Painter
Translated with the author’s approval by Irmak Ertaş
Painter, I am not a good daydreamer
I make up sensational dialogues
The barber and my father…
But I can never imagine him without a moustache
I sing praises someone’s lover
I can’t seem to spread the gunny over the roof
There is always something left missing
I imagine such a village
That lushes pasta grows on it’s lands
My auntie playing leapfrog at picnics
imam giving a mousaka recipe in the bowels of farming animals
Politicians are crowding the pulpit apparently
Burglars turn to a shade of blue
The village chief worships green
The butler wanders around with whisky at hand
Buddha is as much a shepherd as those by the mimbar
I can’t keep them in check.
Painter, I am not a good daydreamer
The shadows of things I overestimated
Always turn out barren
Anyways I paint unweathered clouds
From time to time
A windy, rainy, burgundy forest
The meerkat becomes the king
And the grasshopper a grand vizier
Only I laugh at this
And my sister.
I am not a good daydreamer
I’m telling you painter
There is only a pinch of hope left
And hungover words
Even though there is warmth in sharing
Simit* is cold says the beauty
Alas the lonely man
Mistakes the noise of construction
With a doorbell
It seems I’m not a good daydreamer
Hey painter
Flakes of her fall in the midst of spring
And cinnamon smells of her
In whirls
Super Mario is jealous
of my belt made of a rainbow
Ceaser evades his taxes from Jesus
I had to place Jesus somewhere
Even though I spoiled the rhythm
Pawns and poets alike
Snitch eventually
Alas good painter
I am not, no mate
A time machine under my head
Blankets of memories
I’m in a dream so sweet
Whoever wakes me shall be cursed
And be it a nightmare or not
I don’t know who cares
Many lives of those awake
Is seamless from slumber
You turned out a bit of a knucklehead
Painter with a delicate soul
Haven’ they told you
I can’t have serious dreams
Reason kills said the beauty once
He died when he fell
Off a balcony
The smoker
Even if they say smoking kills
I hardly think so
If I haven’t died when I fell in your dream
I don’t think I ever will.
Plus why should I die beauty?
Why, inordinate painter?
What’s the rush of the seller of dried nuts and fruits
Scattering confetti everywhere
Before greeting the children
The broom knows dancing too
I didn’t even finish my poem
Wherever are you off to painter?
Before I could taste phosphorous
Lay on the streets in delight, much as I want
Or play cards with my father.
*also known as Turkish bagel, is breakfast staple in Country