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- Herausgeber: Bedrettin Şimşek
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
The most ardent love poems of Bedrettin Simsek are combined with his novel, a masterpiece of irony and dark humor!
Bedrettin Simsek, the heterodox author of Turkish literature, whose first work "The Sermon Book of a False Prophet" was published in 1996, combines his identity as a poet with his identity as a novelist in his book "Is Love a Madness?", in which he deals with an even more bizarre situation that arises as a result of the bizarreness of the human soul. By making the poem part of the novel, and with his ability to create situations that can be both tragic and comic at the same time, he reveals a unique work in literary fiction.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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Bedrettin Simsek
Is Love A Madness?
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Bedrettin Simsek was a promising writer when his first two books were published by major Turkish publishers in 1996 and 1997. His combination of philosophy, humor, and literature set him apart from other writers, and he stood out for his skeptical attitude toward religion. When his third book, "The Discussions of an Atheist and a Clergyman" was published in 1998 by one of Turkey's leading publishers, he was sued over complaints and both he and the publisher were sentenced to prison terms for insulting religious values. This sentence was suspended on the condition that he would not commit the same offense again and was noted in his record. His conviction made Bedrettin a criminal forever. All publishing houses closed their doors to him; he was excluded from the literary world. His later works were always rejected by publishers, some for fear of punishment, others for fear of the reader's reaction.
Translated into English by Bedrettin Simsek
1
"Your poems are beautiful, but there is no emotion in them," said the lady with a passion for literature. Then she leaned her head on the edge of her chair and sighed, as if she had not found what she was looking for.
These words made me despair. Even though I'd been writing poems for years, dedicating them all to her, I couldn't get her to like a single one. Maybe it was because she knew I was trying to steal her heart.
"Then will you let me read one more?" I said in a sad voice.
"What is your next poem about?" the demanding lady asked.
"It's about the rising of the moon."
Indeed, at that moment the moon was hesitating, as if caught on a branch among the trees, waiting for the evening star to rise. In the darkness, the Aegean Sea lay asleep before us. There was no movement in the leaves. All this gave courage to a hopeless poet like me, who thought that no one would listen to him in the silent nights.
I began to recite my poem, which I called "The Moon".
MOON
"I have kept everything I have to say in my heart; I have said everything with my eyes because I don't know how to speak.
My love is like water that has never been drunk since creation.
It's so fresh and clear.
It hides like a spring in the depths of my being.
It comes from a part of me that I don't know.
But then it is buried in the place where it was born, without being able to present itself again.
It turns into tears that flow vainly in the soul.
Then it pours out of my eyes like heavenly rain.
Let the years pass quickly
Let the fast-flowing time pluck the petals of my life's flower with no mercy.
Let youth come to an end. Let life, playing the game of joy, hurry to its end...
My unrequited love
Flowing like a river through the stars
May it come to you like a new moon
And as you gaze upon it each night
Let its secret shine upon you in the brightest of lights
May it burn in its own fire like a jewel hanging in the sky
Then let there be a second sun
As it is born, dragging the whole universe behind it
May everything be born with it
When it sinks, may everything sink with it."
I raised my eyes to the eyes of my ruthless listener and waited for her judgment.
The lady, a lover of literature, rose and walked across the veranda overlooking the garden. How ethereal she looked in the light reflected from the sky, her white dress enveloping her ripe body. Then the house by the sea seemed to me like a ship, and she like a phantom wandering on its deck, dragging it into dangerous waters.
"When the poem speaks of a whip," she said in a deep voice. "It must make the listener feel that whip. Especially if it is a woman listening to the poem, she must groan under that invisible whip. That is true poetry. When it talks about a whip, it makes you feel that whip on your skin. Do yours have that effect? Alas, no! Your verses are beautifully written, that's all, but there is no emotion in them.
In despair, "Is there such a poem? Is there a poem that makes visible what we feel in our soul?"
She looked proudly.
"Yes, there is."
"Then I'd like to read it."
"It's a bit difficult."
"Why is it difficult?"
"Because these poems are being kept in a file in court as evidence of the crime of murder."
I looked puzzled.
The lady with a passion for literature said, "Besides, you have to solve a great mystery to uncover them. So you will see what it means to love poetry to death. Can you do that?"
"I will do anything to please you. I will even commit a crime if necessary," I said.
The lady laughed and said, "That's right. Stealing evidence from a murder case is definitely a crime. But I do not want you to go to jail for it. A judge I know can help you.
A few days later, I met the judge the poetry-loving lady had told me about. The judge, who spent his retirement in the same cottage, wrote little stories based on the cases he encountered and then read them at gatherings of friends. He said he had heard the poems in that case, but had not seen them. Was this case a murder? Or was it a natural death? That was the question the court could not answer. But if it was a crime, it was clear that the poems had caused the crime and that the muse had been the instigator.
"Although the court ultimately concluded that the victim died by accident, this case has been called a poetry murder case," the judge continued. "Because many people say that the poems that led to the tragedy were so beautiful that they acted as a weapon. They may have seduced the defendant into committing the crime."
"And were these poems published?"
"You wouldn't think that what goes into the case file as evidence would be published, would you?"
"Then how do I get to these poems that everyone knows about but no one has read?" I asked the judge.
My interviewer looked at me coldly. It turned out that the things society talked about the most were the things it knew the least about. Although he himself had often talked about these poems, he had never been curious about them. Wasn't that strange? That's why the case that had been dismissed for lack of evidence was still being talked about as if it were a legend.
"Very well, I will arrange for you to meet the prosecutor in this case," the judge said. "But I must tell you that this old prosecutor is now retired and very grumpy because of his fussy wife. The poems are hidden in his safe in the case file. In this state, he is like a giant waiting for his treasures. You have to trick this giant into opening the lid of his secret chest by going in through his mouth and out through his nose. In other words, if you tell him directly about the murder of poetry, he will throw you out. I don't know why, but the guy gets very angry when he hears the word poetry. Ever since that incident he has been very hostile to poets. Never mention to him that you are a poet. So how are you going to get information about this mysterious incident? Surely your imagination will give you the answer when the time comes".
