Violet Rascal



1. Dark is our poem, old chaps

It's the poem of smart youths in tight-fitting pants
Who start wrestling with themselves
As soon as they hear the sound of a drum and flute
With no players, in portable toilets of gypsies

Love is a matter of organization, just think of it, old chaps

2. Our poem can do anything, old chaps

It's the poem of a young women who lived in Valde Atik
On the Old Poets Deadend, hair braided and unbraided by a single word
Who roamed the streets of ill-fame, crucified on seven branches
In a cemetery nearby, her watches robbed

Perhaps in heavenhell life is short death is long, old chaps

3. Our poem dries up roses, old chaps

It's the poem of a bird-seller from Beşiktaş
Who at the Syrian bath stifled with foam
His youngest son with dimpled buttocks and a lovely beauty spot
The one who underwent a transformation and fled to Karabiga
aboard a sand barge
Sons must know to withdraw silently from being a son, old chaps

4. Our poem breastfeeds men, old chaps
It's the poem of a blind boy who might want to become an oculist
Is cripled and sells burnt candy
Even though his grudge hasn't taken the shape of a rifle
Practices shooting by spitting on the soles of his feet
He sees such weekly pictures and acquires legs, old chaps

5. Our poem is a violet rascal, old chaps

It's the poem of a half-effaced dragon about to copulate
Whose room cannot be found in the apartoffices of Topağacı
Marked with black lime on the gates of a rented city
As it squats on the poets

Sorry, but we are prematurely from Üsküdar, old chaps

6. Our poem is of the city, old chaps

When changing calendars you lose a day
A city up to the sea with its translators

How does one build a city white-washed in indigo blue and with no steps, old chaps?

Translated by Suat Karantay