Human Landscapes from my Datça
by Sarp Armağan Demiral
after Nâzım Hikmet
I.
Balıkçılar, sitting on empty milk crates,
cast their fishing rods
into the turquoise—
on their lips a thin strip
of cigarette, the homely scent, tobacco
in the morning air.
They are the most patient
humans I know. I want to say kolay gelsin
as they hold the line
steady like they would
their children. Gentle. The promise of the new world
at their fingertips.
The sun not yet scorching,
just dawning—
a smile cracks a sun-kissed face
as his line catches.
II.
Teyzeler, these shawl-covered women
remind me of being
held—
all of them a mother
even if they do not have a child
of their own. I want to say ellerinize sağlık
as they feed my spirit,
sunflower seeds
pinched between their plump fingers,
between their tea-stained teeth.
Teyzeler on the beachside benches,
gossip hot on their tongues.
Çıtır çıtır, the seeds crack open. Flung
onto the uneven, faded bricks,
painted by kindergarteners. A full landscape
of sunflower shells
around their slippers.
III.
Amcalar, filling the teahouses
before and after
work—
eight men to each table, chain smoking,
playing okey and tavla ‘till midnight.
I’ve never been
courageous enough to join them—
I want to say kusura bakmayın
and yet, I’m terrified my tongue
will twist to silence, my language
broken into stasis. I watch instead. It’s how I remember
my absence
in my country. All the things I don’t do.
All the things I don’t say.