Prologue: When, finally, you're sitting on the bus waiting for it to take you home, and the muses send you thoughts first in Turkish, after all these months of lessons, hope your pen is nearby.
Tango pratik yok, ama
Okulu sevmedim, ama
Duygu ile konuşmayı sevdim.
Küçük zamanlar büyüktür.
Ah, şimdi varolan rüyaları yazmak!
There is no tango practice, but
there are flowers.
I didn’t enjoy school, but
I loved talking with Duygu.
Small times are large.
Oh, to write dreams that exist right now!
Sunday, November 14, 2010
When I am dead, my dearest,
unhinge the case to my viola.
Rest your chin upon its mahogany,
and pull the horse hair across:
“Beautiful dreamer, dream unto me.”
You will not remember how-
with a shallow and fast bow-
I played the same for my father.
I shall not cringe at your shaky tone;
I shall not turn away;
I shall not hear the music
of the stirred female hearts.
I may skip and twirl instead
to a memory, and dream no more
of this beautiful dream, now dreamt unto me.