The Marketplace Still

Attaches Your Ass To Money

One does not sell broken pottery, look for profitable business. Your wife Zâra a hump on her back beats the wool Let your hungry children and your animals that wait for fodder not cause you to brood; the marketplace is always there attaching your ass to money. You sell your merchandise, you make money, you won't go to Niöde...

by Uzeyir Lokman CAYCI Traduit par by Yakup YURT en français French free verse translated into English free verse by Joneve McCormick  - 2002

You remain without hope in the marketplace. Your customers hearing your voice say "Halil is still here..." Sell your apples snatched from their branches hope they are all eaten; the marketplace is still there attaching your ass to money. You sell your merchandise, you make money, you won't go to Niöde... Let indifference not change you, the shenanigans and acrobatics of all sorts - let all that from one direction not tire your mind. The marketplace is always there attaching your ass to money. You sell your merchandise, you make money, you won't go to Nigde...

THE CITY WHICH IS INSIDE YOU

You live in your own inner city, which you bought in a
silent auction.
You were again unable to cancel your debts.
Under your blackening eyelids you try to feel certain
things.
Without noticing your withdrawal from self, you leave for
distant parts
by using your ropes of thought like a ski-lift.
Your shudders increase as you touch the numberless elements.
In your screams at the moment when you feel the jolts
from the echoes
of your words crossing the threshold of your thought,
you send birds fleeing before you. As you breathe, your
roses wither.
In your moments of madness, crystals fall from your roof.
As your field of thought shrinks, your city expands. You
exhaust yourself
from running down the streets and avenues.
As the lamps of your voltage machines alight upon your
nights,
your humans robotize themselves.
The toads in your dirty waters frighten even the crocodiles.
Your inner journey makes you grow older.
Your internal cries amplify themselves.
You manifest difficulties with forty paws.
The auxiliary cells of your laboratories do not give you
the opportunity to live any pleasurable moments.
While the fear indicator inside you slackens you through
and through, you
have not
even the possibility of speaking. With each movement of
the clock,
the seasons rip themselves out of your heart.
Your solitude traverses your spirit without cease.

 

by Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI

Mantes la Ville  - 22.09.2002
Traduit par by Yakup YURT en français
French free verse translated into English free verse
by F.J. Bergmann - 16.02.2003