Famine
Jackal..howled with a long breath into the air
and wove into the night its voice like a tolling knell
wavering from the mountains onto the plains
it is a few days away entering june
fading yellow rubbed its back against the ears of the wheats
dropping them from their long..lean stems
the water once flowing in abundance with high noise
which ground the wheat into flour went somewhere and
diminished from the water ways
the milk of the mountain fig lost
the dog grass did not grow hid themselves in their roots
the white meat of the shah cock weighing many kilos
exhausted and melted itself own
till down
for the first time
a faded ear of wheat in the middle of the plain
saw far awaythe rainless approaching white cloud
at the pinkish dawn
and wholly dried up in vain
jackal...held its breath and walked away to hell
and wove into the night its voice like a tolling knell
wavering from the mountains into the plains
and the smell of the burnt wheat in the hairy biack rag-sack
spread everywhere
Nedrat GURCAN translation metin sahin
poem by Metin Sahin
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Related quotes
Oh!
OH! let the lighting clouds come instantly
from the snowy summit of the Mount Stake
and let the scythe
come into the blonde hair of the wheat scything
and i have put the sedge
on the rainless back of the field
from the cloud
we sowed the field together with my mother
my sister pruned the grass in needy
and suckled there her newly born baby
OH! the endlees winter of 72
OH! come and warm everwhere and us a little bit
let my melancholic love spring up from my bed
I have three ears of wheat
at the large thrashing field of my village
let the rain and the days sunny
spread everywhere their beauty
I do not want too much
let unbind the infertility of the sky
guard and save our winter provisions
for this
I have descended from the mountain
to the blonde hair of the wheat for cropping
poem by Metin Sahin
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THE GLOOMY NEWS (After rhe big earthquake in 1930s)
there is a bird in Erzincan province
no silver no silver on her wings
my beloved gone..never came back again
no hope of her returning from now on
oh high mountains..high mountains..oh..high mountains
taking its bloody head in its hands
in the middle of the white wild snow
the province ERZİ NCAN weeps in tears
if it did not weep who would have weeped like that
the snow falls in abundance, in flakes to the ground
some say it is a brizzard which comes and passes
but ı cannot say that too
the dead
lying..shoulder to shoulder..side by side
cannot talk and chat
cannot burn their fires at night
the dawn brightens, the sun rises...the horizon enlightens
but noone to get water goes
with their heads pressed heavily down..the dead
slept in their unawakable sleeps..may be dream
from its white stone addressing to the night
the military barracks's clock struck the time as two
how quick..how instant ended the living and the life
some in their six months
some with white beards
some in thirteen..may be fourteen
some intended to go for merry voyage
some waiting for a letter in hope
the dead...lying side by side..shoulder to shoulder
in the churn there was butter
but could not be beaten and never
and the white cheeses ready could not be put into bags
the dead gone in longing and in thirst
they were not satisfied and never got satisfaction of the world
they could not wake up and escape
not being a bird could not fly away
the wells opened for them to save
but nobody could afford to descend
the horses of erzincan walk in ampling on
but the dead could not be able to ride on
the dead..lying side by side..shoulder to shoulder on ground
P.S.I had nothing to give in my purse
but ı wrote a poem from my heart not to get it worse
Nazı m Hİ KMET
Translation metin Ş AHIN
poem by Metin Sahin
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Because You Are Not There
I've seen the mountains
rise in the sky.
I've seen the plains
with wheat growing high
and none of it meant
anything to me
because you were not there.
I've held a daisy
up to the sun.
I've counted its petals
one by one
to see if you were really
true to me?
because you were not there.
How long you've been gone
and where did you go?
No one can tell me
for they don't know.
I keep on waiting for your return.
The tears in my eyes still do burn.
I've heard the music
that meant so much.
I've waited so long
to feel your touch.
But none of it meant
anything to me
because you were not there.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Because You Were Not There
I've seen the mountains
rise in the sky.
I've seen the plains
with wheat growing high.
And none of it meant
anything to me
because you were not there.
I've held a daisy
up to the sun.
I've counted its petals one by one
to see if you were
true to me?
because you were not there.
How long you've been gone
and where you did go?
No one can tell me
for they don't know.
I keep on waiting for your return.
The tears in my eyes, oh how they burn.
I've heard the music
that meant so much.
I've waited so long
just to feel your touch.
But none of it meant
anything to me
because you were not there.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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My Soul
A WIND OUTSIDE....darkness all around
on the windows searching aND tochsng a hand
a voice is calling me
fears are filling inside
a thin rain is drizzling all around
falling also on my note-book on my table
my eyes look nowhere but there
stop this rain oozing into my soul..stop it now
the wind outside is my own breath
the darkness is my own soul
stop this this rain...my etes stop it now
calling myself steadily for a long time
it cannot hear it..my voice..screaming has gone off
EKREM TASKINSEL
translation...Metin SAHIN
poem by Metin Sahin
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Good Neighbour
OH..the good neighbour, we could not find you very easily
we long for in a long year your serene comforting balcony
we stood wineless in the middle of the burning hot plain
all over wearied and our lips dry, cracked and drain
we began our journey towards you when the gypcies were migrating
we stopped on the places flowing brooks and picked up roses in the morning
we drew our cart to slopes with two horses
now we have come to you difficultly on the ungreased axles
there is the most fleshy sheep from our herd
the most fresh and live yogurt from the newly tinned bucket
we prepared the most delicious cheese in the furry-bag for you
we all have come full..it is our turn, the year to offer to you
oh the good neighbour, at last we have found and reached you
let us celebrate this and dance the black sea folk dance horon immediately
before you sweep up and all clean your september balcony
Nedret GURCAN... Translation metin sahin
poem by Metin Sahin
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Night Coming Out Of A Garden
Through the still air of night
Suddenly comes, alone and shrill,
Like the far-off voice of the distant light,
The single piping trill
Of a bird that has caught the scent of the dawn,
And knows that the night is over ;
(She has poured her dews on the velvet lawn
And drenched the long grass and the clover),
And now with her naked white feet
She is silently passing away,
Out of the garden and into the street,
Over the long yellow fields of the wheat,
Till she melts in the arms of the day.
And from the great gates of the East,
With a clang and a brazen blare,
Forth from the rosy wine and the feast
Comes the god with the flame-flaked hair ;
The hoofs of his horses ring
On the golden stones, and the wheels
Of his chariot burn and sing,
And the earth beneath him reels;
And forth with a rush and a rout
His myriad angels run,
And the world is awake with a shout,
' He is coming ! The sun ! The sun ! '
poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
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Song of the Wheat
We have sung the song of the droving days,
Of the march of the travelling sheep;
By silent stages and lonely ways
Thin, white battalions creep.
But the man who now by the land would thrive
Must his spurs to a plough-share beat.
Is there ever a man in the world alive
To sing the song of the Wheat!
It's west by south of the Great Divide
The grim grey plains run out,
Where the old flock-masters lived and died
In a ceaseless fight with drought.
Weary with waiting and hope deferred
They were ready to own defeat,
Till at last they heard the master-word—
And the master-word was Wheat.
Yarran and Myall and Box and Pine—
’Twas axe and fire for all;
They scarce could tarry to blaze the line
Or wait for the trees to fall,
Ere the team was yoked, and the gates flung wide,
And the dust of the horses’ feet
Rose up like a pillar of smoke to guide
The wonderful march of Wheat.
Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold,
The soil is turned on the plain;
Better than silver and better than gold
Is the surface-mine of the grain;
Better than cattle and better than sheep
In the fight with drought and heat;
For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep,
Lies hid in a grain of Wheat.
When the stock is swept by the hand of fate,
Deep down in his bed of clay
The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait
For the resurrection day:
Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead;
But the Spring-rain, soft and sweet,
Will over the steaming paddocks spread
The first green flush of the Wheat.
Green and amber and gold it grows
When the sun sinks late in the West;
And the breeze sweeps over the rippling rows
Where the quail and the skylark nest.
Mountain or river or shining star,
There’s never a sight can beat—
Away to the sky-line stretching far—
A sea of the ripening Wheat.
When the burning harvest sun sinks low,
And the shadows stretch on the plain,
The roaring strippers come and go
Like ships on a sea of grain;
Till the lurching, groaning waggons bear
Their tale of the load complete.
Of the world’s great work he has done his share
Who has gathered a crop of wheat.
Princes and Potentates and Czars,
They travel in regal state,
But old King Wheat has a thousand cars
For his trip to the water-gate;
And his thousand steamships breast the tide
And plough thro’ the wind and sleet
To the lands where the teeming millions bide
That say: “Thank God for Wheat!”
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Mountain Of The Moon
Cold mountain water, the jade merchant's daughter,
Mountains of the moon, electra bow and bend to me.
Hi ho the carrion crow fol de rol de riddle
Hi ho the carrion crow bow and bend to me.
Hey, Tom Banjo hey a laurel, more than laurel you say sow.
More than laurel you may sow.
Hey, the laurel, hey the city in the rain,
Hey, hey, hey the wild wheat waving in the wind.
Twenty degrees of solitude, twenty degrees in all,
All the dancing kings and wives assembled in the hall.
Lost is the long and loneliest town fairly sybil flying.
All along the, all along the mountains of the moon.
Hey, Tom Banjo it's time to matter,
The earth will see you on through this time,
The earth will see you on through this time.
Down by the water, the Marsh King's daughter, did you know?
Clothed in totters always will be. Tom, where did you go?
Mountains of the moon, Electra, mountains of the moon,
All along the, all along the mountains of the moon.
Hi ho the carrion crow fol de rol de riddle
Hi ho the carrion crow bow and bend to me.
Bend to me. Na da da da da da da da da da da da
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thoughts In A Wheat-Field
IN his wide fields walks the Master,
In his fair fields, ripe for harvest,
Where the evening sun shines slant-wise
On the rich ears heavy bending;
Saith the Master: 'It is time.'
Though no leaf shows brown decadence,
And September's nightly frost-bite
Only reddens the horizon,
'It is full time,' saith the Master,
The wise Master, 'It is time.'
Lo, he looks. That look compelling
Brings his laborers to the harvest;
Quick they gather, as in autumn
Passage-birds in cloudy eddies
Drop upon the seaside fields;
White wings have they, and white raiment,
White feet shod with swift obedience,
Each lays down his golden palm branch,
And uprears his sickle shining,
'Speak, O Master,--is it time?'
O'er the field the servants hasten,
Where the full-stored ears droop downwards,
Humble with their weight of harvest:
Where the empty ears wave upward,
And the gay tares flaunt in rows:
But the sickles, the sharp sickles,
Flash new dawn at their appearing,
Songs are heard in earth and heaven,
For the reapers are the angels,
And it is the harvest time.
O Great Master, are thy footsteps
Even now upon the mountains?
Are thou walking in thy wheat-field?
Are the snowy-wingèd reapers
Gathering in the silent air?
Are thy signs abroad, the glowing
Of the distant sky, blood-reddened,--
And the near fields trodden, blighted,
Choked by gaudy tares triumphant,--
Sure, it must be harvest time?
Who shall know the Master's coming?
Whether it be at dawn or sunset,
When night dews weigh down the wheat-ears,
Or while noon rides high in heaven,
Sleeping lies the yellow field?
Only, may thy voice, Good Master,
Peal above the reapers' chorus,
And dull sound of sheaves slow falling,--
'Gather all into My garner,
For it is My harvest time.'
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Mountains Of The Moon
Cold mountain water, the jade merchants daughter,
Mountains of the moon, electra bow and bend to me.
Hi ho the carrion crow fol de rol de riddle
Hi ho the carrion crow bow and bend to me.
Hey, tom banjo hey a laurel, more than laurel you say sow.
More than laurel you may sow.
Hey, the laurel, hey the city in the rain,
Hey, hey, hey the wild wheat waving in the wind.
Twenty degrees of solitude, twenty degrees in all,
All the dancing kings and wives assembled in the hall.
Lost is the long and loneliest town fairly sybil flying.
All along the, all along the mountains of the moon.
Hey, tom banjo its time to matter,
The earth will see you on through this time,
The earth will see you on through this time.
Down by the water, the marsh kings daughter, did you know?
Clothed in totters always will be. tom, where did you go?
Mountains of the moon, electra, mountains of the moon,
All along the, all along the mountains of the moon.
Hi ho the carrion crow fol de rol de riddle
Hi ho the carrion crow bow and bend to me.
Bend to me. na da da da da da da da da da da da.
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To The Poet Ahmet Arif
poetry..was waving hand lighly and hesitantly
like a dying and farewellişng cesarıus to us
ı thought would not return from where had gone
even a day with blackısh face
, they were your poems abundantly
the accasia tree whose flowers blossomed secretly
look at tyhe buds sproutıng at night frequently
how the exploded in the morning suddenly
they were your warmest dreams for years
you have born in your teeth like aches
by your longings you have worn out the fetters fastened on your feet
nedret gürcan
translatıon metin sahin
poem by Metin Sahin
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The Wheat And Tares
Though in the outward church below
The wheat and tares together grow;
Jesus ere long will weed the crop,
And pluck the tares, in anger, up.
Will it relieve their horrors there,
To recollect their stations here?
How much they heard, how much they knew,
How long amongst the wheat they grew!
O! this will aggravate their case!
They perished under means of grace;
To them the word of life and faith,
Became an instrument of death.
We seem alike when thus we meet,
Strangers might think we all are wheat;
But to the Lord's all-searching eyes,
Each heart appears without disguise.
The tares are spared for various ends,
Some, for the sake of praying friends;
Others, the Lord, against their will,
Employs his counsels to fulfill.
But though they grow so tall and strong,
His plan will not require them long;
In harvest, when he saves his own,
The tares shall into hell be thrown.
poem by John Newton
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Psalm 147
v.7-9,13-18
C. M.
The seasons of the year.
With songs and honors sounding loud,
Address the Lord on high;
Over the heav'ns he spreads his cloud,
And waters veil the sky.
He sends his showers of blessing down
To cheer the plains below;
He makes the grass the mountains crown,
And corn in valleys grow.
He gives the grazing ox his meat,
He hears the raven's cry;
But man, who tastes his finest wheat,
Should raise his honors high.
His steady counsels change the face
Of the declining year;
He bids the sun cut short his race,
And wintry days appear.
His hoary frost, his fleecy snow,
Descend and clothe the ground;
The liquid streams forbear to flow,
In icy fetters bound.
When from the dreadful stores on high
He pours the rattling hail,
The wretch that dares this God defy
Shall find his courage fail.
He sends his word, and melts the snow,
The fields no longer mourn;
He calls the warmer gales to blow,
And bids the spring return.
The changing wind, the flying cloud,
Obey his mighty word:
With songs and honors sounding loud,
Praise ye the sovereign Lord.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Waiting On The Wheat Harvest
as you sow brothers sisters so you wheat harvest reap
as a grain of wheat dies germinates bears fruit to heap
Jesus will completely clean up threshing floor gather his wheat
chaff he will burn up with unquenchable fire hell suffering heat
an enemy came in over sowed weeds in among seed wheat
reapers harvest collect weeds burn them saving only wheat
Satan demands sifts men as wheat to blow away in sifting wind
Son of man will send angels to gather chosen ones from ill wind
a grain of wheat falls into the ground dies then bears fruit new life
so hate soul temptation in this world safeguard soul for eternal life
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Sing Me A Song
Sing me a song -
What shall I sing? -
Three merry sisters
Dancing in a ring,
Light and fleet upon their feet
As birds upon the wing.
Tell me a tale -
What shall I tell?
Two mournful sisters,
And a tolling knell,
Tolling ding and tolling dong,
Ding dong bell.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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O, water, voice of my heart...
O water, voice of my heart, crying in the sand,
All night long crying with a mournful cry,
As I lie and listen, and cannot understand
The voice of my heart in my side or the voice of the sea,
O water, crying for rest, is it I, is it I?
All night long the water is crying to me.
Unresting water, there shall never be rest
Till the last moon droop and the last tide fail,
And the fire of the end begin to burn in the west;
And the heart shall be weary and wonder and cry like the sea,
All life long crying without avail,
As the water all night long is crying to me.
poem by Arthur Symons
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Dying
ı would like to die before you die
do you think that
the one who comes after
will find the one who has gone before
I do not think so
it is better you burn my body
and put the remnant ashes in an urn
placed on a shelf on the fire-place
the urn must be made up of transparent white glass
so that you can see me in it
you see
how self-sacrificing I am
I do not want to be terracotta
I do not want to be a flower
but want to be ash
to live together with you
and after sometime
when you die too
you will come into the urn also
and we will then live there together
with your ashes mixed in my ashes
till the day
when one of our clumsy brides
or an unloyal grandson without care
throw the urn out from there
but we
till then
we will be mixed with each other completely
our molecules will fall beside each other
side by side
in the wasteland to which we will be thrown
we will then dive into the soil together
and one day out
when a wild flower will sprout
from this little piece of soil
in her stem
there will bloom certainly two flowers
ı am certain
I know
one is you
and the other is me
but I..
I do not think of dying yet
my blood is still boılıng and flowing
I will give birth to off-springs yet
life is occupying inside me and overflowing
I will live with you together
more and more
I am not afraid of death also
but I not like the way of our held funeral ceremony
may be it will be changed
till the day we die
ıs there a chance of yours
to be freed and released from the prisons nowadays
some voice from inside me says
''PERHAPS''
1947
Piraye Nazım HİKMET
translation Metin ŞAHİN
poem by Metin Sahin
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Long Time Gone
Well I been gone a long time
The time has passed us by
And I know it won't be long 'till I get home
I see your smilin' face, well I just can't erase
All those good ol' happy days when we were 'lone.
Well I'm comin' through the mountains
On my way back home
I see that snow fallin' on that good old mountain ground
And I know it won't be long, I'm in your lovin' arms
We'll live together and things 'll be better for you
a' you and me, a' can't cha see?
Woman, I been a long time gone
To be a thousand miles from home
I know I've done you wrong
And I know it won't be long,
I'm in your lovin' arms
Woman, been a long, I been a long time gone.
When I hit that mountain road
I got five miles left to go.
I smell that good old mountain air and old and pine trees
And as she stood alone with a pretty white dress on,
I felt that good old mountain air blowin' up a breeze.
Woman, I been a long time gone
To be a thousand miles from home
I know I've done you wrong
And I know it won't be long,
I'm in your lovin' arms
Woman, been a long, I been a long time gone.
song performed by by 38 Special
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Water
Let others make the songs of love
For our young struggling nation;
But I will sing while e’er I live
The Songs of Irrigation;
For while the white man shall beget
The white man’s son and daughter,
The two most precious things for us
Shall still be wheat and water.
We’ve been drought-ruined in the West—
And ever in my dreaming
I see wide miles of waving crops
And sheets of water gleaming,
On plains where fortune died of thirst
When my brave father sought her,
I see the painted barges pass
Along the winding water.
And now the glorious scheme’s afoot,
Our country to deliver
From drought and death on blazing waste,
By long neglected river.
You’ll see the boodlers of the world
Rush in from every quarter:
They want the land,—the gold-reefed sand,
And now they’ll want the water.
Bright intellects will plan the dykes—
With little gold to gild them—
Bright intellects will plan the dykes,
The people pay to build them;
And when we’ve made our long canals,
And lakes in every quarter,
Then ours would be the “guarantee”—
The Trust would own the water.
They’d hold the bores and aqueducts,
The water-ways and barges,
And we would live, or we would starve
According to their charges;
From all the Edens in the West
They’d bar our sons and daughters—
They’d hold the land, ten leagues or so,
Each side the rippling waters.
But those who fight to hold their own,
The Lord and time delivers;
As we have held our railway lines,
So we shall hold our rivers.
We’ll find the money, as was found
The money spent in slaughter,
To build our dykes and build our dams,
And we shall own the water.
poem by Henry Lawson
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