Poem
Mustafa Köz
The Young Poet’s Newly Acquired Poetical Knowledge
I.Leopard Cubs
There is a stable order, even when
he is quiet, he gets that the words he couldn’t use
are more than the words he used in vain, and saddened
to leave them to uncertainty of harmony
like leopard cubs far from savagery and evil. Although
It is impossible to say which words will dominate his poems
he feels this warble of fresh words will wipe off
reek of rotten weeds and burnt oil which
hovers over everything he writes,
he feels joy.
II.
River Sculpture
When he read over his poems, he saw
an aqua-wing butterfly flies among his words.
He was glad for this.
When the butterfly was blown away
by the morning wind,
he thought about the words he knows,
meanings and non-meanings of them,
the abyss, the weight, dimensions of them,
colors, smells, how and
why he chose them, in which poem
he used which one of them. Every poem he worked on
with a quest of a rough confidence
was another certainty.
He rewrote his poems to make
this certainty comprehensible,
to strengthen his commitment
and he threw them to the river sculpture.
A tree flowed like this river sculpture and
suddenly new words twinkled. They were stars,
ants of dawn, sense diggers, image torches...
A thrush warbled. Leaves whispered.
A helix whirled asleep.III.
III.
Moon Time
“My poems” says the young poet, I don’t
understand anything when I write them.
I feel nothing.
Only after when I finish one of them thinking that
I took the vengeance upon words unburdens me.
Maybe it is the words taking the vengeance.
Neither first nor second
is important for me. But this feeling...
I take a walk when I finish a poem,
look at my hands, my hands that look like
tired people return from a field carnival.
IV.
Like an Earring
Images sway like earrings in my poems. But
I don’t care about the value of this earring’s stones,
I only care about the hang and rhythm of it.
Day by day I notice that my every poem
has its own image structure.
Comprehending this structure before the poem
makes me happy. Then
I write the poem of this structure and inhabit in it
It reminds a fruit become colorful before it ripens.
Any fruit that I don’t know its color is alien for me.
GENÇ ŞAİRİN YENİ ŞİİR BİLGİSİ
GENÇ ŞAİRİN YENİ ŞİİR BİLGİSİ
I.Pars Yavruları
Sustuğu zaman bile, sarsılmaz
bir düzen içinde, kullanamadığı
sözcüklerin boş yere harcadığı sözcüklerden
daha çok olduğunu görüyor, bu sözcükleri
yaralı pars yavruları gibi yırtıcılıktan
ve kötülüklerden uzak, uyumun belirsizliğine
terk ettiği için üzülüyordu. Yeni şiirlerinde
hangi sözcüklerin daha baskın olacağını
anlamak, şimdilik pek olanaklı görünmese de
bu taze sözcük cıvıltısının, bütün yazdıklarının
üzerinde yıllardır dolanıp duran çürük ot ve
yanık yağ kokusunu sileceğini de seziyor,
bu nedenle coşku duyuyordu.
II.
Irmak Yontusu
Şiirine yeniden baktığında, sözcüklerin arasında
bir sukelebeğinin uçtuğunu gördü. Buna sevindi.
Sabah yeli, kelebeği uzaklara atıp gözden
yitirdiğinde, bildiği sözcükleri, bunların anlamlarını
anlamsızlıklarını, derinliklerini, ağırlıklarını
boyutlarını, renklerini, kokularını, bunları niçin
ve nasıl seçtiğini, hangi sözcüklerle hangi şiirlerini
yazdığını düşündü. Kaba bir güven arayışıyla
işlediği her şiiri ayrı bir kesinlikti onun için.
Bu kesinliği anlaşılır kılmak, bağlılığını
güçlendirmek için şiirlerini yeniden yazdı,
bir ırmak yontusuna fırlattı.
Bir ağaç o ırmak yontusu gibi aktı birdenbire
yeni sözcükler ışıldadı. Yıldızlardı onlar, tan’ın
karıncaları, anlam kazıcıları, görüntü fenerleri...
Bir ardıç kuşu öttü. Yapraklar hışırdadı.
Bir salyangoz, uykusunda döndü.
III.
Ay Saati
“Şiirlerim” dedi genç şair, hiçbir şey anlamıyorum
çoğu zaman onları yazarken. Hiçbir şey duymuyorum.
Ancak bir şiiri bitirdikten sonra, sözcüklerden öç aldığımı
düşünmek rahatlatıyor beni. Belki de sözcükler
öç alıyor benden. Ne o ne öteki önemli
benim için. Ama bu duygu...
Yürüyüşe çıkıyorum bir şiiri bitirince,
ellerime bakıyorum, bir kır eğlencesinden
dönen yorgun insanlara benzeyen ellerime.
IV.
Küpe Gibi
İmge, küpe gibi sallanıyor şiirlerimde. Bense
bu küpedeki taşların değerlerini değil, küpenin duruşunu
ve ritmini önemsiyorum. Her şiirimin ayrı bir imge
yapısının olduğunu da görüyorum günden güne.
Bu yapıyı şiirimden önce kavramam, mutlu ediyor beni.
Sonra da bu yapının şiirini yazıp içine oturuyorum.
Meyvenin olgunlaşmadan renklenmesine benziyor biraz da bu.
Rengini bilmediğim her meyve, yabancı bana.
© 2004, Mustafa Koz
From: Açık Yara
Publisher: Alkım Yayınları,
From: Açık Yara
Publisher: Alkım Yayınları,
Poems
Poems of Mustafa Köz
Close
The Young Poet’s Newly Acquired Poetical Knowledge
I.Leopard Cubs
There is a stable order, even when
he is quiet, he gets that the words he couldn’t use
are more than the words he used in vain, and saddened
to leave them to uncertainty of harmony
like leopard cubs far from savagery and evil. Although
It is impossible to say which words will dominate his poems
he feels this warble of fresh words will wipe off
reek of rotten weeds and burnt oil which
hovers over everything he writes,
he feels joy.
II.
River Sculpture
When he read over his poems, he saw
an aqua-wing butterfly flies among his words.
He was glad for this.
When the butterfly was blown away
by the morning wind,
he thought about the words he knows,
meanings and non-meanings of them,
the abyss, the weight, dimensions of them,
colors, smells, how and
why he chose them, in which poem
he used which one of them. Every poem he worked on
with a quest of a rough confidence
was another certainty.
He rewrote his poems to make
this certainty comprehensible,
to strengthen his commitment
and he threw them to the river sculpture.
A tree flowed like this river sculpture and
suddenly new words twinkled. They were stars,
ants of dawn, sense diggers, image torches...
A thrush warbled. Leaves whispered.
A helix whirled asleep.III.
III.
Moon Time
“My poems” says the young poet, I don’t
understand anything when I write them.
I feel nothing.
Only after when I finish one of them thinking that
I took the vengeance upon words unburdens me.
Maybe it is the words taking the vengeance.
Neither first nor second
is important for me. But this feeling...
I take a walk when I finish a poem,
look at my hands, my hands that look like
tired people return from a field carnival.
IV.
Like an Earring
Images sway like earrings in my poems. But
I don’t care about the value of this earring’s stones,
I only care about the hang and rhythm of it.
Day by day I notice that my every poem
has its own image structure.
Comprehending this structure before the poem
makes me happy. Then
I write the poem of this structure and inhabit in it
It reminds a fruit become colorful before it ripens.
Any fruit that I don’t know its color is alien for me.
From: Açık Yara
The Young Poet’s Newly Acquired Poetical Knowledge
I.Leopard Cubs
There is a stable order, even when
he is quiet, he gets that the words he couldn’t use
are more than the words he used in vain, and saddened
to leave them to uncertainty of harmony
like leopard cubs far from savagery and evil. Although
It is impossible to say which words will dominate his poems
he feels this warble of fresh words will wipe off
reek of rotten weeds and burnt oil which
hovers over everything he writes,
he feels joy.
II.
River Sculpture
When he read over his poems, he saw
an aqua-wing butterfly flies among his words.
He was glad for this.
When the butterfly was blown away
by the morning wind,
he thought about the words he knows,
meanings and non-meanings of them,
the abyss, the weight, dimensions of them,
colors, smells, how and
why he chose them, in which poem
he used which one of them. Every poem he worked on
with a quest of a rough confidence
was another certainty.
He rewrote his poems to make
this certainty comprehensible,
to strengthen his commitment
and he threw them to the river sculpture.
A tree flowed like this river sculpture and
suddenly new words twinkled. They were stars,
ants of dawn, sense diggers, image torches...
A thrush warbled. Leaves whispered.
A helix whirled asleep.III.
III.
Moon Time
“My poems” says the young poet, I don’t
understand anything when I write them.
I feel nothing.
Only after when I finish one of them thinking that
I took the vengeance upon words unburdens me.
Maybe it is the words taking the vengeance.
Neither first nor second
is important for me. But this feeling...
I take a walk when I finish a poem,
look at my hands, my hands that look like
tired people return from a field carnival.
IV.
Like an Earring
Images sway like earrings in my poems. But
I don’t care about the value of this earring’s stones,
I only care about the hang and rhythm of it.
Day by day I notice that my every poem
has its own image structure.
Comprehending this structure before the poem
makes me happy. Then
I write the poem of this structure and inhabit in it
It reminds a fruit become colorful before it ripens.
Any fruit that I don’t know its color is alien for me.
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