Turkey
Özcan Ünlü
Turkey
He was born in 1968 in Ordu. A journalist, poet and author. He produced and hosted several television and radio programs. He served as a political advisor for some time and participated in the NGO works of many foundations and associations.

His poetry books

  • Benden Önce / Before Me
  • Aşk Bu Kadar Yakışmamıştı Bana / Love Didn’t Used to Look That Good on Me
  • Korkuya Türkü / A Ballad to Fear
  • Herşey birdenbire /Everything all of a sudden
  • Ateş Güzeli / Beauty of Fire
  • Teslimiyet / Surrender
  • Hiç Değilse Bugün / At Least Today.

Essay books

  • Besbelli Yalnızlık / An Apparent Loneliness
  • Aynaya Bakınca Söylenen / What do You Say When You Look in the Mirror
  • Kalbin Ne Marka / What Brand is Your Heart
  • Ahiret Kumbarası / Money-box for Afterlife.

Void of sorrow

1.
How could I have known that this lost voice would be naming a dream
In some way or another we head for the world, this is it, I said.
My voice was dropped on the neighbors’ laughter stretched on
Nylon laundry line. Now this fake comfort makes a void of sorrow…

2.
From my inside, I counted as full as a balcony. Until cherry month,
Adoring thyme smelling mountains is a Sunnah tradition. While number passing
Slowly and gently I took out a match. From its middle section
The wrath of silence got kindled. I said this is a dream.

3.
If I ever speak out now, all the shops of the fantasy market would be opened.
This steamy lantern which surfaced from the well hole and became Yusuf,
It cannot lighten the blood phobic streets of the world. But don’t be upset,
There is no cure in the bazaar for the malignant souls walking towards the rope…

4.
I said dream. Whatever was there, I considered all of them. I said dream.
By taking out good deeds and sins from the poet’s dead notebook.
For this copper wire being tightened inside us was a dream. Like
A poisonous rattlesnake, it was pervading the dark atlas of the night…

5.
This lost voice is not fashionable anymore. I took down its signboard. Sorrow
Hanged on to my dream, like a bloody lampion. Ah I couldn’t have known this brunette,
This fragmentary ballad of a barefooted poem, how did it fall into a word river.
Ah my God, forgive me. Let my sorrowful head sail for starry seas…