Poems of Mehmet Orhan (Türkiye)

THE FINAL BEND
Mehmet Orhan (Türkiye)

Even if the nightingale sings,
We do not hear.
Even if a letter is missing,
We do not see.
Even if trade increases,
We do not know.
We neither buy nor sell.
There is no profit left for us.

Let them call it strange.
Let them call it old and sick.
There is no one coming.
There is no one going.
Let them say its light has gone out.
Let them say its hearth has gone out.
We neither eat nor drink.
There is no strength left in us.

There is neither cow nor ox in the barn.
There is no wheat in the storehouse.
There is no flour in the storehouse.
There was an old woman there.
But she died last year.
We neither laugh nor cry.
There is no remedy left for us.

There is no one sowing crops.
There is no one yoking the oxen to the plough.
There used to be someone who came just to sit and talk.
Even he is gone.
We are neither dead nor alive.
There is no sense left in us.

Back then, we would lie down.
We would rise with the morning light.
We would carry our burdens on our backs alone.
We would cross mountains and valleys barefoot.
We neither grew tired nor gave up.
There is no lifetime left for us.

Our ears cannot hear.
Our eyes cannot see.
The hearth does not burn.
The chimney does not smoke.
A memory is gone.
A greeting is gone.
In this world,
There is nothing left for us.

Tell me your name, my dear.
Are you a poet?
Aren’t you our Mehmet, the Beekeeper?
Your back is bent.
Your hair has turned white.
There is hardly anything left by which we can recognize you.
We neither gained nor gave.
We have not even a penny left.

If you are going to die,
Then die already.
Give us a hive of bees.
Property is a lie.
Burdens are a lie.
What did we do?
What did we gain?
Not even our friendship remains.

Let this be my final call to you.
If it is humanity you seek,
I am still here.
Whether you want peace or conflict,
I am ready for either.
We neither sowed nor reaped.
There is no life left in our veins.

Look.
Look carefully.
This year, even our fountain has dried up.
Mulberries, apricots, apples...
God is my witness.
Not a single one remains.
We were neither lords nor pashas.
Our name has been erased.
Not even a trace of us remains in history.


✍︎ Mehmet Orhan,
Beekeeper & Poet-Writer from Arguvan





CRACKLE NO MORE
Mehmet Orhan

“Mother is the first sound of the universe.”
Crackle no more.
No crack.
No bang.
No crack-bang.
Not again...
This is one...
Mother... mother...

She is the mother who raises a soldier for the homeland.
She grows wheat for the threshing floor.
She works with calloused hands and sheds her sweat.
She turns grain into flour at the mill.

Motherhood is the beginning of the universe.
It is the kindling of fire.
It is earth meeting water.
It is water meeting air.

Crackle no more.
Neither dialectics, nor metaphysics...
They are of no use, my lion, beside the word “Mother.”

Have you ever bent down and looked at the place where life begins?
Have you ever seen the chromosomes of an unborn child?
Has your soul ever passed through a dark room?
If it has, then you know.
First fear is born there.
Then love...
Perhaps you even drank its wine.
But your duty is not over.

You have not yet fully seen your mother’s sun.

Your washed and ironed clothes wait in the wardrobe.
The milk you suckled at her breast is still like royal jelly.
Now it is time for a spoonful of honey.
It is time for a spoonful of patience.

All right, young man, all right...
But wait, man!
This is the vineyard and garden of Judgment Day.
Roses are planted in its gardens.

Whether you have dark eyebrows, whether you have blond hair, perhaps you are wheat-complexioned, perhaps you have black skin...
There is a saz in your hand, sometimes a shepherd’s flute.
There are plenty of folk songs and songs.

Stretch your gaze all the way to the beginning of the universe.
Where did you come from?
Where are you going?
Look carefully.

That is the first step of your identity.
Who are you?
Whose are you?
Whose child are you?
Whose little lamb are you?

You are an exquisite rose of this vast universe.

Do not forget the milk you drank at your mother’s breast.
The embrace you once held is warm.
Come, the food is ready.
Look, your teeth are like pearls.

If you have learned a single word, a single letter...
Do not forget what you owe your mother.

Do not lose yourself.
Do not go mad.
Read your book well.
Do not foul the place where you eat and drink.

By God, if you growl at your mother, I will growl at you too.

First think of where you came from.
Think of the day you first saw the world.
Think of the first sounds you heard...
Even the flowing fountains say, “Mother... mother...”

The stars, flickering again and again, speak her name.

How beautifully the Creator made you.
As Ahi Evran dreamed, you were made a living soul who thinks, speaks, walks, and smiles.

You cannot be bought.
You cannot be sold.
You are priceless.

The reckoning is clear.
First repay your debt to your mother.
The rest is destiny...

Run now.
But first ask your mother’s permission, then come.
You have roots.
You have shoots.
Spread your branches like a tree.
Become a flower.
Bear fruit.

Come on...
Give your mother a hug.

This is the final stage of creation.
Mother was alive.
She gave you life from her own life.
She gave you blood from her own blood.

You studied.
You became a philosopher, my baby...
I became a beekeeper in the mountains.
Poor, but honorable.

Did you hear that?
Looooğ... loooooğ...
Yama Mountains!
Honey for you, honey...
And know this:

One hive of my honey belongs to all mothers carried within the heart.
OUR MOTHERS...
OUR MOTHERS...


✍︎  Mehmet Orhan,
Beekeeper & Poet-Writer from Arguvan