Six poems by Selim Temo
Translated from the Kurdish by
Alana Marie Levinson-LaBrosse and Zêdan Xelef
now, somewhere
now i am somewhere unable to endure even my silence
a pinioned crane that manages flight that drives my useless days i don’t waver even in strong winds rivers rise against me streets shriek in my pocket some broken marbles the voice does not return from the gorge no echo reaches the blind sky i am a hunchbacked mountain collapsing in a distant plain i rot in a book with no pages, no letters where i have fallen, no hand reaches for mine when they cut the flowers, the houses bowed their heads when the trees’ backs were broken, the wind fled the streets in burning cheeks, the hint of oppression there came a voice that swept everything from the face of our homeland i thought it was happiness the retrieval and revival of our language but no no pain speaks this language loss and grief splatter from each word here in exile it tightens around my neck so, nothing, this language is nothing it does not echo through London’s streets it bows down to civilization but we will dance shoulder to shoulder ferment each word with fear like a sulking child who runs off and then forgets her way home we will bloom like red-hearted roses where a tarnished lake flows beside time’s waist i am ready now, Kurdi i have swept the centuries’ waning patience from the brain of dreams i am making my insides a home for those stuffed with sorrow i am waking the dead woman who is asleep only in time with the raised voice of a bold man, the one with four kidneys, from the songs |
niha li deverekê
niha li deverekê me ku tehemûla bêdengiya min jî nake
weke qulingeke bêbask difire dajo rojên bikêrnehatî nikarim bileqim bi bê re jî çem li min radibin kolan diqîrin di berîkên min de çend xarên şikestî weke dengek ji geliyekî venegere olan nade esmanê kor ez ev çiyayê piştxûz li taxeke dûr paldayî dirizim di pirtûka bêrûpel û bêherf de ku ketî me; kes nahewîne tiliyên min jî gava gul birrîn malan serî tewandin dar ku xûz bûn, ba ji kolanan reviya di hinarokan de leylan da tehma bindestiyê ku dengek hat her çi hebû malişt ji rûyê welêt min digot qey şadî ye veger û vejîna zimanê xwe lê ka ka zimanê êşê ye ev ziman xesirîn û şîn dipengize ji her peyvekê va ye ku li dûriyê xwe girtiye li çemestûyê min naxwe tine ev ziman, tine olan nade li kolanên Londonê xwe li ber şaristaniyê ditewîne lê em ê têkevine milên hev da bimeye her peyv bi fikarekê weke zarokeke xeyidî ji bîr bike deriyê vegerê em ê biteqin bi rengê guleke dilsor ku biherike goleke zengarî di navtenga demê de ez êdî amade me ey Kurdî min malişt mêjiyê xewnê ji tengesebra sedsalan weke hemû xemxwaran bihewînim di hundirê xwe de hişyar bikim miriyekê di demê de raketî bi dengê hewara mêrxasê çargurçik ê stranekê |
day laborers darker
day laborers darker than themselves: Veracruz Veracruz
memory tenses in the sun the deep sleep of a walnut tree foul-breathed sailors: Veracruz Veracruz he whose hand resembles a watersnake comes to split the night then the raven’s wing this, the mistake of my life: Veracruz Veracruz i see what i can’t from where i stand it’s the season of seasons for fish beauty is buried at the bottom of a well night’s bliss is in night’s breast: Veracruz Veracruz in my bag a dagger a bottle a letter skeleton ships at dawn will take me from Veracruz toward Veracruz |
rêncberên reştir
rêncberên reştir ji xwe: Veracruz Veracruz *
bîranîn ditengije li berojan xewa kûr a dargûzekê deryagerên devgenî: Veracruz Veracruz destê kê bişibe marmarokan radibe şevê diterikîne li dûr e baskê qijakê ev e şaşiya jiyana min: Veracruz Veracruz dibînim tiştên ji min ve nexuya demsal demsala masiyan e gorra delaliyê li bin bîrê şev xweş e di paşila şevê da: Veracruz Veracruz di tûrê min da xencer, şûşe û name meytê keştiyan li ber berbangê wê min bibin ji Veracruz ber bi Veracruzê ve |
in Roboski
in Roboski,
they live with their sons’ pictures, my son they take them everywhere, clutched to their chests they take them to their gardens, like new-ripe fruit they sleep on cold, sunken bosoms don’t you forget the daydreams’ shadows that gave sorrowful young men identity at dusk they were children, my heart, just kids they shivered like the shadows of walnut trees in Roboski there are fathers, my son, broken as the branches of flowering trees just mention a child’s name and they run to the graveyard don’t you forget the voices left in the courtyard that were a sip of their spirits, dawn partridges they were children, my boy, little lambs they glittered like distant gorges |
li Roboskê
li Roboskê,
bi wêneyên kurên xwe re dijîn kurê min didin ber sîngên xwe li nava welatan digerînin dibine nava baxçeyan, weke fêkiyên nûgihaştî û di paxilên sar û bêpêsîr de radizînin nebî tu ji bîr bikî siya xewnerojkan ku nasnameya xortên hezîn bû li ber êvarê ku zarok bûn dilê min, ku karik bûn mîna siya daregûzan dilebitîn li Roboskê bavin hene kurê min mîna guliyên daregulan şikestî çawa tu navê zarokekî hildî ber bi goristanê ve dibezînin nebî tu ji bîr bikî dengên li eywana mayî ku çengek ji giyanê wan e ji bo kewa berbangê ku zarok bûn lawo, ku berxik bûn mîna geliyên dûr diteyisîn |
vae victis iv: siblinghood
under the mulberry tree, the hive of dreams,
the tale of Zeynika Zêrîn: a sister and seven brothers, twelve cousins, all men, elderly parents, a door of planetree, painted with blue and dusk “in the distance, birds in flight,” the fall a season, a whirlwind passing through words, the horizon resurrected, St John’s-wort on the threshing floor, the churner full of frothed buttermilk, the cascading lies of aunts, what a joy it was, what a joy childhood with siblings was their hands were small, their feet bare a bite of bread, cornbread, was always going stale eczema in patches on the scalp was always flaring up indigence became a toy that always got lost and lowing inside her head, a punctured balloon and always the cracked land made pregnant by Fall rains, dark clouds coming for us like murdered uncles and next to the cradle a newlywed bride in her henna those who never left or returned questioned distance but what a joy it was, what a joy childhood in father’s house was a sister made of raindrops, six brothers made of forest they paused in my heart, they greeted April my hand, brother to theirs, fluttered toward night kidnapped women were always arriving with convicted murderers each one, with their story, sitting beside their wounds the night, a candle’s wick, was always passing, always burning every head resting on a shoulder; sleepy, curly, tongue-tied with honeycombed candies, local lokums what a joy it was, what a joy childhood with siblings was Selîmo, the time has come, tighten your belt, you appealed to childhood, but only on your behalf to keep your siblings from drifting apart they got old and now exalt their children’s childhood each one’s white haired and at his dusk, you, too, are no youth you left behind a son, your heartbreak is in the growing distance every day, he daydreamed, yearning for a snowflake you have no land, no childhood oh, what a joy it was, what a joy childhood with your child was |
vae victis iv: biraxweyî
li binê dara tûyê kewara xewnan
çîroka Zeynika Zêrîn: xwîşkek û heft bira danzdeh pismam, dayîk û bavê kal deriyê ji dara çinarê, boyaxa şîn û xumam “çûk ji dûr ve difiriyan”, Payîz demsalek bû dihat di nava peyvan re derbas dibû bablîsok divejiya aso, digindirî botaf li bênderan meşka dewkulî, derewên xaltiyan, sûlav çi xweş bû, çi xweş bû zarokatî li gel biraxweyan destên wan biçûk bûn, lingên wan tazî gepek nan li kêlekê hişk dibû; nanê garis deqên bîrovê di nava por de dikuliya xizanî bû leyîstok her car wenda dibû dioriya ji nava serê xwe nepoxa qelişî axa terikî bi baranên Payîzî avis dibû ewrên tarî dihatin weke xalên kuştî li ber darê dergûşê bûkek tevî hinneya xwe ji dûriyê dipirsîn yên nehatî û neçûyî lê çi xweş bû, çi xweş bû zarokatî li mala bavê xwîşkek ji peşka baranê, şeş bira ji daristanan li dilê min disekinîn, silav didane Nîsanê destê min ku birayê wan bû, difirfirîn ber bi êvarê ve jinên revandî dihatin bi mehkûmên mêrkuj re her yek tevî çîroka xwe rûdinişt li ser birînên xwe disojiya şev bi fitîla qendîlê re û dibihurî her serî li ser milekî; xewar, xingalokî, metel di hiş de şekirên qulqulî, liqûmê şêxîslamî çi xweş bû, çi xweş bû zarokatî li gel biraxweyan Selîmo nava xwe bişidîne, ew wext hat tê doza zarokatiyê bikî, bi tenê peşka xwe ku nepeşkile di nava biraxweyan de wekhevî lê êdî çûn û mezin dikin zarokatiya zarokên xwe her yek por spî û xumam e, tu jî ne xort î te kurek hişt li pey xwe, li dûriya kesera xwe her roj diponijî bi hesreta wê çilka berfê ne warek te heye, ne zarokatiyek te ax çi xweş bû, çi xweş bû zarokatî li gel kurê xwe! |
the scarecrow in the sesame
the wind is my soul
my spine a Latin cross i’ve sent the birds into a sulk my frayed hat never waves back i am alone in the sesame fallow and sown; dead neighbors no one comes for company but humming time and my emptiness night belongs to itself day to anyone there is no hiding from fire |
batirsokê nav kunciyan
ba ruhê min e
marîpiştê min xaça Latînî çûk ji min xeyîdîne silav nade şewqeya min a peritî tenê me li nav kunciyan beyar û zevî; cîranên mirî ti kes nayê civatê vîzevîza demê û valahiya min şev ji xwe ra ye her car roj a her kesî xelasî tune ji şewatê |
the fourth hymn
my grandmother finishes her six-day fast
the moon is grinning at the rose bushes those sayings that took flight along with childhood river gulls, fairy tales, and anguish the arriving spring has gone red snow perches on the mountainside it’s time to go my father let out a deep sigh the stars sing the thorns lullabies those promises that withered in the gardens hazy fields of yellow stubble, songs and wishes the blossoming boy has gone a werewolf climbs out of the bride’s wedding chest it’s time to go my mother lost her red, see through scarf the night cheers the morning up those seasonal complaints that ached the sweet sleep, love and the door the welcoming rain has gone away the boogeyman was just a myth the fear of survival did not survive it’s time to go |
qewlê çarem
şeşekên dapîrê xelas bûn
heyv ji daregulan re dibişire ew gotinên bi zarokatiyê re firiyan qaqlîbazên çeman, çîrok û keser derbas bû hatina Biharê berfa sor li quntara çiyê venişt wextê çûyînê ye nalîna hinavî ya bavo danî stêrk ji keleman re dilorînin ew sozên li baxçeyan pûç bûn pirêzeyên xumamî, stran û hêvî derbas bû balixbûna kurî gurê manco derket ji sebeta bûkaniyê wextê çûyînê ye temeziya sor a dayê wenda bû şev ji spêdê re xweş dike ew lomeyên demsalî ku ariyan xewa şêrîn, evîn û derî çû derbas bû silava baranê reşê şevê derew derket tirsa mayînê nema wextê çûyînê ye |
These poems are forthcoming in the author's Selected Poems, to be published in September 2022. This will be the first book in the Pinsapo Press Kurdish Chapbook Poetry Series.