ORDU: Golibices (Cormorants), Violets, Bay-Windowed Houses…

At that time, the wooden house where I was born had a view of the sea, and this house remaining from the Turkish Greeks was in cobble stoned Sıtkı Can Street… By the sea there were not many multi-story concrete buildings. All day long we used to play ball in the sand stretching from Taşbaşı Church to the exquisite kiosk right in front of the old Governor mansion. I was one of the kids who broke the windows by their long kicks of the houses which appear in the foreground of the pictures of Ordu with Boztepe view taken in 1960’s. Even one of those who pilfered plums from the gardens of those houses… Today those houses do not exist, neither does that fine kiosk! Though the old governor mansion is still standing, the aroma does not come anymore from the magnolia tree of its garden. The green jeeps that used to climb up to Boztepe from Sıtkı Can Street have become already scrap. Incidentally, I have to mention here that the man who gave his name to our street, an educator, researcher and writer, Sıtkı Can (1904-1958) did publish Yeşilordu Magazine as a publication of Ordu Halkevi (People’s House).

The memory of the cities can only be maintained by their architectural texture. In the 1960’s the architectural characteristics of Ordu used to be made of wooden houses. Most of those houses used to remain from the years of the population exchange. Zaferi Milli Mahallesi (Neighborhood) used to be called Ermeni Mahallesi (Armenian Neighborhood). With the very few Armenian friends of ours we used to play matches in the backyards of İsmet Paşa and Cumhuriyet primary schools, and perhaps due to the softness of the wood, there were no quarrels among us. Moreover, Greeks who migrated during the population exchange years used to come from Greece to their land of birth, and the Ordu folks used to visit their friends in Greece too.

One of my childhood streets was Menekşe Sokak (Violet Street). The Taşbaşı Church used to be a half-open prison. While walking towards Tabyabaşı, I watched from above the prisoners playing volleyball in the backyard of the Church used to give us a different sensation mixed with dolefulness. Tabyabaşı was a promenade known by the local folks as ‘lovers’ road’ right before the seashore road was opened. This is just Tabyabaşı as in the line of the folk song ‘Three girls at Tabyabaşı are side by side / One of them made eyes at me…’ Then the rock group founded by the youth of the Tabyabaşı used to enchant the guests of the wedding ceremonies at Gülistan Hotel and the People’s Education Center. To listen to the 45 records at the teahouses by the sea used to be a different passion. It was not only us to lend an ear to those songs but also golibices (cormorants) unpredictable ones where they would come up in the water were included in the audience. İddia (Betting), Loto and other digital lottery games did not exist then. Nevertheless to place a bet on where golibices (cormorants) would surface didn’t harm anybody.

Ordu Municipal Black Sea Theatre, which opened its curtains in 1965 with a play called Hülleci (A Man Taking in Part of a Deceitful Marriage) used to be the main artery of the cultural life of the city as it’s today. With its full house full movies, Millet (People) Cinema, Yıldız Bahçe (Star Garden) and İnci Bahçe (Pearl Garden) were two other summer cinemas. Criers carrying wooden panels with posters attached on them used to pass the streets by shouting out ‘Colored-Turkish Cinemascope two Movies at once.’  Who else used to go by: knife-grinders, junk-dealers, watchmen, dyers, paper kids, gypsy women… Yes, gypsy women creaking like bellows lacking oil: Tinsmith is heeereee! There was an older man selling candied rusters. He used to walk with a glass covered box on his arm where he fitted his rooster shaped candies. Football was as always one of indispensable indulgence. We used to anxiously wait for the weekly Fotospor magazine. The sportsmanship consciousness of Orduspor fans alongside with its female supporters had been forged even at that time.

When you take a look from Boztepe in the years of the 1960’s, one could not see anything but Taşbaşı, Zaferi Milli, Düz Mahalle, Saray, Azizye and Selimiye neighborhoods. The Ordu High School from which I graduated was very far away from the beach and soybean factory. In front of the mayor’s Office, there were two wooden piers approx. 300 meters apart from each other. Fishing boats used to dock at these piers. To salt anchovies in olive oil cans used to be indispensable part of our culinary culture. In those years passenger ships such as Aksu, Tarı or Cumhuriyet (Republic) used to get to Ordu. Ships used to wait offshore, and the passengers used to be transported from these piers by boats. I never forget the day when we waited for my aunt coming from Istanbul with great distress since the boats were not able to sail in a very stormy sea. Had she been alive today, this woman of Republic could have set a very good example for today’s young girls in terms of her dressing, ideas and mannerism.

Squares, parks, green areas make up a city’s lungs for life. Unfortunately Ordu is a city without a square. The area before the Provincial Palace used to be called as People’s Plain just like a square. People’s Plain according to the sources was a square constructed by Ataturk’s order in 1924 after its sand and wet clay was cleared by a tram line. This square used to be integrated with the historical, stone buildings in Saray (Palace) neighborhood. Some of stone buildings are still standing. Yet the ones not used as official buildings should be given some functionality. People’s Plain in time turned into a vegetable market. Loin clothed village women used to carry their produce, fruits and vegetables in their baskets called ‘Şelek’ made out of hazelnut branches to sell here. Yogurt was put not in plastic boxes but in copper buckets. It was possible to find ‘high plateau beet’ in the market. In summers it was high time to get to the high plateau called Çambaşı where ‘our firewood would not burn.’ This high plateau once decorated with shingle roofed houses has become a victim to concrete as the other Black Sea high plateaus experience.

Promenade by the sea used to be used during hazelnut season as a harvest place. The hazelnuts collected from the orchards close to the city center used to be spread out here for drying. Its shell used to be burnt in stoves, its embers taken from stoves used to be put on braziers. In every household there were one or several copper braziers. On a tripod mount placed in the brazier coffee and even dishes were cooked. The most popular place of the houses was the kitchen. The coverings laid on the couches by the windows used to reflect the elaborateness of the life style of that time. In that life style there was no room for turbans or veils. In fact, women at that time used to do whatever is required from them in terms of their belief. Perhaps the capital was not as globalized as today! Hazelnut tradesmen of the national capital did not employ religion as exploitation means.

The architectural texture of Ordu has started deteriorating in the 1970’s. Bay-windowed, wooden houses at the foot of Boztepe were not able anymore to see the sea because of the multi-story buildings erected by the shoreline. From then on I did not have the chance to watch the sunrise out of our house with its hinged windows and brass-knocker. The resentment experienced by me and other kids of whose homes stayed behind those stone masses lies in the political powers of those years. Back  during those years there was no such concept like urban transformation. If it were, these ugly formations would have been for sure regarded as a requirement of the urban transformation! To get rid of a place of  historical value or a street is equal to deleting the memory of the cities. In the residents of a city with its memory wiped out, the sense of living in a city would not develop. I say sense of living in a city; not solidarity among the fellow country-people. For some reason caring about your countryman reminds one of self-interested relationships.

Nevertheless with the restoration works done in recent years, books and projects written and cultural activities, the efforts made to regain this beautiful city’s memory should be acknowledged to recognize the Ordu folks who nicely absorbed the sense of living in a city.   

Dostoyevsky once said ‘Being a native of a city means you have a place to go.” Thanks to God I have had places to go throughout my life: Ankara, Ağlasun, Gölhisar, Çarşamba, Gümüşhane and Sinop… The days are becoming heavier; I wonder if only I could lift up my wings like a golibice (cormorant), like a hawk and fly from one sea to the other, from Sinop to Ordu?

            What if the stone stairs of that lonely house I haven’t seen for long would have mossed!

İlyas Tunç

Translated from Turkish by Mesut Şenol

The Cities Deserving Their Past To Be Wiped Out,

Cumhuriyet Books Prepared by Işık Kansu

accident

accident

it was rainy
lamps vomiting their lights
over the roads we passed frantically
and life
sliding so delicately
under our steps

dearest, forgive me
had i thought that your arms you locked around my waist
to be a seatbelt,
had i passed the red light,
had i passed on the left side!

before our bodies go scrap
we asked God for some time
to step a bit more on the gas
to exceed the speed limit
of this love

it was rainy
lamps vomiting their lights
over the roads we passed frantically
yet, wipers were not working …

dearest! the same serum sufficing for us
let us have the same blood in our veins
let us take a look at the same side mirror
to see what we left behind
speed shrinks the place
in any case…

dearest! we are each other’s murderer
our identity shall be figured out
by the lip prints stuck on the windshield

still this regret will not do for us
because it keeps raining
and life
sliding so delicately
under the steps

İlyas Tunç
November 2010, İnceburun

Çeviren: Mesut Şenol
Papirüs Poetry Collection
May-June 2011, Issue: 4

zulu love letter

zulu love letter

out of a baobab tree
into the calabash bowl
two lightning bugs fell …

mbali, loves sprout in darkness
begging for moisture and warmth
let us have our lights turned off,
let us cry in unison
let us smooch

parting; that of killer frog
looks waiting, lurking!

maybe a preoccupied hand in the morning
by dipping the calabash in the water
shall drown us by mistake
us;
two small lighting bugs

if only i would have loved you like a hippopotamus

you mbali your lips how thick,
as you kiss as deep as black
i turn pale out of fear

one day
should an elephant run over an African violet
or should an African violet
put a love letter written with beads
on the neck of a white elephant
that is to say, if the killer frog gets out of its ambush
then just weave this love letter in two colors

black:
i miss you so much
i became pitch black like the beams of my hut

blue:
i would have flown to your land had i been a dove
and i would have been fed by the crumbs you would have left right at your door

ngiyakuthanda, mbali
ngiyakuthanda

İlyas Tunç
November 2010, Sinop

Translated from Turkish by Mesut Şenol

Van sand het ons gepraat

Van sand het ons gepraat

oor sand het ons gesels …

ons het die weerstand van skulpe verpletter, ons het gepraat oor versonke stede, gwebroek amfora’s, ondergrondse bewegings van sand; ons het gepraat oor die verval in vergetelheid van erbarmlikhede, oor blootse voetspore … ons het nie vergeet van die wandelhoofde van hout, dooie stormwind-lampe, geroeste ankers nie… ons het die ligvlekke op die maan wat in die see weerspieël word ook bygehaal, ons het oor Venus gepraat, die glorieryke liefde van die nag, en ander dinge …

want die wyn had ’n goedheid, die liefde van tydeloosheid, en die dolfyn ’n wysheid … ons het dit gesê, noudat die speeltros losgebind is, ons die stuurroede van ons dae hersien het …. het ons gesê … laat ons praat …

so praat hét ons …

ons het nie na stervisse verwys nie, na helderglinsterend gestreepte vis of die ligsinnigheid van wiere, die diepe slaap van jellievisse op die sand … ons het die spoelklippies oor die hoof gesien, die teervlekke, die reuk van gebrande olie … ’n verbaasde inkvis was in ons nette vasgekeer; maar ons het net gepraat …

oor delikate dinge …

oor sand …

İlyas Tunç

translated into Afrikaans by Charl-Pierre Naudé

Selling Nigerian poets in Turkish market

Selling Nigerian poets in Turkish market

By AKEEM LASISI

Tuesday, 25 Jan 2011, The Punc Newspaper- Nigeria 

Apart from translating works of Nigerian poets into Turkish, Ilas Tunc is exposing them via various platforms in the European country, writes AKEEM LASISIOften, it takes a person watching from a distance to better appreciate how delicious boiled esuru yam and fresh palm oil is. As he watches the person eating it soak his hand in the oil and stylishly dip the drenched yam in his mouth, the observer feels the sweetness far more vividly than the lucky one doing the eating.

The Yoruba proverb seems to capture the experience that Turkish writer and translator, Ilyas Tunc, has had with modern written poetry in Nigeria. Apart from his interest in exploring works from other countries, and noting how African poets are responding to the socio-political challenges confronting the continent, an encounter he had with poet and critic, Odia Ofeimun, at Poetry Africa festival, held in Durban, South Africa in 2009 boosted his desire to closely study works of Nigerian poets.

About five years in the wilderness, Tunc now boasts a dependable picture of how the minds of old and new generation poets such as Gabriel Okara, Christopher Okigbo, Niyi Osundare, Ezenwa Ohaeto and Ogaga Ifowodo worked when producing some of the volumes that largely define the market. He professes he has learnt a lot about the written word from the country that gave Africa its first Nobel laureate. But, incidentally, his most memorable verses appear to have come from a writer who is predominantly a novelist – Chinua Achebe.

“Chinua Achebe’s Vultures is one of the poems I admire most in Nigerian poetry,” Tunc says in an online interview with our correspondent. “Here, the poet draws an unpleasant description of a pair of vultures who touch each other lovingly in their nest after feeding on a corpse. Not only does this poem show that love can exist in places someone wouldn’t have thought possible, but also that a concentration camp commander, in contrast with his cruelty, can share his affection with his family at home. Actually, there are many poems that lead me to the immense beauty of Nigerian poetry. They include Adumaradan by Niyi Osundare; Cold Earth by Odia Ofeimun; The Minstrel with a Postcolonial Goatskin Bag by Ezenwa Ohaeto; Iva Valley by Ifi Amadiume; Sequence (Of desire) by Jumoke Verissimo and Homeland by Ogaga Ifowodo.”In the last two years, he has translated works of 40 Nigerian poets. He hopes to publish the translation in an anthology once he captures about 10 more. He has published some of the translated items in Turkish magazines.

Tunc notes, “I started my translation work with the leading poets such as Christopher Okigbo, Gabriel Okara, Achebe, Wole Soyinka, Ben Okri, Ofeimun, Niyi Osundare, J.P Clark, Tanure Ojaide and Harry Garuba. These poets made a good impression on Turkish readers. Surely, I say that a large group of readers who look forward to reading the poems by Nigerian poets has appeared in Turkey.

“There are many poets who I’m working on nowadays. Some of them are Femi Fatoba, Femi Osofisan, Ogaga Ifowodo, Maik Nwosu, Unoma Azuah, Remi Raji, Sola Osofisan and Promise Okekwe. Being a modernist poet, that is to say, writing in western style, is a prerequisite for being included in my work. Secondly, being born after 1921 is another criterion. Being a published poet, getting an incredible poetry prize, and positive comments on their poetry in literary magazines are my other parameters. I also make much of the impression of the oral tradition on modern Nigerian poetry. As for the selection of the poems to be translated, it is my own preference or liking among the ones which I read.”

Reluctantly attempting a comparison between Nigerian and Turkish poetry, he explains that nature is the most preferred theme in African poetry. There is a vast number of poems thematically concerned with rivers, valleys, mountains etc. Religious ceremonies and rituals are also recurrent. Some African poets perform their poems in a theatrical way on the scene, which is called performance poetry. But reading poems in public in Turkey isn’t as common as in Africa.

In this point, we can say that Turkish poetry is more individual than African poetry. Also, Turkish poets of today use words in ‘emotional associations,’ and write more abstractly than the poets in Africa.

And it is this observation that he premises his suggestion for thematic diversification on the part of Nigerian poets.

“I’m not a critic, so I may go wrong,” he says. “From my perspective, Nigerian poetry of today is narrative, but needs being more inventive and individual. Thematically, the poet inside mostly prefers the love of country and nature, while the poet abroad writes the political and social ills of today. In fact, everything can be material for poetry. But the poet should write about loneliness, famine, friendship, sex, poverty, loyalty, madness, drunkenness, freedom and jealousy too.”

Tunc began writing in the 1970s, with his first poems published in a literary magazine called Yeni Defne in 1977. But then followed a long silence that he eventually broke in 1992 when he published his first collection of poems, Kis Bir Alkis Mydi (The Last Applause in Winter). The poet who has earned several awards that include the Ali Riza Ertan Poetry Award and Ceyhun Atuf Kansu Poetry Award is now widely published. Some of his poems have been translated into English, French and Afrikaans language.

Tunc’s other published collections include Kül ve Kopus (Ash and Ending), Fetus Günlügü (Diary of a Foetus), Sesler Incelikler (We Spoke of Sand) and Karnaval (Carnival), which was published last year.

And what usually inspires Tunc? “The poet must stretch all the feelers towards the nature and the society,” he explains. “He or she must be aware of the happenings all around, and look for the sources of inspiration for his poetry. If you’re not a good observer, you can’t be a good poet.

Realising something you never know before can lead you to write a new poem. I don’t believe that inspiration is a heavenly power. Everything occurs in our brain. Actually, you can write the poem of the thing you focus on. What stirs you mentally, socially, and economically will certainly inspire you.

Writing poems is releasing the poet of the state which disturbs him or her. In a sense, it is a kind of catharsis. So, the poet should often listen to his inner voice. If inevitably spoken of an inspiration, life is the most indispensable material for my creative activity of writing.”

His intimate engagement of Nigerian poetry, he believes, is likely to positively affect his writings in in future, because, according to him, a good poem should be a source of inspiration for writing another one.

kumdan konuştuk

         kumdan konuştuk…

kırdık deniz kabuklarının sır vermezliğini; batık kentlerden, kırık amforalardan, derinlerdeki kıpırtılardan konuştuk… kumdan; dağılıp giden inceliklerden, çıplak ayak izlerinden… unutmadık ahşap iskeleleri, ölgün fenerleri, paslı demirleri… unutmadık suya düşen ay tanelerini, zühre yıldızını, gecenin görkemli sevgisini, daha başka şeyleri de…

çünkü şarabın iyiliği vardı, aşkların eskimezliği, yunusların bilgeliği… dedik, madem ki çözüldü çıma, mademki yitirdik yekesini günlerin, konuşalım…

         konuştuk…          

derisi dikenlilere, lapinalara, ahtapotlara değinmedik hiç… es geçtik yengecin yanlışlığını, yosunun sorumsuzluğunu, kıyıya vuran dalgınlığını medüzün, es geçtik çakıl taşlarını, katran lekelerini, yanık mazot kokularını… şaşkın bir mürekkep balığı takılmıştı ağımıza; biz yalnızca konuşuyorduk…

         ince şeylerden…

         kumdan…

İlyas Tunç

‘Sesler İncelikler’ adlı kitabından

we spoke of sand

 

          we spoke of sand…

 

we broke the resistance of shells. we spoke of sunken cities, 

broken amphoras, past loves… of sand. we spoke of kindnesses 

fallen into oblivion, barefoot prints... we didn’t forget wooden 

piers, dead hurricane lamps, rusted anchors… we included flecks 

of moonlight reflecting on the sea. we spoke of Venus, of the 

glorious love of the night, and other things…

 

for the wine had a goodness, the love was ageless, the dolphin 

embodied wisdom… now that the hawser had beed untied, now that 

we had redirected the rudder of our days, we said let’s talk…

         so we talked …

 

we didn’t refer to brilliantly striped fish, or octopi, or 

starfish… we overlooked the faults of crabs, the flightiness of 

algae, the deep sleep of jellyfish on the sand… we passed over 

pebbles, tar stains, the smell of burnt oil… a surprised squid 

was caught in our net, but we were 

only speaking…

 

         of delicate things,

         of sand…
 
İlyas Tunç
Translated from Turkish by the poet and Robert Berold
 
Mouse Poetry Magazine,July 2009, issue:5
(Zhejiang University, China)
    
	
			
			
			
			

kış güneşi

 

güneşi bekliyoruz, dedi

çatıdan sarkan buz sarkıtının

içinden kırılgan bir ses

 

insan da su gibi

yoğun kalabalıktan akar

döner aslına

ama, bir farkla

buz güneşi bekler

insan gölgeyi…

 

yine de korkutuyor beni

ısınmak için birbirine sokulmuş

bu saydam damlalar

tepemdeki hançerler…

 

uzun sürecekmiş kış

sığınacak saçak altı kalmadı

dağıldı az önceki kalabalık

yaşar mıyım biraz daha

içimdeki zenginliği

kanatları gölge veren

bir iyilik meleği

bulur muyum

 

kış güneşi! kış güneşi!

doldur pilini kalbimin

 

İlyas Tunç

Eylül 2010, Sinop

 

Akatalpa Şiir ve Eleştiri Dergisi

Kasım 2010, sayı: 131