The Coat of Arms of the City's Poet

It was a small city. Whatever was not supposed to be in a small city, this city has claimed them. Nor could I be angry that a small city had a small, tiny bookstore. When I deviated from the alley, he immediately appeared before me. For a while I looked towards his door. Years ago, I had stepped in through his door, asked for a book, and left sadly when I found out that it had not been found.

A few months ago I received a gift book from this bookstore. Seda had said 'I'll be there next week' on the phone. My body, which was not used to receiving gifts, was shocked by the book he brought in our second meeting. It was a poetry book that I could hardly hold with my palm. I had read some of the poet's poems on the Internet, but the idea of ​​owning a book with all of his poems was extremely pleasing to me. We could talk and talk about everything with Seda; more sadness! The moment people's wounds and experiences first hit their face, then their speech and tone of voice, their hopes for life are just as shattered. Sometimes you just want to listen and hear the other person. While my mastery of making non-funny jokes was familiar to my surroundings, Seda was also exposed to this situation. The hum of pain caught my heart, and his voice rang again in my ears as they saw him off towards his aunt's house on the street entrusted to neon lights: 'Oh what a remedy, what a remedy; it is neither possible, nor possible to get rid of it! "

I had not put the poet's book in the library for months. I had not picked up the book for a long time. Sometimes I make sure that a book is tied to the next book before placing it between the bookshelves. I think the most suitable book for the poet's book was alongside Letters to Theo. The poet said, "I saw Van Gog last night in my dreams, he was crying," for his ear cut. Van Gogh, who cut off an ear and went to his friend! The letter 'h' was missing in the book anyway. I did not pursue this. Ha Gog, ha Gogh; The letter 'h' shouldn't have been that important when he saw the man he was a fan of in his dreams! The poet said, "But not his ears, his eyes were bleeding." It was as dominant and exotic as black mulberry. After all, I needed a way out and I had found it.

The color of longing and sentiment have changed since the camera was invented. Was I photographing the bookstore with the phone I picked up because I knew this like that? What was I going to do, what was this photo for? If it was a deep sadness of not going inside the bookstore to buy a book for a long time, I could congratulate myself by capturing the moment of equal and possible sadness! In the face of my silent witness of deep desires, I swept his jealousy under the carpet and opened the lips of the witness who had already filled my place: "Hello. I had looked at Peyami Safa's book. Only to his book! It was this man who said years ago, "No, Spinoza's book does not exist now, we do not bring it because it is not sold anyway"! I could not claim that he was getting a little older. I was the one who had grown old against him, who overthrew the ages with the possibility of experiencing more negativity in his life. Although my ego murmured something in denial, was it not the same I who brazenly invoked a new hope sprouting in the face of every delusion? There was no point in getting out of the relaxing place as quickly as a tired bird stepped on the ground for the first time. I hesitated. I even stopped too long. I asked, "Are you still not bringing Spinoza's books?" The man hesitated for a while and said, "I remember you." I was muttering the song "Come on dear, you too, lie like that" inside me. "How" I said, "Seriously?" "Yes, yes I really remember." Nobody else asked. But we brought the books written about him. Someone would even be there. "" Please, "I said," I'm really surprised right now, I'm so glad you remember, but we're so lonely now! "I was impressed by the book I was reading. I guess I was going to break the devil's leg this time.

We wandered for a long time with the devil inside me. We traveled together even intercity, but I could not move forward. I could not decide which devil was the sharper and more determined. That little devil was in my gray shopping bag, whose name I do not know, which was printed on a tree that the painters used in their paintings because it was easy to draw! I was seeing the names of poets who had a fight with God. Although the lenses of my glasses prevent my vision with more and more scratches, I did not take any steps to change these funny and annoying glasses. I said "Here it is", the bookstore was looking, "A lot of poets at odds with God!" He smiled. 'If' he said, 'if a poet is not free enough to fight, he is fighting with God. This fight is nourished by sympathy. We cannot say love, it does not close the eye, more than friendship can we call it a bit of passion? I think even I am confused. But I know that if there is no confusion, there is no fight! Their quarrel with God stems from their belief in him dementia. It is obvious that they are deeply affected, but they are angry because they cannot see and hold him in hand. Can we blame the poets for this? "

Among those who did not quarrel, God was, in terms of his words, an escape point. It's just that: a center where they take shelter or move away to escape and escape! As much as the centrifugal force, it is a specific force that is both dominant and full of freedom! Wherever you hold it, what could I do but watch a burning paper disappear between my fingers without blowing it as a last resort? Was I supposed to be fooled by the myths that it was possible to get rid of the corridors of this black grayishness by willing to change it and to ignite the wicks of the dynamite I laid under my fear tunnel? Each question was a separate door to hell, and each door was conceived with the idea of ​​another hell behind it. I was carrying the emotions of a fly half-dead swimming in a fond bottle after a final design. The bottle was fond of being addicted, the fly being able to fly. Flying was fond of diligence, diligence was fond of an idea. To be able to admire was a fond of a being, the possibility of a non-being. Possibilities were fond of sound, and sound to the sight of being. The image appeared gradually. I wore a vest in my possession. I accepted this jacket because I could not find my dream coat. I could not say "no" to the old voice that said "Let me give you a coat, can you wear it, a very high quality coat". Once, even the devil inside me cannot know the duration of this period, I do not hesitate to get caught up in ideas and deeds. Although this was an object, it did not change. Even the objects have information, and when listened, they only whisper the same sentence: "We are alone, so lonely!"

I seemed to remember the anger and a little bit of revenge. I couldn't imagine that I would only respect the idea of ​​walking down the road, as if I had gotten rid of all these emotions. I was in the flow, not carelessly, but with a nice gift I had, caring and being aware that I took every step with consciousness. There must be a respect and a love channel that a person, not someone else, will have for himself! This is a bit closer to pampering yourself, but you learn by living that it is not at all. Life deserves some respect for that. It makes you eye-pleasing by making your own something valuable. Not for anyone, but for your own face and heart as long as you can see it in the mirror, it mumbles that you should not hesitate to express love for this reason. Being able to hear; Sometimes it is as natural as the rustling of leaves, and at other times it is like coloring the shadow of a city on the most basic architecture of its soul. Still, there is no more tragicomic call than talking about being happy in the maximal years of an age where you could not feel comfortable and even walking was prevented by masks. Who said I made this call to myself? No emotion comes closer and dearer than the silent economics of a being. I do not even question the economics part of the economy! Does a kitten who is separated from his mother and is struggling to be fed and raised lovingly in another home shouts 'mother, mother'? Every being that is not replaced appears in front of the living being after a point as an eddy study. Even a kitten at the most vulnerable time of its existence tends to view its human child as everything. While even a kitten can achieve this, for a person who sees his intelligence very sharply and claims that he uses his emotions proportionately, the subject of "silent iktasia of existence" cannot be anything but a transparent obstacle with impossible annoyances. While he is the only living person who is overwhelmed but does not see any problem in looking at life from the slopes of Kaf mountain, even a large lake is no different from a single drop of water in the face of his pride. After wanting to drown, even the drop should not be too much!

I walked from time to time looking at the sea, happy with the paper bag that could fit a book and what was inside, swinging in my hand. I could devote my life to the only thing that would exist in the continuation of a silent being, for the present day when speaking is as necessary and needed as possible. If a reputation was the famous intention demanded, I could have preferred a restraint as daunted as the devil in me. Because more than what I talked about seemed unnecessary after what I had gone through. What more information could keep me away from the deep consciousness of the restlessness? While appreciation alone is enough, not to see that much of it is the work of a harem-eating, gluttonous illusory, could be nothing more than privileging true blindness. Yet, am I being asked to feel guilty about my enjoyment; I have no place to escape! In the face of my semi-clever inappropriateness, who did not even know what material an imaginary sculpture would be made of, I could be relieved by fighting my ignorance and leaving the past to history and tomorrow to God. A silhouette's lips were parted in the window of freedom that opened to love: "If love is captive, you can digest even his departure, as long as you feel free!"

Then ‘it happened that I even thought that everything was created just for one thing; "I heard a mysterious voice saying" to hold on. " If it was a dream, I could easily forget it when I woke up. Every dream is nothing more than a bleak sleep interruption, at least not taken seriously. The most beneficial aspect of the truth was that the mind was open with the heart and eyes, and he made a sincere confession of his existence, his speech about the limits of endurance. This sounded close to the last swallowing of an overly discredited criminal government expert before apologizing. It belonged to one of those moments when a clean language added harmony to the voice, even speaking was worthy of poetry, and the poet gave up his fight with Allah for a while and listened to that voice. The rain had just subsided, and with one breath, I filled my lungs with that unique scent of the spring. I was in one of those rare moments when I felt joy like a person who had been away from his fears for a while. At any moment, I just wanted to walk up to my house of destruction. Home meant bondage for a time, often peace. The unique taste of just hearing the chirps of birds during the hours when everyone was asleep cheered my palate and my tongue filled with pleasure. No art movement was as vigorous as Mephisto, which the soul did not hesitate to capture with baroque chants: ‘If they feel disgusted, let them know my existence well! I am not the cause of fear, but I am wandering with mocking eyes, in the veins that give life to his eye. My name is at the top of the history that will write the deep traces of his forehead. My self myth about the maximal fate of not having it fully. They will neither be able to love you for being by your side, nor will they be able to raise their hands to pray in the air with sinless and complete faith! Doubt is as clear and colorful as it can be heard here. She stands with a curse that dazzles at the same time gnaws at the heart and desires to eradicate goodness. Who had humiliated you so much and dragged you after you to love you so much? Even if I am denied and accused, will you go to him? "

I never went to anyone, loved and owned anybody more than the devil in me. I was relieved as I excitedly opened the book and stacked the pages to the left. I didn't even need to be alarmed by the reality that was pinching me on my chest with its chin and big feet right on my nose. ‘What if you don't even need it? If Ethics urges you to turn to yourself, it makes the crime legal. What if it's the only essential option for living? What is all that is done then, other than aging on a wrong path? It is an enormous empire, without the need for a patronizing lover who needs to be convinced from the outside, the poisonous dagger that man stabs into his bosom as love! Still, it was spoken many times because it meant. No hair has ever felt so ticklish.

He was alone. Only alone. He was so lonely. I could understand the soul with eyes that hold me and read me. Mephisto was also spoken to those who took shelter in their own hearts without following the path of stupid people who destroyed all taboos and idols and cut the truth with their own self:

'And now alone ...!'