Raman Mundair 
Translator

on Lyrikline: 3 poems translated

from: turco, croata to: inglês

Original

Translation

Sana Bakmak

turco | Efe Duyan

ters çevirip kaçtığında küçük kız
gökyüzünü ilk kez görür kaplumbağa

© Efe Duyan
from: TAKAS’TAN
Audio production: Efe Duyan / EDISAM - Turkish Literature and Science Writers Union

Looking At You

inglês

Upturning the turtle, little girl runs away
For the first time, turtle sees sky

Translated by Raman Mundair

Oyuncak Şimşeklerim ve Ben

turco | Efe Duyan

Olmaz olur mu cancağızım
Benim de küçücük yalanlarım var
Bozuk paralar gibi cebimde
Ve tabii biraz daha büyükleri.

Şehrinde büyük yalanlarla büyük hayallerin
Baştan anlaşalım: Herkesin İstanbul’u kendine.
Benimki birkaç kadının
-isim vermek olmaz-
Diğer şehirlerden fırlattıklarıyla dolu.
Herkesin günleri kendine cancağızım
Herkesin ölümü gibi yaşayıverdiği de:

Ve Surdibi’nde kaldırımlar
Gözlerime diktiği gözleriyse evsiz bir adamın,
Sen bir tanrı gibi burnu havada ve zavallı
Tebdil-i kıyafet kolaçan et yeryüzünü.

Bak onun İstanbul'una,
Ama dokunamazsın, sadece bak
Pespaye melekler gibi
Sıra sıra yeni hükümler çıkar
Paltosunun içinde onun İstanbul’u, -yasakla mesela bunu-
Kundurada saklı bir kaç kaat para, -bunu bağışlayıver-
Ayasofya’yı duymuş, -ona mimarinin inceliklerini anlat bakalım-

Oysa oyuncak şimşeklerin ve sen
Sen ancak tarihe havale etmeyi bilirsin gördüklerini
Sen gördüklerinden ölümüne korkmayı
Ağaca dayanıp doksan dokuza kadar saymayı ancak

Bak umutla falan alâkası yok adamın
Bu şehri hepimizden çok seviyor ama
Az sonra yüzüne vuracak güneş
Hadi gülümse, belki gülümser sana

Ama bunu bile bilmiyorsun değil mi
Bir bulut kapıyor güneşi
Şimdi kim kime acıyacak?

© Efe Duyan
Audio production: Efe Duyan / EDISAM - Turkish Literature and Science Writers Union

[me and my toy lightning flashes]

inglês

D’you think it didn’t happen, my dear friend?
I’ve told small lies and fibs, of course I have.
They’re like loose change here in my pockets
And of course I’ve told much bigger ones as well.

In the city of great dreams and great lies, let’s get this clear,
Everyone’s Istanbul belongs to them alone.
Mine belongs to several women
-no names, of course-
Full of all they have thrown out of other towns
Everybody’s days belong to them, dear friend
Just as everybody goes and lives their death themselves:

And the pavements of Surdibi are
The eyes of a homeless man who’s gazing into mine
You, like a god with his nose in air, pathetic and disguised -
Be sure to take a good look at the world!

Look at his Istanbul,
But you can’t touch it, just look
Like low-down angels; new observations
Write new verdicts in the margin in books of dreams
The Istanbul inside his overcoat – forbid that for a start–
A few banknotes hidden in a shoe – give that away.
He’s heard of Ayasophia – now talk about its architectural features –

But you and your toy lightning flashes -
All you can do is pass on to History what you’ve seen, all you can do
Is be dead scared of what you’ve seen, face the tree and count to ninety-nine

Look, there’s nothing at all in common between that guy and hope
But he loves this city more than anyone, smile
At the sun that will hit your face a moment later and
Maybe it’ll smile back at you.

But you don’t even know, do you? That
There’s a cloud covering the sun.
Now who’s going to be sorry for whom?

Translated by Georgina Özer and Raman Mundair

SUSJEDIMA (MOJE MESO JE JUTROS SPUŠTENA ZASTAVA)

croata | Marko Pogačar

Med se topi u čaju, potpuno, za razliku od mene u tebi
i tebe u ozbiljnoj glazbi,

predugi telefonski pozivi, nikada mjesta kad trebaš
slobodan stol, uvijek pokvareni liftovi,

stepenice razmotane u beskonačnost, kao razgovor o politici,
i baš kada netko primijeti da se totalitarizam i demokracija

razlikuju samo u brojevnom sustavu
nestane slike i sve nanovo počinje: glasovi cure iz zidova,

potpuno bestjelesni, večer se spušta na dlanove, kao rudar
u jamu, ipak, cipele ostavljene

pred vratima dokazuju da postoje živi. ali što znači živjeti,
dok zima dolazi  kotrljajući se kao hladni dah iz mog grla,

i svija gnijezdo u tamnom alfabetu; svi ti užurbani nepoznati
ljudi s poznatim imenom, popodne prelomljeno na dvoje, kao Koreja,

čaj u kojem je med već do kraja otopljen, nerazdvojivo,
i ta viskozna otopina je ljubav; kako stići do tebe; kako te dohvatiti?

© Marko Pogačar
from: Poslanice običnim ljudima
Zagreb: Algoritam, 2007
Audio production: Literaturwerkstatt Berlin 2010

TO MY NEIGHBORS (THIS MORNING MY FLESH IS A LOWERED FLAG)

inglês

Honey melts in tea, completely, unlike your ear
and classical music,     
                         
and unlike me in you, the tense telephone wire of the never-ending phone call, a crowded bar, no place for you,

and the elevators that are always broken, the stairs unfold into eternity, like conversations about politics,
and just as someone notices that totalitarianism and democracy

is only a question of numbers, someone pulls the plug,
the picture disappears and everything starts again: voices, disembodied, leaking from walls,

and evening falls into your hands, like a miner descending into his pit, yet still, the shoes left on the doorstep prove

that behind the door life exists. but what does it mean to live
as winter comes rolling like cold breath rising out of your throat,

and builds it’s nest in the dark alphabet; all those hurried unknown
people with familiar names, and afternoons split in two, like Korea;

the tea and honey have already melted, inseparable,
and this viscous liquid is love: how do I get to you; how do I reach you?

Translated by Raman Mundair