Poems of Mehmet Orhan (Turkiye)

THE REAL QUESTION
✍︎ Yol Eri • Poet-Writer-Beekeeper from Arguvan: Mehmet Orhan • Türkiye

Had humankind been created as small as an atomic particle,
Had we travelled not three hundred but three thousand kilometres a second,
Had we set out to explore the universe and reached the stars,
What kind of humanity would we have carried wherever we went?

Passing from one star to another,
Could we have left our earthly ways behind?
Or would we have said there, too, “My money, my possessions, my property,”
And tried to close our fist around the universe?

This is where being human begins.
Calling ourselves human does not mean we have matured into humanity.
How can we call someone a good human being
If they have neither justice nor conscience?

This is the struggle,
The struggle to become a good human being.
Here is birth, here is death,
We have lived a lifetime, but what have we changed within ourselves?

Even roaming the universe,
Human beings neither mend their ways nor find the right path.
My words are no more than the buzzing of a fly,
I speak, but who is listening?

This blue world
Has become a world of sorrow, wounds and troubles.
That is why hunger never ends,
Nor do conflict and war ever cease.

We have yet to comprehend how a rose was created,
The purpose of a dove,
The timing of a season,
The wisdom of a wind.

We have not understood the thunder in the clouds,
Nor the hand that shapes the world.
As guests among all these beings,
What do we own that we dare call “mine”?

And you, poor man,
You say, “Everything is free, anyway.”
In this world whose water you drink, in whose shade you rest,
You keep the cries of others far from you.

Even death means nothing to you.
Perhaps in the grave you will become a decent human being.
But if you returned, would you once again avert your eyes
And walk past that same hungry person?

If you will still refuse to abandon these ways,
If you will not turn away from your old habits,
After a death that has failed to change you,
What kind of person will you be when you return to the world?

What has roaming the universe taught you?
Where has all this travelling brought you?
If you have not found yourself in another person’s suffering,
How far have you come towards being human?

The real question is not how to reach the stars,
But how to reach the person beside you.
Knowing you will one day lie beneath the earth,
Can you make room for another living soul upon it?

This is where being human begins:
Where you share the bread you call “mine.”
What does it matter if you reach the end of the universe,
If you have never reached another heart?




THE HEART’S HARVEST
Mehmet Orhan

On the heart’s threshing floor, I scattered in the wind,
I entrusted my sorrow to the saz and its strings,
I sent a greeting to a distant soul,
Let us share a morsel and find peace.

My sweat fell so that life might flourish,
I entrusted the seed to the earth,
May stalks of grain rise from heart to heart,
Let us share our bread and find peace.

Let the heart’s scales weigh no worldly wealth,
Let each person be good to another,
Let flowers bloom in the garden of affection,
Let us find our way into a heart and find peace.

Let us weigh fairly on the scales of truth,
Let us always protect the orphan’s rights,
Let us be a balm for a broken heart,
Let us tend a wound and find peace.

May we never break a heart for worldly gain,
May we harbour neither spite nor hatred,
May we never pass by someone who has fallen,
Let us care for a lonely soul and find peace.

Let us offer a bowl of water to a thirsty soul,
Let a kind word be what we leave to others,
May a seed of love fall upon the world,
Let us sow good deeds and find peace.

Yol Eri says: the heart is our threshing floor,
A morsel kneaded with love is a remedy,
To lend someone a hand is a blessed deed,
Let us remain in someone’s heart and find peace.



LET US HOLD ONE ANOTHER’S HANDS
Mehmet Orhan

If you are smiling while I am weeping,
Then our happiness is incomplete.
If someone leaves our shared table hungry,
How can we sleep peacefully at night?

Come, let us hold one another’s hands.
When one of us falls, let another bend to help.
That is the moment brotherhood begins.
Let no one be left alone with their troubles.

As a window lights up beneath a starry sky,
Two friends share bread inside.
The darkness stays outside the door,
And one friend’s smile lights up the other’s face.

Let our smiles be matched by helping hands.
Let us place a plate of food before the hungry.
Let us patiently tend someone’s wounds
And live the compassion we speak of.

When a person smiles,
Even the dead in their slumber can hear.
The hungry are fed, wounds are tended,
Quarrels cease, and babies nurse in peace.

Let us remember our departed with kindness.
May the fruits of their labour live on.
Beneath the shade of the trees they once planted,
May many children laugh.




MY MOTHER'S PALMS
Mehmet Orhan

My mother's hands...
With the warmth of bread
they would touch our faces.
She was tired perhaps,
but she would not show it.

Those hands that;
on one side wrung the laundry,
on the other prayed for us.
She was silent, deep,
fruitful as the soil.

On winter nights
by the stove, with her cracked hands,
still she would not let us grow cold.
She herself would freeze,
and keep spring for us.

Night would come, everyone would sleep,
yet they would stay awake;
mending a tear,
whispering a prayer.

I had a mother;
who fed us with dried-yogurt wraps,
who dried things on the rooftop,
who baked bread on the three-legged griddle,
who milked, who churned yogurt,
who boiled bulgur...
And whether we were full or not,
she served the guest first.

My mother's veins are violet,
her heart a flower-patterned,
blood-red rose.
Like the frame where iron and steel
are welded together—
she neither tires, nor angers, nor sulks;
like a sticky bandage:
sometimes a physician, sometimes medicine,
sometimes, when we were cold,
pulling the quilt over us...

"Be cahil," I say, I shout,
yet she stays silent like a saint.
Climb on her shoulder if you wish, load her as much as you can—
my mother still says "my son, my dear, my daughter";
she never says "no," she says "are you hungry?",
she pours a bucket of water behind me,
and offers a thousand prayers.

You would fall silent,
but I understood;
your eyes would speak,
your heart would shout.
You would divide a morsel
and remain hungry yourself;
you wept at night
so that we might smile.

Your arms are like a rainbow,
the road you walk defies the mountains;
you are the touchstone of endurance,
the callus of labor.
Is your chest made of steel,
I do not know—
but let me first
be a sacrifice for you.

When a mother falls silent
the voice of homes diminishes;
the hearth grows cold,
the walls become orphaned.
Because our mothers
are the shadow of mercy on earth;
of God's hidden secrets,
the most beautiful form of compassion.

If a day comes when the door is not knocked,
when no smoke rises from the hearth,
when no one remains to call out "my mother"—
know that on that day,
the world's greatest fortune
has turned to a handful of earth.

My mother's palms
while stroking my head
all the pains of the world would fall silent.
As if God
sent mercy partly
through a mother's hand...

Though I remain far away now
those hands are still in my mind:
white as a handkerchief,
clean as a prayer,
unforgettable as a lifetime.



HAVE MERCY, I AM IN DISTRESS, COME TO ME, MY CRANE
Mehmet Orhan

A sacred flame was lit in the lamp of the Divine Throne,
Through the breath of the Divine, soul found fulfilment in soul,
Adam was created, and the universe awoke,
Have mercy, I am in distress, come to me, my crane.

Through the wisdom of the Speaking Qur’an,
Through the grace of the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful,
Through the blessed joy spreading across the boundless ocean,
Have mercy, I am in distress, come to me, my crane.

Through the hand of Hünkâr Hacı Bektaş Veli,
Through the rose balm of my spiritual guide, Abdal Musa,
Through all the Twelve Imams,
Have mercy, I am in distress, come to me, my crane.

He learned wisdom from Ahmet Yesevî,
From Khorasan he came to Anatolia,
Hünkâr appeared in the form of a dove,
Have mercy, I am in distress, come to me, my crane.

Following the path of Muhammad and Ali,
Reaching Salman in the city of Mada’in,
Seeing Husayn on the road to Karbala,
Have mercy, I am in distress, come to me, my crane.

I called upon Hızır when I was in distress,
A hand reached out and held me when I fell,
A sacred flame awoke as it reached the soul,
Have mercy, I am in distress, come to me, my crane.

In Mother Fatima’s rose-scented breath,
An orphan smiles upon her lap,
Compassion can be read in her eyes,
Have mercy, I am in distress, come to me, my crane.

Within one heart, I found a thousand worlds,
In another soul’s voice, I heard myself,
I was kneaded with love and became truly human,
Have mercy, I am in distress, come to me, my crane.

I held a mirror of knowledge to my inner self,
My own true self was the first thing I saw,
If I have broken a heart, shame upon my words,
Have mercy, I am in distress, come to me, my crane.

When the devotees began the semah, their souls awoke,
At the sound of a wing, hearts burned with love,
Within the crane’s breast, the sacred vow lay hidden,
Have mercy, I am in distress, come to me, my crane.

Before the sacred flame, I stood in reverence,
Within a gülbank prayer, I beheld a thousand hearts,
I gave my heart to wounded souls,
Have mercy, I am in distress, come to me, my crane.

Yunus Emre speaks in the language of love,
Pir Sultan’s voice lives in the strings of the saz,
Devotees turn in semah before their spiritual guide,
Have mercy, I am in distress, come to me, my crane.

Yol Eri calls: let us love the Divine,
Let us pledge our faith upon the path of the Forty,
Let us not hurt even the living soul of a rose,
Have mercy, I am in distress, come to me, my crane.

✍︎ Yol Eri • Poet-Writer-Beekeeper from Arguvan: Mehmet Orhan • Türkiye
24.10.2026

© 2026 Mehmet Orhan. All rights reserved.

Cultural note: In the Alevi-Bektashi tradition, the crane carries sacred associations with Ali. The “Speaking Qur’an” refers to Ali as the living voice of its wisdom. Semah is a sacred turning ritual; a gülbank is a communal prayer or invocation. The Forty are a sacred spiritual assembly, and the vow expresses a commitment to the spiritual path.





BAREFOOT LIFE
Mehmet Orhan

I began life barefoot,
my father added straw, I trod the mud.
As a child I learned the language of the soil,
I knew its sweat before bread reached the table.

Snow covered our door meter by meter,
a few logs in the tin stove, some embers in the brazier.
My mother saved three leather pouches of dried yogurt for winter,
the house was small, our hearts fit inside.

If no smoke rose from a neighbor's hearth,
our morsel would not pass our throat.
One bowl of soup was divided at our table,
we lived with little, we sufficed for one another.

Whether the one at the door was hungry or full,
my mother would ask first.
His name, where he was from,
we would learn after tea.

Dawn broke, work called us,
the wooden plow opened the bosom of the soil.
Hand-sickle, reaper, threshing board, pitchfork passed from hand to hand,
my father winnowed the harvest to the wind.

As a child I was barefoot, I thought we were poor,
but wealth was the bread we shared.
To divide one morsel between two souls,
was worth more than all the world's fortune.

Then the years drove me down other roads,
I carried bees, grew apricots, bore loads.
The many tomorrows I would set aside for myself
I delivered to someone else's today.

From my mother patience remained in my palms,
from my father honesty remained on my path.
Houses changed hands, the soil stayed in place,
the humanity they taught remained with me.

For fifty-one years I clung to the bee's wing,
while thinking I gathered honey from flowers
I left a season of my life in every hive,
I rested my honest sweat in every honeycomb.

I sowed hope in Karabayır's barren bosom,
I planted every sapling with my calloused hands.
I tended eight hundred and fifty saplings like children,
I shed my tears on the withered branches.

A well collapsed, swallowed our labor,
the second grumbled and closed behind us.
Had we stayed two seconds more beneath it,
today the soil, not we, would speak our word.

Again we returned, again we struck the same ground,
man sometimes does not find hope, he digs.
Stone appeared, soil collapsed, hands bled,
the more we believed, the more the darkness's bosom seeped water.

When water rose from the third well,
we thanked the Creator and drank handful by handful.
We gave water to the soil's cracked lips,
in every drop we returned to life again.

In the apricot branches my youth greened,
on the bee's wing my years wore thin.
I lifted a honeycomb and looked in Arguvan,
not honey, but my years were dripping from within.




LAUGHTER
Mehmet Orhan

Laughter
wants bread, wants food,
to sleep easy and greet the morning;
to see the sun
in the moonlight too—that is laughter.

To plant flowers
in dark days,
under dark clouds.

So you, mad man,
if your intent today is laughter;
no house rent,
no wood for burning,
no deed, no basket…

A laughing household of five,
pantries, sacks,
granaries must be full.
A thousand acres of land,
one combine harvester,
three tractors,
a four-wheel-drive car,
a fourteen-wheeled truck.
A Mercedes,
a Porsche too will do.

A carriage with two horses is needed,
animals in the barn,
sheep, lambs too.

Step aside, my lion,
let the farm gate open.
The big boss is here;
with a chauffeur at his command,
a groom,
a cook,
even a postman.

You forgot the steel safe, inside it
gold bars are hidden.

Wake up, wake up poor soul.

I did not laugh,
nor did you.

Laughter is a thing of the past.

Horse tracks mingled with wolf tracks.
The one who knows his business steals and plunders,
face black, hands black,
his gaze the devil's.

A thousand bundles,
a thousand heaps…
Evils multiplied one by one.

They ate, they drank, they laughed;
what remained for us...
nothing at all.

Now it's your turn:
rise to your feet,
write on the blackboard—
Laughter
is now entirely forbidden to you.




TEARS
Mehmet Orhan

To evil, to malice,
to friend and foe alike,
to the tyrant and to tyranny
to defy—that is tears.

To claim one's right.
To reveal good and evil;
to seek the friend of a friend,
the soul of a soul
in the darkness.

To see the lack, the loss, the tear.

To the dirty, the filthy, the dump
to draw a line
and stubbornly in the squares
to say "I am here."

Tears
are neither yours
nor mine.
Neither mad
nor vagabond.

To weep silently
in an invisible place.

The one who hears does not hear,
the one who sees does not see.

Like hungry wolves
attacking one another…

Stop.
Turn back.
Someone is weeping.
Hear the one who weeps.

A single drop of tears
surely has an owner.

Ask not me,
ask yourselves first.

Within that single drop
is taking refuge in the Creator,
seeking help,
extending a hand.

And again within that single drop
to the One who created you and me
a thousand accounts
are to be given.

The eyes that do not see
pain, separation, cruelty,
the blindness that says "what is it to me"
have their signature there.
The owner of a single drop of tears
is not man,
but surely the Almighty Creator.

Whether you are right,
or wrong.
Whether mad,
or wise.

Hungry or full,
whatever you are…

Before entering the grave
wipe the weeping eyes
and come so.




POETRY
Mehmet Orhan

Poetry…
is the truest word spoken without straining…
To cup the flower
and lay it on the earth's magnificent body…

To present dreams
to humanity like written documents…
To hold a light
to the darkness that imprisons thoughts…

To wage the struggle of honest sweat…
To remind the value of labor…
To wish for the freedom of birds,
the greening of forests,
the smiling of children day and night…

To wish that mothers do not lament…
To wish that people live as brothers…

Poetry;
is to shout in the squares
what cannot be said
in the cleanest, simplest tongue…

To make heard by those who cannot see the truth…
To tell the working of cruelties…

To remind humanity, friendship, conscience…
To bring to the surface
the thoughts knotted within us…

To be the tongue of those who cannot speak…

To pour the true spirit of creation
into the fragrant reed, into words…

To say "Smile…"
"Don't go hungry…"
"Don't weep…"
"Share…"
"Be united…"

Poetry stands closest to the Creator…
To produce…
To protect right, law, peace, justice…
To be a balm for wounds…

Sometimes to tell of a palace,
a caravanserai, a bathhouse…
Sometimes
to show the wise, the mad, the sly…

And sometimes…
to converse with the gods is poetry…

Most of the time
without wages,
to spend life from one's own life…

To make heard what is unheard,
to show what is unseen,
to throw the forgotten in man's face…

To silence poems
is like cutting off breath…

Turning a white face to the sky
to say the most beautiful words
in bright blue, in verdant green is poetry…

Poetry is a book…
Poetry is the richest tongue…
One does not fight with poetry…
One does not become an enemy of poetry…

Because within every human
there is a poem…
Come on…
You too step out
and read a poem…

The most beautiful words
a human can say
are perhaps
hidden within a poem…

And these…
are the last poem-scented sentence
remaining within me…



THE LANGUAGE OF PEACE
Mehmet Orhan

The dawn that whitens on this bright blue planet,
the greening earth—if they are for humanity,
then let go of quarrels, and harvest!
Sway freely like the ears of wheat.

Be a lamp in the sky, a brother at the table, flour at the mill;
be united, be one soul.
As every human raises and loves his child,
how can we forget conscience and mercy?
Have we forgotten a mother's milk?

Your fortunes filled up, piled one upon another,
so why is humanity still hungry?
Your greed reached as far as the ozone layer;
waters were not enough, trees were not enough, air was not enough.

Guard the right of a handful of soil,
know the worth of a single drop of water.
Let no child's dreams be buried in the earth;
let not the sun be a captive to clouds that carry cruelty.

Let not death knock on the doors of innocent homes,
but hope;
let only the scent of bread and love rise from the hearths.
Extend a hand to the fallen, lift them from the ground;
do not turn away from the stranger and the orphan.

Let borders fall, let olive saplings be planted,
let the earth be the common home of love.
Bring black and white together at the same table,
let bread and water be shared as brothers.

Let us breathe under the same sky,
sow hope in the same soil,
drink handfuls of water from the same spring,
share the bread at the same table.

Let no orphan's sigh touch a soul,
let no ill-gotten right mix into your morsel.
Let right rise like the sun,
let law flow clear as water;
let the prayers of the oppressed reach the highest heaven.

Wherever the cry of a child rises from,
from whichever country,
let it echo with the same pain
in the heart of all humanity.

We came from the dust of stars,
we will rest in the bosom of the earth.
In our brief lifetime,
we will sow love into eternity.

O humanity!
You forgot justice, you forgot the rose!
So what is left in your hands?
A dark world,
tanks, cannons, barbed wire...
And blood...
Alas, alas!

If God exists, peace exists too,
bread exists, hope exists.
The Creator and creation exist;
love exists, water, air, earth exist;
justice exists, decency, morality, peace of mind exist.

Let there be a rose in the hand, a song of brotherhood on the tongue;
let not our hearts be divided, nor our love diminished.
Let the earth be the common home of love,
let peace be the destiny written for humanity.

Yol Eri says: do not hurt a soul,
let your lot be on the side of goodness.
Wealth is fleeting, property does not remain behind;
goodness remains, written in every line.

You, good child of humanity,
you forgot the rose,
the rose!


©® 2026, Mehmet Orhan. All rights reserved.