A Prose by Mazlum Çetinkaya


The woman who sleeps in the city’s dream and the God that came from the child

I came, walking towards a dream. They opened an old record in the middle of a square while I was looking for paste for the edge of a weary wood-like pain.

Old books, old stations, old sufferings…

For the first time someone told me: Look at me, who are you, you look like an outsider here, are you a shard of a broken glass?

We both had been broken in the middle of our lives.

There is no tree for us to cling, and my hands, my hands will hold tobacco.

I had got to know you at the borderlines, I thought about your hair when I remembered them at the minefield.

A blood puking government, a borderline.

The woman with bullets filled in her hair told me to lay down on the soil, hug a tree, you promised we were going to live for a thousand years. I hugged, between what was left of my self-confidence and low confidence.

It was the time they killed us on the bridge you passed. You said how can a bridge get shot, maybe it is forgetting the time, that place, maybe it is forgetting the evening that was like rose and summer on that bridge.

You told me, screamingly, that loneliness is a fire, always alone; you said we shall go two stations more.

I was telling about you to light, to land, to the spiciness of tobacco, to the homeland of fish… We entered this city with a dream, now we leave with suffering.

I am looking at the opened old books, counting the fingers of a child who is bending towards the broken sufferings from paper of the books at the water sprinklers. Multiplying two and two is three, said the child.

The ones who sleep in the city’s dream told me that two plus two is three that day.

The woman was in the dream of the city, an old friend would come from a far road, to listen to the Arguvan ballads, you were quieting the dough of hope into the night.

Going towards the lover, straightening the world’s hair with an old comb in their hands.

I am keeping myself away from every place where I hit myself to.

Let go of the comb, let’s make love against this world’s injustice…

Your voice was like pain that was pulled from my eyelash, reaching to me at the descent.

I bent my knees, pulled my kneecaps towards myself; what will I do I said, what will I do, someone got out from the house across, do you want water they said. I said no with my hands to the houses across.

Then I thought about another descent when I were at the descent which I had broken on, I thought about your breakage, my lack of remembrance, your leave.

I remembered the day you said get the keys from the flower shop, I remembered the snowy entrance of the apartment, I remembered that I won’t forget you with a bag of coal on my back.

How could I pass there again?

I said, how can I walk through there again.

Felt like a firecracker that exploded on the rails that is going through me. I don’t know how much I thought when my hands were between my palms, take a deep breath said the guy.

I looked at the face, couldn’t find anything similar.

They said “Don’t close the windows”, respecting the birds, giving this city to dreams.

You were wiping my dream with a silk napkin, it was fiery days…

I always believed the good and beauty which I never lived. I reached to an unfamiliar hand; Without thinking about fire, pain, betrayal…

I believed to the God that came from child, to the leaf that had fallen from the walnut tree, to the truth that is under the soil.

I held your hands, I thought to myself how little I held your hands, your hands and the water.

I didn’t leave behind anything you touched, anywhere you stood, any wall your photo was hanged I didn’t leave behind; your voice has hit, your face stopped, the wooden rectangle door where poem of yours was written which I removed and dragged it with myself to this land, it was like I wasn’t carrying what you own but I was carrying my own coffin.

I append your face again to the oldest place of memories, to the oldest broken place, leaving a space under the verse, maybe you would write me someday, that I love you…

Çeviri : Güney KUTLUTÜRK
Mazlum Çetinkaya
 Mazlum Çetinkaya
 Born in 1969 in Malatya, Yeşilyurt
 He studied at Burdur Education Collage and Selçuk University Education Department.
 He worked as an editor for Hâr Culture, Art and Literature Journal for 4 years.
 In 90’s, he wrote lampoonery at Turkish-Kurdish Newroz Newspaper for 2 years with the name of Serkan İnan. At the “Culture and Art in Mesopotamia” section in Günlük Newspaper he wrote not only book introductions and culture and art articles but also in many literature magazines his poems and articles were published.
 He has 5 poetry books: “Zevebân”, “Taşta Uyuyan Zaman”, “Hecesini Onaran Çocuk” “Repesa”, “Dağ Suskunluğu” also he has 6 story books for children.
 At the 23rd year of his job in 29 October 2016 when he was a class teacher in Istanbul Beykoz, he was removed from his job by in accordance with the law no. 675 (KHK). He is a member of Eğitim ve Bilim Emekçileri Sendikası (The Education and Science Laborer Union), International Federation of Journalists and Türkiye Yazarlar Sendikası (Turkey Authors Union).
 For some time, he wrote articles for Artı Gerçek Newspaper and for two years he is writing the ongoing life and news as a columnist in Swedish based “Son Haber CH” Newspaper. 

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