(August 2002) Page 2
(August 2002) Page 2
 "Ver de Pomme" by Üzeyir - click for full image + 1 more ÜZEYIR LOKMAN ÇAYCI Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI was born in 1949 in Bor, Turkey. He is an interior architect and industrial designer. He has been writing novels and poetry since the age of 14. Many of these have been pubished in various magazines and newspapers, including the National newspaper, "Anatolians". His works have found popular acclaim in the press, in reviews and anthologies. Yakup YURT, a noteworthy translator-interpreter and author in his own right, hails from Brussels, Belgium. He has devoted his life to the pursuit of the arts and has translated these lovely poems into French. His translations have in turn aroused the attention of the French press, as well as of noteworthy associations. In addition, these same translations have ensured that Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI has been able to pursue his studies in France, what with Yakup Yurt’s support. The Turkish poet married Neziha in 1995. He has since held several posts, but has been working for the Association for the Continuing Professional Education of Adults, or in French, l'AFPA (l’Association pour la Formation Professionnelle des Adultes). Biography ranslated from French into English by Richard Vallance, © February 1st, 2002
NOTE from the Editor:
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VER DE POMME © Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI, le 26.05.2000 Translated from Turkish to French by Yakup Yurt (followed by English translation by Richard Vallance) A l’intérieur de la pomme Le ver grignote la blancheur Pour atteindre Le noyau de la vie...
Pendant qu’il sursaute
Au magma de la bassesse
Il tisse une toile avec son masque
Son essence se putréfie
The worm’s in the apple Nibbling away at its juicy white To discover its way To Life’s core.
As it wiggles around
In the magma of its own low-life
It weaves its mask, a spinning web,
Its essence is putrefied
1) 06.06.2001 http://www.arrior.com/harmonia/hut/cu.htm (+ several others)
Ami, tu n’es pas coupable Les coupables sont les soirs Qui te traînent dans cette obscurité... Ne te chagrine pas Les souffrances des jours perdus Passent vite. Tes yeux ont appris à aimer De toute façon Apprendre aussi à oublier Toutes les souffrances...
Oublie ces yeux qui t’ont conduit
Friend, you’re not the guilty one The guilty ones are the evenings See how they drag you down into this obscurity... Trouble not yourself Everyday’s "Love’s Labour Lost" Vanishes away Your eyes have learned The meaning of love anyway Learn how not to remember Every point of suffering.
Remember not those eyes, those eyes
So what’s the use of fussing
You’re alone in an unknown beyond
1) 30.11.1976 KELEBEK GAZETESI (Turkey) (+ several others)
Frère balayeur, Ne balais pas les espoirs Tombés dans les rues… Tu sais, Les larmes ne salissent pas Les avenues...
La plupart du temps
Les poubelles
Frère balayeur,
Frère balayeur,
Brother, garbage sweeper, Don’t sweep anyone’s hopes away They’ve tossed into the streets... Tears, you know, Cannot smudge Our Avenues...
Folks on the whole
Brother, garbage sweeper,
Brother, garbage sweeper,
1) 00.06.2000 FLORILEGE 99 (FRANCE) 5) 00.02.2001 L’ACONIQUE (Belgium)
Chaque fois que je lève ma tête Vers le ciel ... Les oiseaux en vol me viennent à l’esprit...
Les fêtes
Chaque fois que je lève ma tête
Je cherche
Every time I lift my eyes Towards the sky... The birds come in their flight to mind... Festivities Weddings cross my mind... My hands seem To be reaching out For roses Or even the honey of bees...
Every time I lift my eyes
I keep a lookout for the past
1) 00.06.2000 LES AMIS DE THALIE No. 20 (France)
This poem posed a few interesting challenges for me. [1] First of all, it is inappropriate to translate, « Chaque fois que je lève ma tête » ("Each time I lift my head") into anything remotely like that in English. Such a phrase makes one think of horses or something of the sort, and is entirely out of place in the context of this prayerful poem. In addition, the poet uses the possessive with « tête ». This is not standard French. Normally, we would have, « la tête ». The fact that he uses the possessive infers that he means more than just his physical head. He is, in fact, referring to his eyes, which see, and his mind, which interprets whatever his eyes see. And surely enough, the poem goes on to illustrate just what his eyes do see, and his mind and spirit interpret. What is far more befitting, I believe, is a phrase like the one I have used, for it mirrors the psalmist’s own words in the Old Testament, when in Psalm 123 he exclaims:
To Thee, O Lord, I lift mine eyes, See the full text of Psalm 123 and listen to its accompanying music at:
To Thee, O Lord, I Life Mine Eyes [2] Secondly, translating the word, « tournesol » as simply, "sunflower" flirts with missing the point of the final stanza. In French, the word for "sunflower" means, literally, "(a flower) which turns itself towards the sun"! ( « tourne-sol » ). It is of Provençal origin, arising from the Medieval « langue d’oc » of Southern France ( « le midi » ). This word alone lends this poem au aura of brilliancy going far beyond the mere physical realms of light to which we as human beings are accustomed in the daily routine of our lives. That this is so, that Üzeyir means this to be, is transparent enough, at least to this translator-poet, insofar as almost all of his poetry reflects on the events of our "normal", everyday lives in his own unique and extradordinarily fresh perspective. I believe my English translation has managed to preserve this unique vision. For this reason, I've chosen to translate « tournesol » into "sunflower’s eye" ... as it is evident a sunflower’s eye does look at the sun. This translation re-enforces the imagery of the first verse of the poem, lending an aura of consistency to the English translation, which befits the sense and « sensibilité » of the original French.
Richard Vallance,
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 JIM SCILEPPI At some point, I came to the realization that the world is a perfect place; "hell" lies in the variation between my perception of how the world could be, should be, would be, and how it actually is... . I wondered how I might tap into that epiphany's creative benefits. At some later point, it dawned on me that the little voice in the back of my head; the one that seemed always to be criticizing, invalidating and picking apart anything I created, was also preventing me from seeing the world in its natural state of perfection. This voice, which I believe to be my ego, had to be bypassed, or else I’d spend the rest of creation writing safe, meaningless, superficial crap; pretty on the outside, but utterly devoid of soul. I suppose I sensed that I would never be able to accommodate my own voice if I was too preoccupied with accommodating everyone else’s... At some point thereafter, disgusted by my inability to completely silence the invalidating voice, I transfered the responsibility for all of my writing from my head to my pen. Now my pen and I have a continuously written agreement. It is basically this: I agree to stay out of my pen's creative way, unconditionally trust its creative output and shield it from my sterilizing brain-banter. In return, my pen writes about the world as I see it; not as I think it. Consequently, my pen serves, not only as my writing instrument, but also as my inspirational lightning rod; a universal antenna and creative siphon for drawing in and assimilating the pulse of the world. As part of the terms of my previously noted agreement, my pen requires that I restrict my list of achievements, awards, honors and guiding influences to the following:
Thank you for reading, Jim Scileppi (a.k.a., “The 29th_Candidate”) [The nomme de plume derives from my current status as the Republican U.S. Congressional nominee for the 29th District. If you live in the 29th C. D. (Los Angeles) and you vote for me this November, I promise to read at least one of your poems.] |
Jim's Notes On The Sonnets: I. THE STUPID CUPID (THAT'D BE ME) A little while back, a "buddy" of mine named Ken, approached me to request some "insider information" on how he might win the heart of my "on again/off again" girlfriend Tracy. Though Tracy and I were on one of our "off-again" phases of our dating cycle, we remained best friends and roommates. Most men who met Tracy were immediately interested in dating her. For this reason, it was no surprise to me that Ken, who worked as a cook at the Howard Johnson's Restaurant where Tracy part-timed as a waitress, would come to me seeking this information. II. LOVE'S FOOL (KEN) I tried to explain to Ken that Tracy wasn't the kind of girl you dropped a smooth line on; or from whom to expect "overnight" results. Unfortunately, the only thing Ken retained from the conversation was that Tracy & I shared a fondness for Shakespearean Sonnets. Despite my half-hearted attempts to dissuade him, Ken prevailed upon me to write him a traditional Elizabethan Sonnet, incorporating the royal conventions and the rigorous form requirements common to that literary genre. It was painfully apparent Ken was laboring under the delusional perception (in this case, profoundly so,) commonly associated with the "madness" experienced by those infected by the bite of the "Love Bug." The unwarranted confidence and certainty he exhibited in his conviction that he would sweep Tracy off her feet by reciting my sonnet to her, as if it was some infallible, magic love-incantation, indicated to me, that Ken's infatuation had all but eroded the mental barrier his mind had previously used to separate fantasy and reality. Ken left my house certain that his dream Valentine's Day was set in sonnet stone. III. LOVE'S JEWEL (TRACY) That evening Tracy came home and made her usual stop at my desk to compare notes with me about daily events. Curious to see what it was my hand had quickly covered as she sidled up to me, she lifted my palm from the top of "Ken's" sonnet and proceeded to read the following lines:
THE COOK'S SONNET FOR THE SEXY WAITRESS Oh waitress curves, I rise for thee and thine; Thy uniform cannot, in dreams, conceal, Thy bodyscape, God's ultimate design; Firm as french fries, yet soft as tender veal.
Defiant queen of the catering world,
Hide not thy chest, spare not thy supple treasures!
Escape with me, forget thy fish-fry orders;
Tracy, nearly had a stroke when she read the lines of the sonnet I had written a la "Cyrano d' Bergerac" for Ken, whom she had advised, unbeknownst to me, to "kiss off" on more than one occasion. Having been so advised, and hating to waste a good sonnet, an evil light bulb suddenly appeared above my head. Tracy, having been an eager lieutenant in many of my past practical jokes, immediately recognized the malicious sparkle in my eyes... "What do you have in mind?" she queried, with growing interest. I replied, "Since we have both been duped, and we are currently the only ones privy to my misguided pandering attempt, suppose we... (Tracy leaned down to receive the furtive whisperings detailing the rest of my diabolical plan...) ...I think it will be a Valentine's Day Ken will long remember, don't you agree?" Tracy smiled appreciatively and gave me an acknowledging hug. Then she admonished in a sultry, but ominous voice, "Make it a doozy, I want him to know in no uncertain terms that I will no longer stand for his humiliating attempts to publicly harass me again..." I shot her back my best "have I ever let you down?" look. She nodded her assent, and we both set about our business. My business happened to include whipping up a responsive sonnet for Tracy to recite immediately after Ken rehearsed his sonnet. The following is the sonnet I concocted for Tracy:
THE WAITRESS REPLIES IN SONNET TO THE COOK Oh, Cook, my curves I will not share with thee, Nor will I serve to thee a single meal! Though on the grill, you flip your meat for me; Your armpit stains hold little sex appeal!
Court-jesting knave, who juggles food-for-thought,
Relieve thy head, of hopeless dreams that dance
Let fantasy provide you with a thrill;
Upon returning home from my Valentine's date sometime early on the morning of February 15th, I was greeted at the door by a maliciously beaming Tracy. She advised that my plan had exceeded our expectations, as the entire Hojo crew, after witnessing the initial rehearsal, which included Ken dropping down on one knee to recite his sonnet, and Tracy scornfully brushing him off with her own sonnet (to Ken's astonished horror,) continued to take turns reciting both sonnets (to peals of appreciative laughter,) for the rest of the shift. Ken, Tracy further advised, unceremoniously resigned his post at the end of the shift, apparently unwilling to work in the humiliating atmosphere he had created for himself. VI. CONCLUSION Though I laughed and thought the whole incident was rather funny at the time, I regret, not only having been used as an unwitting pawn in Ken's foolish attempt to capture Tracy's heart, but also as the instrument of Tracy's ridding Ken from all of our lives. You don't have to wait till Valentine's day to learn the story's moral: "Avoid becoming a Valentine's Day Cupid, lest your pand'ring leave another looking stupid!" The original versions of these two sonnets follow:
Oh waitress curves, I rise for thee and thine; Your uniform cannot in dreams conceal, Your bodyscape, God's ultimate design Firm as a french fry, yet soft as tender veal.
Defiant queen of the catering world,
Unlock the chest, reveal your royal treasure!
Escape with me and leave behind your orders;
Oh, Cook, my curves I will not share with thee, Nor will I serve to thee a single meal! Though on the grill, you flip your meat for me; Your armpit stains hold little sex appeal!
Court-jesting knave, who juggles food-for-thought,
Relieve thy head, of hopeless dreams that dance
Let daydreams yield a temporary thrill;
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http://www.christinasng.com
Background Information
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AT DEATH'S DOOR For Sylvia Plath © Christina Sng A death wish? Yes, I have one, Carefully nurtured since young, Polished brass and fake effigies, In blood I pen my own eulogy.
Death beckons, a virgin lover,
Slowly we churn and flake,
Wrapped in dust and cobwebs
Searching for everlasting love -
The candies arrived at school Individually-wrapped in different colours.
The children squealed in delight
Redistributing them between each other
They unwrapped each sweet carefully
Devouring the candy
Annie bit her lip
'Yummy!' she declared
The recess bell rang
No one noticed the pale blue blotch
Nor the frost demons clinging
Grinning with miniature milk teeth
The fauna have died, The flora wilting to join them. Your letters have gathered mould, Grown roots around my hands.
The paint is chipping off
My skin has fallen away
It bakes, and solemnly
Your eyes glow Headlights on full beam. I stare like a jack rabbit Caught in your snare.
Metallic teeth gleam
Into the seamless night
Folded in my hiding place,
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 RICHARD VALLANCE Richard Vallance was born in Guelph, southern Ontario, Canada, on March 11th., 1945, and currently resides in Ottawa, the nations capital. A graduate of Sir Wilfred Laurier University, Waterloon, Ontario (H.B.A. 1968) and the University of Western Ontario, London, Ontario (M.L.S., 1975), Richard is a professional University librarian, now on disability pension. Richards career as a librarian reached its zenith in October, 1983, when he won the prestigious Data Courier Award for Excellence in Online Papers ($1,000 U.S.), in Chicago, Illinois. However, progressively aggravated alcoholism eventually forced him to retire prematurely, in September, 1991. Fortunately, Richard ceased drinking altogether in 1992, and has been sober now for a decade. While he did write some poetry during his "wet years", alcoholism severely blunted his inspiration. Creativity only truly blossomed in 1995. Since that time, he has written over 1,500 poems, most of them Sonnets, though he also specializes in both Haiku and the stricter, more traditional Japanese Hokku verse form. He has also composed numerous so-called "free verse" poems, and has published one book of poetry: A Quilt of Sonnets: Forty Four Familiar Poems. Ottawa: Providence Road Press, 1998. 56 pp. ISBN 1-896243-7-x. [National Library of Canada] Richard has been published on numerous occasions on some of the worlds best known poetry E-Zines, including, Poetry Life and Times (UK) and Autumn Leaves (USA). He also maintains his own bilingual international E-Zine, Poetry in Emotion la posie smouvoir and will soon be the editor of a new international Sonnet E-Zine, Sonnetto Poesia. Richard is the Poetry Reviewer for Poetry Life and Times. Anyone, who writes poetry for Poetry and Life and Times, is cordially invited to submit any poem of 20 lines or LESS for consideration for review to: Richard also moderates numerous Poetry Discussion Groups, the most notable of which are: 1. Describe Adonis [Shakespeares Sonnet 53] 120 members. Yahoos largest Sonnet poetry group by far. Here are posted historical sonnets, commentaries on sonnet writing, and sonnets by members: 2. Kawasaki Zen Haiku 90 members. Yahoos 3rd. Largest Haiku-Hokku poetry group, featuring links to historical Haiku Web Sites, examples of historical Haiku by such illustrious composers as Basho, Buson and Issa, and Haiku/Hokku posted by members, in any language they like: 3. Iliassia [Homers Iliad]. 61 members. Discussion group focussing on Homers Iliad, both in the original "Epic" Greek and in translation. Includes a repertoire archive of pictures, paintings, archaeological sites and cartographic information + maps: My Carousel Home Page is: Poesie's laissez-faire Foire
PUBLISHING HISTORY:
INTERNET:
March 2002 - Nominee for |
"CHORUS, 'COME!' " © Richard Vallance, 2002
in honour of the birth ofDraughts whisked — hush! —on our bay’s nine lambent panes, being mists they are, pour in moon’s translucency on your pillow’s down where deep REM sleep trains unconsciously on that potency
who grants Admissions Tides, “Come into caves!”
Is this new Life new, this unconsciousness
Hear you? Whose voice was this romances moon’s
The Eaglet Takes Wings
My sailing schooner, jibs up while fore sails fight,
Should others sail out, where, briny, sails white,
So many flailing hands, palms grasped tight, * Pronounce as in Scottish, "moor" = "door"
Bluenose I (1920-1946) Canadian schooner (fastest in the world)
"Is this?”, you ask, “tapestry spun of Love?” "Anonymous lovers, see? Look, Bayeux." Who sang once of them? Am I, songster to redress such longings presaged from tes yeux? *
If iris grows its own unfathomed blues,
Perhaps. What suitor’s drunk of surer mead
May we, by chandeliers, to lips impart
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 Jan Sand in New York
Recently Jan was published by Kedco Studios Artist Profile Press, on their latest CD ROM e-book, "A Way With Words (Poetry Real and Surreal), which also includes complete books by Dale Houstman, Sara L. Russell and Keith Gabriel Hendricks. Jan's illustrated book on the CD is called "Wild Figments And Odd Conjectures", which is also sold separately, in a limited-edition "single" CD. To see an illustrated article about Jan's poems, visit the November '98 issue of Poetry Life & Times, and scroll down past the Editor's Letter. He also has his own poetry pages on Charlotte's Web at Artvilla.
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THE FUNNY OLD MAN © Jan Sand There was an old man who was lonely and grim And excessively technically minded. He lived with a cat and an owl that was fat And a fancy new clock. He’d designed it. Every hour it rang with a click and a bang And was good for cooking up noodles. While down deep inside it secretly fried Sardines for wandering poodles. Now poodles can be, as you really can see, A difficult problem to deal with. They’d walk in the gate, proliferate, And snuffle their noses to feel with. They’d chew up your shoes, Which does not amuse When you need them for running and walking. So the old man decided that when they’d collided With furniture, floor lamps and footstools, He’d chase them all out with a stomp and a shout For not obeying his house rules. He started his cry, when the sardines did fry And the poodles, they yipped and ignored him. They slavered for fish which popped out on a dish And they ran as a pack and they floored him. He sat up with a grin as they gobbled the fish ‘Cause they looked to him crazy and foolish. And, he said "Hey, I’ll let them stay. I may be old but not mulish." So they live there OK, in their own cockeyed way, The owl, the cat and the poodles And the funny old man who eats, when he can, A rather large plate of cooked noodles
If I stroke a girl’s behind There’s nothing new to find As the effort gives responses uniform. I am fairly well acquainted That the form, as often painted, Has nothing much to vary from the norm. And the pleasure thus acquired Is never old or tired It is always a delight to go through. So I must thank genetics For the smooth happy kinetics That bestows the joyful sense that’s always new. Since, by fate, I am designed To relish a behind No matter how the logic finalizes That a bottom might commend Any girl I apprehend In spite of lacking any new surprises. That the current rear end felt Never fails (below the belt) To keep my life demented but exciting. Praise gluteus, hail maximus That evokes the best in us To welcome love, reject the acts of fighting.
From one who rarely tipples
The appearance of those spots
Preference may disagree
The troubles that besiege us Which can make our lives egregious Pursue us from the caverns of the past. All those things that turned out badly That we’d all forget most gladly And which, recalled, leaves most of us aghast, Would be better off expunged Because, once that they have lunged To throw us into blackness and despair, We find it’s all too late To try to contemplate That life, at times, can be rather fair. So, off with sad recall! No need for it at all. Life is possible, at core To be bright, to be snappy. It’s better to be happy Demonstrating, really, Lethe is more.
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