matter that you should forget me:
Your atmosphere, your skies, your vales I'll sweep;
Vibrant and clear note to your ears I shall be:
Aroma, light, hues, murmur, song, moanings deep,
Constantly repeating the essence of the faith I keep.

My idolized Country, for whom I most gravely pine,
Dear Philippines, to my last goodbye, oh, harken
There I leave all: my parents, loves of mine,
I'll go where there are no slaves, tyrants or hangmen
Where faith does not kill and where God alone does reign.

Farewell, parents, brothers, beloved by me,
Friends of my childhood, in the home distressed;
Give thanks that now I rest from the wearisome day;
Farewell, sweet stranger, my friend, who brightened my way;
Farewell, to all I love. To die is to rest.

My favourite is Orhan Veli...


I AM LISTENING TO ISTANBUL



I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed:

At first there is a gentle breeze

And the leaves on the trees

Softly sway;

Out there, far away,

-<* The bells of water-carriers unceasingly ring;

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.



I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;

Then suddenly birds fly by,

Flocks of birds, high up, with a hue and cry,

While the nets are drawn in the fishing grounds

And a woman's feet begin to dabble in the water.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.



I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

The Grand Bazaar's serene and cool,

An uproar at the hub of the Market,

Mosque yards are full of pigeons.

While hammers bang and clang at the docks

Spirng winds bear the smell of sweat;

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.



I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;

Still giddy from the revelries of the past,

A seaside mansion with dingy boathouses is fast asleep.

Amid the din and drone of southern winds, reposed,

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.



I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

A pretty girl walks by on the sidewalk:

Four-letter words, whistles and songs, rude remarks;

Something falls out of her hand -

It is a rose, I guess.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.



I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

A bird flutters round your skirt;

On your brow, is there sweet? Or not ? I know.

Are your lips wet? Or not? I know.

A silver moon rises beyond the pine trees:

I can sense it all in your heart's throbbing.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

here another one..

SUICIDE



No one should find out how I died

With a clot of blood around my mouth.

Strangers would probably remark:

"He must have been in love."

Those who knew me, though, will say:

"Poor soul, he suffered from poverty."

Yet the real cause would be neither of these.

one more:)

I CAN'T EXPLAIN



(Moro romantico)



If I cried, could you hear

My voice in my poems,

Could you touch my tears

With your hands?



Before I fell prey to this grief,

I never knew songs were so enchanting

And words so mild.



I know there's a place

Where you can talk about everything;

I feel I'm close to that place,

Yet I can't explain

ok ok one more..

POEM WITH A TAIL



We're not compatible: you're a different breed;

You're the butcher's pet, I'm an alley cat.

You eat out of a polished tin can,

I eat out of the lion's mouth;

You dream of love, I dream of meat.



But your life's not easy, either,

Tough job, brother,

To have to wag your tail day in day out.





REPLY



from the butcher's pet



to the alley cat

You're talking of hunger,

So you're a communist.

So you burned down all the buildings,

Those in Istanbul

And in Ankara...



You, filthy swine, you!

I've always liked the works of E.E. Cummings.

This is one of my favorites...

may my heart always be open to little...
by E. E. Cummings

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

I'd forgotton all but the first 2 lines of this poem, which my English teacher at comp. taught us. Just goes to show some things do stay with you...

Spring and Fall, to a Young Child

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

-- Gerard Manley Hopkins

(Untitled)- Mary Oliver

The spirit
likes to dress up like this:
ten fingers,
ten toes,

shoulders, and all the rest
at night
in the black branches,
in the morning

in the blue branches
of the world.
It could float, of course,
but would rather

plumb rough matter.
Airy and shapeless thing,
it needs
the metaphor of the body,

lime and appetite,
the oceanic fluids;
it needs the body's world,
instinct

and imagination
and the dark hug of time,
sweetness
and tangibility,

to be understood,
to be more than pure light
that burns
where no one is --

so it enters us --
in the morning
shines from brute comfort
like a stitch of lightning;

and at night
lights up the deep and wondrous
drownings of the body
like a star.

from Bewitched- Naveed Alam

She grabs a sea breeze by the hair, hisses
in its ear: dulled your knives on the leaves, missy?
Let me show you how to skin the autumn.

and one last one especially for Arikan....

The Pope's Penis- Sharon Olds

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver sweaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat -- and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.