Can YÜCEL

Şizofrenik aşklar besledim

Lanetimi umuda,

Ölümü yeni bir doğuşa çeviren…

Ne var ki

Siyahım, ve matım…

Geceye doğurdum tüm düşlerimi

Günün sahteliği,

var oluşun plastik gerçekleri,

ve

umudun lanet olası yaraları görünmesin diye…

ve işte siyahım…

ve matım…

Kanmış meğer zaman…

Ve hayatmış o aktıkça azalan…

Ruhumu gördüm rüyamda:

Karanlık sular ve ıssız bir liman,

Sessiz bir gece ve ölü bir adam…

no, no, go not to lethe, neither twist
wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
by nightshade, ruby grape of proserpine;
make not your rosary of yew-berries^*,
nor let the beetle^*, nor the death-moth^* be
your mournful psyche, nor the downy owl^*
a partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
for shade to shade will come more drowsily,
and drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

but when the melancholy fit shall fall
sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
that fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
and hides the green hill in an april shroud;
then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
or on the wealth of globed peonies;
or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
and feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

she^* dwells with beauty – beauty that must die;
and joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
bidding adieu; and aching pleasure nigh,
turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
ay, in the very temple of delight
veil’d melancholy has her sovran shrine,
though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
can burst joy’s grape against his palate fine;
his soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
and be among her cloudy trophies hung.

john keats