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Poems for ATATÜRK

OF TURKS AND ATATÜRK

Every tenth of  November, about nine in the morning,
All Turkey, with one hearth an done mind,
Is thinking: the sirens, respects for the dead,
And the silence,
Could ıt be there ıs an error,
He is still so much with us.
Every tenth of  November, about nine in the morning,
In sorrow, together, allhead are bowed low;
They lift up together with new strength and vigor,
Since his spirit is truely,
The essence of Turkey,
Could Atatürk die? Could he cease to be?
He came from the Mete and Oğuz Kağan armies,
From the epics inscribed on the old stones at Orkhon.
He was one of the glorious, galloping horsemen,
Who rescued us always in times of dire troubl;
Every enemy found him,
Always confronting them.
Till the sky, blue above us, falls down all around us, sinks under our feet;
The essence of  Turkey ,
Will remain,

Atatürk

                                  BEHÇET NECATİGİL

LET’S WEEP FOR ATATÜRK

Let’s weep together for Atatürk’s dying,
The whole wide world today is crying,
As our Solomon in state is lying,
Even Death, who came, is weeping.
From North, South, east, and west today,
Oh, God, look down on us, we pray,
Our Atatürk has passed away,
Workers and legislators are weeping.
Even Alexander the Great of fame,
Never did accomplish the same,
Every land creis  Atatürk’s name,
The league of Nations is weeping.
All the deeds of Atatürk,
Will be known from now on as his work,
Around the world as his handiwork,
Our land is sighing and weeping.
He created factories from the earth,
And proved his name: Father of Turks,
He willed his goods to his lands of birth,
Fate’s turning Wheel is weeping.
The planes in the air and trains in the land,
All Turks today will wear a black band,
From Bokhara to far Samarkand,
They have heard the news anda re weeping.
Oh, what power he had, and oh, what might,
What gift he had of inner sight,
From Turks has gone their greatest light,
Great tears of blood they’re weeping.
Long live you young Turk’s generation,
Strivers are never a backward nation,
With generals and soldiers in regulations,
The Army of Turkey is weeping.
Don’t think that mourners never smile again,
Or that the lion’s empty bed will so remain,
But be sure that the dead won’t come again,
All those who came here now are weeping.
Ah, Veysel, you must end your song, 
No one can bear it very long,
Let’s work to keep our nation strong,
Even our enemies are weeping.

                                            AŞIK VEYSEL ŞATIROĞLU 

ON LISTENING TO ATATÜRK

When he speaks, in our hearths he lights up the sun;
His speeches will alter the pathh of our history.
His eyes are afire with ideals of destiny,
From his mouth, all over voices cry out as one.
His voice flows like blood through the veins of our nations:
It beats like a pulse, throbbing and warm.
It embraces the land like aloving arm,
And  assures us a future with great expection.
This echoing voice will rebound in the distance,
Beyond its own time, like a high-flying arrow.
Those born on this soil mileniums from tomorrow,
Will hear, and be moved to the depths of their existence.

                                                       YAŞAR NABİ NAYIR

THE TENTH OF NOVEMBER

Nineteen thirty-eight, november tenth, a Thursday,
In autumn never to fade from memory,
Shocking Istanbul’s seven hills of the city,
A cruel wind from Dolmabahçe came sweeping.
Unreal, no more than a dream to gainsay,
That five minutes past nine Atatürk passed away,
Never such multitudes mourning as today,
With all creatures alive we are weeping,
He, most of all, had served this nation,
With a love that had power to move a mountain,
Borne now on the shoulders of the population,
Our father, on Ankara’s slopes forever sleeping.

                                           CAHİT SITKI TARANCI

ONE GRAT DESİRE

From the Epic of Independence
 From the hills, pale kights fade in the august night,
The sky opens up like a dark blue fan.

 His generals behind him, Ghazi steps from his tents,
Tapping his riding crop on his knee,
Tilting his head upward where,
The stars have fallen in love with the flag.

 With exciment, he asks of General İsmet:
‘Are the soldiers all ready?’
‘All ready, my General,’ comes the reply.

 Like a mirror he knows us, each from within;
In his eyes are the signs  of the  dawns of tomorrow.
Bayonets gleam as he looks at the darkness;
He passes the lines with ‘Greetings, my soldier!’
‘Long live, long live!’ comes the response.

 His golden hair now is bared to the night,
Forgetting everything, everything
Save one desire:
To swoop towards the ridge of the Afyon Mountains
Like eagles, majestically,
Then, cascading like flame,
To sweep along and flow out, into the Mediterran
                                           ARİF HİKMET PAR