Güle gidin!

Being distracted from posting by my closest friend who unfortunately managed to implicate me in a discussion without any emotional blockade about prophets, quad negations, pleonasms and redudancy, I leave the field to the first Flann O'Brian Prize Winner.

Your turn, Mr. Bekdil!


And now
The Peace of the Night.

Güle gidin!

False prophet's surprise

In the dusk a man entered a village and claimed to be a prophet. The countrymen did not believe him, yet. "Prove it", they demanded.

The man pointed at the opposite wall and asked: "If this wall spoke and affirmed I am a prophet, would you believe me, then?"

By Allah, then we shall believe you", they shouted.

The man turned to the wall, put forth one hand and commanded: "Speak, oh wall!"

And the wall began to speak: "This man is no prophet. He's fooling you. He is no prophet."


As to my knowledge there does not exist an English version of Zülfü Livaneli's "Engereğingözüdeki kamaşma", published 1996 by Can Yayinlari Ltd. Sti, Istanbul,

I tried to translate the perhaps most amazing and sophisticated beginning of all novels I came to read within the past couple of years.
The author may consider my humble attempt a kind of hommage.

No need to dig up Gogol

Just to make sure that Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol will not posthumously being accused of insulting Turkishness, and - in order to serve his sentence - digged up:
When writing his "Diary of a Madman", Gogol did neither think of any future Ex-leader of the CHP who's tongue would be as swift as six arrows as long as its not about responsible politics, nor of any future Ex-Prime Minister who would call people complaining about having no water for eleven days, exaggerating; nor any future Ex-Mayor of Ankara who would rather ask those still believing in a God to pray for rain instead of retiring and henceforth humbly living in his water-tanker; nor any prosecutor keen to always - or at least ONCE - find his way in the limelight; nor . . .
[ ah, what a pity the English language does not know the word Profilneurotiker!]

Having written this, you may leave this site to learn a little more about the Turkish art of self-irony in general and in particular, here.

Not only Bush's brain is missing

When reading this, please keep in mind that Karl Rove has not yet retired!

So, what else could get lost, when goes missing what used to be called Bush's brain?

No fidel Puritans in Louisiana

After some pieces of beautiful poetry and a joyful headline-prose back to profane life.

By surfing around, at Dr. Dawg I got attracted by this headline: "Meanwhile in the Land of the Free". Clicking the title, I was invited to read this.

Don't get irritated.

You may - of course? - be curious to learn "Why Hillary Clinton Has Always Been a Republican",
but:
When scrolling just a tiny bit you'll find the story about "some traditon [that] never die":

Black Nooses Hanging from the "White" Tree by New Orleans-based law professorBill Quigley, published one day before "Independance Day" in "Fidel Puritans Own Country".

P.S. Actually, I got extraordinarily surprised when - to be on the safe side - I tried to find fidel in my various English-dictionaries.

Strange or characteristic (?): There does (obviously) no antonym exist for infidel.

Ah, well, when there are no fidel Puritans, who would need such a word?

Brainy Headline

Depending you are visiting Adelaide Green Porridge Cafe you will soon find out that a prosaic headline (in the "Independent") can be as enjoyable as poetry.

Go on then, and read the whole article . . . if you can . . .

Vision of a Fairy Queen

If not by visiting Crushed by Ingsoc being welcomed with a poetic surprise I had not already yesterday posted another gem bya Dfydd ap Gwilym.
And for sure I had not spent quite a few hours of this weekend with Byron, Keats and Shelley. And I had not suddenly jumped up, grabbed at the Book of Irish Verse to get drown in these verse by Tadhg Dall O'Huiginn (d. 1591).

A Vision of a Queen of Fairyland
My soul to ravish came to me last night, :
And never lady at my side did stand
To my undoing so unearthly bright.

Last night she came, a bright and lovely ghost,
And rose before me, while I seemed to sleep,
And of that slumber where my soul was lost
My tongue shall tell while I my memory keep.

Fair was as her face, her cheeks outblushed the rose;
There might you see the floods of crimson rise,
And dark unfaltering brows above disclose
The hyacinthine petals of her eyes.

Her pretty mouth more sweet than honeycomb
Would with red lips the budding rose excel,
And each soft whisper that from thence did come
Would charm the sick and make the dying well.

Between her lips like fallen rain of pearl
On scarlet cushions twain her teeth reposed;
How bright they shone, how sweetly spoke the girl;
Each languid word new loveliness disclosed.

Between her arms that taper to the hand
Are set twin glories, beautiful to see.
Two snowy mountains in her bosom stand,
Mid golden thickets of embroidery.

Gold-bordered slippers on her gentle feet
Do guard her steps wherever she may move;
You'd swear that maid so radiantly sweet
Had them a present from the God of Love.

Her purple mantle fringed with satin round,
Her golden shift with scarlet borders gay,
Her gilded bodice o'er her bosom bound
Did all her fairy loveliness display ...

'I came to seek you: come away with me!'
Thus spake the lady, and her voice was low,
And in my ear she murmured secretly,
As softest notes from sweetest organs flow.

'I will not go.' I answered like a fool,
For love had brought me to distraction,
And as I spake that vision beautiful
Had vanished in the darkness and was gone.

And now my soul and body part in pain.
The queen with blushing check and brown-lashed eyes
Leaves me to pine and cometh not again,
Tho' she was kind and beautiful and wise ...

The mound of Midhir with its rampart fair,
The fort of Sanbh, Abhartach's magic hill,
No lady in their castles can compare
With this sweet maid for whom I languish still.

Not in Emania of the apple-trees,
Nor halls of Aonghus of the golden sword,
The fairy dwells that hath such charms as these,
So soft a beauty or so kind a word.

But she is gone, and I would follow fast’
To lands unknown, who languish in despair.
Would it were possible to find at last
That country and to dwell for ever there!

A little hour I loved her rosy cheek –
The ebb must follow ever on the flow –
The vision fled, the joy of love grew weak,
My spirit sank and I was left to woe.

XII by Dafydd ap Gwilym

I was sighing deeply for last night that was so short. I and my love of brilliant beauty .... we put a week into that one night my dear. A judge would certainly hold one night too short with Gwen. Last night I knew all things . . . shining snow lit by heaven's candles ... paid for my waking as often as I took her dearly in my arms.

Then when my grasp of her was strongest and I was at the pitch of ecstasy (. . . her dark hair tumbling on her forehead ...) the edge of the restless veil of dawn appeared ... O God! There was the morning light.

"Get up!" cried Gwen, veiled in loveliness herself, "And hide yourself", and quickly embracing me, "What a bitter tear your love is! Go now in God . . . see there is the daylight!"

"Neither is true my lovely creature: the moon that God gave us is shining and the stars are in their courses still: I tell you this light is supposition, this day is your imagination."

"Then why is there a crow croaking high in the air?"

"Her fleas are biting her, annoying her, killing her."

"The dogs are barking and fighting below in the village."

"They can have caught the scent of a fox, and dogs are always disturbing the night."

"Stop your excuses now, my poet: 'A fool's wisdom brings great trouble.' For Christ's sake now get up quietly and open the heavy door outside and run to the wood with your longest strides, for the dogs are savage when they're roused."

"O we're not so far from the wood, and I can run faster than a dog. If there's no cunning spy watching, I'll not be caught this time by God's grace."

"Tell me, my dear poet, if God's willing will you come again . . .?"

"My lady, I am your nightingale, and when the night comes I shall come."

What a wonderful dream

Offensive? Unsuitable? Email us


I had a dream:

Mr. Kamm woke up and henceforth spoke a rare Hindu dialect . . .

A statue for the Topaz of poetry

It's a shame
that criticaster
would dare to blame
such genial master
who earns fame
for all his words.

It really hurts.


My closest friend's spontaneous reaction after I had told him about Colin Campbell's touching plea to give William Topaz McGonagall, the master of all rhymers, late gratification.

There does exist a demand for justice.

Noble invitations by Erdoğan and Gökçek

Piece four:

You read the notorious Mr. Kanli’s masterpiece of self pity as recommended in Piece three?

Well, according to my closest friend’s absolutely honest and trustworthy source who had been invited to take a shower in Mr. Erdoğan’s humble home, despite “being disgusted by being quoted out of the context”, Turkey’s future Ex-Prime Minister would not insist on prosecuting Mr. Kanli.

”But, of course, the Turkish justice is independent. Therefore, I can not anticipate any prosecutor's reaction when coming to know all those fiercely insults against the padişah – er – the Prime Minister.”

And here is what Mr. Kanli withhold his readers:

The nice, pretty, cute Mr. Gökçek according to my closest friend’s source assured while they (Mr. Gökçek, Mr. Mr. Erdoğan and Tetrapilotomos’ source) had a tea – prepared, by the way, with impeccable clean water - in the future Ex-mayor’s humble home: “I did never ever say people should leave Ankara for a holiday. I invited them to enjoy holiday in my home.”

And thus the trialogue went on:

The future Ex-Prime Minister: “That’s what our cute mayor said.”

Question: But the water shortage? Imagine only 500.000 people taking a shower in your convivial home?

The cute Mr. Gökçek: “Well, no problem.”

The future Ex-Prime Minister: “Indeed. As said, we have no water problem in our house. We have a water tanker. The people – and it makes me really sad that Mr. Kanli would not mention this in his column – are invited to have their showers in my humble home. I do only ask everybody to turn water off, while lathering and while brushing the teeth.”

Despite of this really wonderful report about an altruistic future Ex-Prime Minister and a future Ex-mayor, our source ends with a thought provoking postscriptum:

What will happen when all citizens come to know of these generous invitations? Will there come the moment when the padişah – ehem – the future Ex-Prime Minister will be quoted by the notorious Mr. Kanli saying: “Now the people have been absolutely exaggerating. My water tanker's empty.”?

Considerably exaggerated

Piece three:

We have no water problem in our house. We have a water tanker. I think the water problem is considerably exaggerated, says Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdoğan

These are the key-sentences, TDN-editor Yussuf Kanli chose for his Monday-column, in which he complains about a short period of three days he has been short of water.

But read and judge yourself.

Turkish lesson as warm-up

Piece two.

Well, and herewith we enter the world of very very bad journalism.

Before leading you to the essential inheritent interior essence which is hidden in the root of the kernel of quoting Prime Ministers out of the context, let’s have a tiny Turkish lesson.

Today’s curriculum: Help yourself, create your (n)omen.

Gökçek contains of

a) gök = sky/heaven ; skyblue; cyan; unripe;

b) çek = cheque

And here some additional translation aids:

gökgözlü = blue-eyed which in turn in German is also metaphorically for “in good faith”.

gökkandil = dead drunk

Finally:
Knowing I’d interrupt her digging for water, I asked a friend in Ankara – by the way, without ANY explaining context - if Melih means the same as does melik (king).

Answer:
Dictionary says: nice, pretty, cute.
His parents couldn’t guess how tricky & dishonest he would be.