SELECTED POEMS
MUSTAFA KÖZ TRANSLATED FROM TURKISH BY NEIL P. DOHERTY

ART BY FAINA YUNUSOVA


THE ART OF POETRY (I)


Behind the door is a wind drenched in blood
no one can tell how, or from where it came
in its mouth nothing but a few laurel leaves
culled from the last wish of that dead mariner,
—Or maybe not. What does it matter?—

Other than a heap of dry words
other than this bloodstained wind
what is a poem if it fails to make a flower bloom
in the dreams of the dead
and what use then is this gaudy August morning?

Like a broken and rusted key in a lock, eerie and forsaken.



IN PRAISE OF TYRANNY


For so long now the tyrants’ commands have not woken us from our sweet sleep
for so long now our thresholds have not been choked by hemlock and mistletoe
for so long now no centipede or maggot has stirred within our walls
for so long now no blood-drenched tirades have flown up our chimneys
for so long now our sons have not mended the tears in their military garb
for so long now our daughters have woven no mourning bands from spring flowers
for so long now brides have torn no collar in grief for the fallen brave
for so long no crow has stolen pigeon eggs from our balconies
for so long now the simple drover has led his flock down without losing a single beast
for so long now wreaths of daisies, not greased chains, have adorned our necks
for so long now merchants have cut no rock into grain, no wheat into hay
for so long now the pantry rat and house cat have lain side by side in the great granary
for so long now the freshness of our grapes has weathered every storm
for so long now the city gods have not jeered or cast aside our prophecies
for so long now lawmakers have not shorn a thousand fleeces from one sheep
for so long now the august moon has blazed like a banquet plate laden with summer fruit
for so long now steel has been tempered not in blood or mire, but in the sweat of the brow                                                                                    

We too must be to blame for everything ticking like clockwork
or should we raise new, shining-new tyrants up to the heavens?



IN THE MORNINGS AS THE SUN…


“I am not dying from any illness, but from a lack of justice
Maybe I will find my husband and be buried by his side”

Kiraz Şahin 

My mountain thyme where have they taken you,
to the foot of those olive trees the April moonlight
burnished like a sword and then abandoned?

The summer sky listening to the fru-fruing of the larks
in the mornings as the sun set up its throne in our veins,
you told us what immortality truly is,
how time’s desolation scatters like a bunch of basil
that bread and fire are kneaded from the same dough. 

You taught us, too, that there is no after you
just as we never imagined a before you
your pulse pounding eternity like a hammer

Where have they taken you, wounded wind of my shelter
what stones, what earth now fill the small chalice of your ribs?

This poem, taken from the poet’s latest collection, Uyandım, Dünya Diye Bir Yerdeyim (I Woke Up in a Place Called the World), is dedicated to the Cumartesi Anneleri, Saturday Mothers who have been gathering in various squares in Istanbul on Saturdays to protest the forced disappearance of children and other relatives since the 1980 military coup. The speaker here is Kiraz Şahin, whose husband, İsmail Şahin, was disappeared on 18 January 1996. To this day, no answers have been provided as to where he was taken and by whom.

About the Work by Neil P. Doherty

A craftsman with a singular dedication to the art of poetry, a voice that has consistently sung the concerns of the neglected and downtrodden, and a multifaceted artist shaped both by his own tradition—poets such as Nazım Hikmet and Hasan Hüseyin—and by international voices such as Ritsos, Brecht, and Neruda, Mustafa Köz might well be compared to a quiet underground river that flows, often unseen, through modern Turkish poetry. His stylistic range is vast and varied, moving from delicate lyrics that evoke the landscape of the Aegean and its islands to more strident verse marking the turmoil of Turkey’s political crises. His concerns, however, are never parochial, as he has extended his gaze to Arabic-speaking West Asia, Latin America, the North of Ireland, and East Europe. One of the poems presented here, “The Art of Poetry (I),” might well be seen as a manifesto for his work and beliefs. Poetry is no mere game, no collection of pretty words cleverly assembled yet signifying nothing. If it cannot, as he says, “make a flower bloom / in the dreams of the dead,” then possibly it might be better left unwritten.

Indeed, the other poems here clearly illustrate this belief. “In the Mornings as the Sun,” taken from his collection Uyandım, Dünya Diye Bir Yerdeyim (I Woke Up in a Place Called the World), is dedicated to the Cumartesi Anneleri / The Saturday Mothers, the mothers and spouses of those disappeared by the state since the 1980 military coup. The poem highlights the dignity and grief of those who have constantly searched for a single trace of their beloved, only to be greeted with silence and contempt. While “In Praise of Tyranny” reflects the turmoil of modern Turkish life, it also speaks in a universal voice, naming the darkness into which the world has sunk over the past decade.

The Irish poet Michael Hartnett once wrote, “poets with progress / make no peace or pact: the act of poetry / is a rebel act.” Throughout his writing life Mustafa Köz has embodied that conviction, ensuring that his voice has never ceased to challenge those forces which seek to silence and repress.

* *

 

MUSTAFA KÖZ was born in Niğde in central Turkey in 1959. He studied business administration, journalism, and law, and worked as a journalist. His articles and essays have been published in magazines and prominent newspapers. He has served on the boards of numerous literary magazines and festivals. He has been politically active throughout his writing career and since 2014 has served as the vice-president of the Turkish Writer’s Union. He has published eighteen collections of poetry as well as children’s poetry, textbooks, aphorisms, and critical essays.

NEIL P. DOHERTY, originally from Kildare, Ireland, resident in Istanbul since 1995, is a translator of Turkish prose and poetry. His translations have appeared in Modern Poetry in Translation, Poetry Wales, The Dreaming Machine, The Honest Ulsterman, The Seattle Star and The Berlin Quarterly. Together with Gökçenur Ç. he has translated Bearing Witness to the Age. Selected Poems of Behçet Necatigil, published by Antonym, India in November 2025. His anthology of Turkish poets has also just been published under the title Fog Bells: 8 Contemporary Turkish Poets by Dedalus Poetry, Dublin.

Source Text by Mustafa Köz

 

ŞİİR SANATI (I)


Kapının ardında kan içinde bir rüzgâr,
nasıl ve nereden geldiğini kimsenin bilmediği
ağzında yalnızca bir iki defne yaprağı
şu ölü denizcinin son isteğinden koparılmış,
—Belki de değil. Ne önemi var!—

Şiir nedir ki çiçek açtıramazsa
düşlerine ölülerin
bir yığın kuru sözden
ve o kanlı rüzgârdan başka
ve neye yarar bu gösterişli ağustos sabah?

Kilitte kırılmış paslı bir anahtar gibi, yabansı, kimsesiz.


ZORBALIĞA ÖVGÜ


Nicedir uyandırmıyor tiranların buyrukları bizi tatlı uykularımızdan
nicedir baldıranlar, ökse otları bürümüyor eşiklerimizi
nicedir köşe bucakta sesi soluğu çıkmaz oldu çıyanlarım, kakalakların
nicedir boca edilmiyor bacalarımızdan kanlı söylevler
nicedir savaş giysilerinin söküklerini dikmiyor oğullarımız
nicedir matem tacı örmüyor kızlarımız mevsim çiçeklerinden
nicedir yaka bağır yırtmıyor gelinlerimiz yiğitler için
nicedir balkonlarımızdan güvercin yumurtalarını aşırmıyor kargalar
nicedir saf sığırtmaç, yitirmeden indiriyor sürüsünü köy meydanına
nicedir yağlı zincirler yerine papatya çelenkleri süslüyor boyunlarımızı
nicedir zahirelere taş, buğday selelerine saman karıştırmıyor tacirler
nicedir kilerin sıçanıyla evin kedisi büyük ambarda koyun koyuna
nicedir üzümlerimizin serinliği, daha güçlü fırtınalardan
nicedir kehanetlerimize gülüp geçmiyor tanrıları şehrin
nicedir bir koyundan bin post soymuyor yasa koyucular
nicedir yaz yemişleriyle dolu bir şölen tabağı gibi ağustos mehtabı
nicedir çeliğe verilen su, kandan bataktan değil de çekiliyor alın terinden

Her şeyin tıkır tıkır işlemesinde bizim de suçumuz olmalı,
yeni, yepyeni zorbalar mı çıkarmalıyız yoksa su göklere?


SABAHLARI GÜNEŞ 


“Ben hastalıktan değil, adaletsizlikten ölüyorum
  Belki eşimi bulup da yanına gömülürüm”

Kiraz Şahin


Nereye götürdüler dağ kekiğim seni,
nisan mehtabının bir kılıç gibi
parlatıp bıraktığı zeytinlerin dibine mi?

Yaz göğü dinlerken tarla kuşlarının fru frusunu
sabahları güneş, kurmuşken damarlarımıza tahtını
ölümsüzlüğün ne olduğunu söyledin bize
zamanın bir top fesleğen gibi dağılan ıssızlığını
aynı hamurda yoğrulduğunu ekmeğin ve ateşin.

Öğrettin senden sonra diye bir şet olmadığını
nasıl düşünmediysek senden önceyi
nabzın bir çekiç gibi döverken sonsuzluğu.

Neye götürdüler kuytumun yaralı rüzgârı seni
hangi taşla, hangi toprakla doldu kaburganın küçük kadehi?