ways to survive
Ways to Survive First Published in 2020 Boston/Istanbul Printed by Ofset Yapımevi Poet Berna Kahraman Visual Artist Donna Haig Friedman Designer Anı Ekin Özdemir Digital Images Image Resolutions, Norwell, MA Further information waystosurvive.org ISBN 978-625-400-761-3
Contents 1. Opening windows 2. Threshold 3. A mystic, the secret and a poem 4. Ways to survive 5. Organization 6. In the stillness of the pause 7. The cathedral of junk 8. What is 9. Zen masters 10. Shadow 11. The archive 12. Balance 13. Borders 14. The man without a name 15. Mundane, I 16. On being 17. In between 18. A fish-bird 19. Chullachaqui 20. Ziran 21. Learning 22. A thousand faces
opening windows Locked up in dreams. Curious about opening windows. Who cares who cares about other dreams. I have called upon them all: my distant relatives. I listened to each of their stories of survival and revival and persistence. There was no room for desperation; with each story a new window opened.
June 2019, El Rocio
threshold A threshold, a non-place. Standing up, looking down. All the things you may be hanging somewhere. Poor you! They made you into all the things you can’t be. Poor you! They judge you with all the things you are not. Poor you! They won’t let you find, not even look around. Standing up, looking down at the threshold, a non-place. An escape; you can trip and fall. With no risk, there is no reward. Lean to one side, let the air flow. Lean to the other, let the air flow. When taking a break, breathing is easy at the threshold. Threshold people belong nowhere. Threshold people hang in there.
November 2017, Prague
a mystic, the secret and a poem
A mystic has a dream one day. In that dream, she receives the secret behind all existence. She sees, the secret is hidden in plain sight, but nobody else takes notice. And there she is, so lucky, in the middle of this place that gives her its taste. She wakes up and remembers that she had had a dream. In her dream, she had been in this place. And now in daylight what remains of this place is only bits and pieces. The mystic has also a taste in her mouth that makes her feel a burning thirst. The mystic’s task is to recollect the dream by writing a poem: The only thing she believes that will quench this thirst.
She starts writing the poem. As time passes she first forgets that she had had a dream. Still searching as the thirst gets only deeper. As time passes she forgets that she is searching yet the taste is still there. So is the thirst. So as time passes she writes more, but the taste stays there and the prickling thirst until she forgets, the mystic is writing a poem.
ways to survive I have arrived in this new place. Piles and piles of cotton dancing in the wind along the roadside. They remind me of, roots. Or rather what roots are. This fear is from your father; it comes together with the title deeds. This distance, from your grandmother; she kept her shields stainless steel. You are wise like your great-grandfather. Long gone are his cotton fields. Rashit Kâhîl, the cotton farmer, his nickname was ‘the Wise One’. So generous his love travelled through time and space bringing a warm embrace as the cotton he harvested from the hands of the Sun. Like Arjuna, Rashit Kâhîl stood still in the middle of a battle field. The guns were fired. He survived. But, in the end, he had to kill.
So how could Rashit, ‘the Wise One’ Kill! Or rather should we ask: What, truly, acquittal means? With all the burdens accrued on the right side how many ways are there to survive? How deep do your roots go? I hid mine under the fig tree and within the scent of a certain flower. I am searching for an alternative means of survival. I hid my roots under the fig tree and within the scent of a certain flower. What I hope to offer is some sweet figs and a mild, sunny breeze.
organization I organize everything. Everything is organized for me.
in the stillness of the pause*
Let’s meet there. In the stillness of the pause. And we can talk. About serious things. Like stumbling and falling. Let’s open the window. And watch ourselves. Crying.
Look me in the eye. Tell me. About fear. I am here. I will meet you. In the stillness of the pause. I will tell you. What crosses my mind. As it is. There it is. There is no fear.
Meet me. In the stillness of the pause. Let’s talk. About silly things. Like stumbling and falling. Let’s open the window. And watch ourselves. Laughing.
In the stillness of the pause. Hold me. Let’s stay there. Put. *Haemin Sunim
May 2018, Fethiye
the cathedral of junk Who would know that you would find serenity in the cathedral of junk. Things have found their place almost things, and things which established their destiny have found peace at the cathedral of junk. The black tire tired of turning still and fulfilled, sits. The blue dolphin met with the mermaid finally at the cathedral of junk. Things are bound together by more than strings. Quietly, the whole is more than the sum of its parts at the cathedral of junk. There is no striving and no need for running. Tickets are not numbered at the cathedral of junk. There is no striving and no need for running. Hours are not numbered at the cathedral of junk.
February 20, 2012, Austin
what is If I were to re-write the story I would paint the colors to match the ones that I have dreamed. Is that untruthful? You think! Which one tells more about the truth and the storyteller: To tell it as it is? Or to give the self to what is.
April 2019, Amasya
zen masters He says, “I’ve been riding so long,” his eyes wide open. He says, “It’s time I roll naturally. Like a Zen Master.” She says, “I’ve been riding so long,” her chest wide open. She says, “The journey goes on. For a Zen master.” He says, “I’ve been searching so long,” his chest wide open. He says, “I better let it come to me. Like a Zen Master.” She says, “I’ve been searching so long,” her eyes wide open. She says, “It’s all the same. For a Zen master.”
February 26, 2012, Aquinnah Cliffs
shadow Everything is gathered together. The only thing that is left outside is my shadow.
February 2017, Cappadocia
the archive I am rewriting my memories. I am recoloring them and changing all the names. I am making the sour sweet. I am recapturing the moment. Look! In my hand, there is a small bird. I will let it fly. I will only remember the feeling that feeling of relief when I let it fly. All the rest! Oh yes, let’s put it all in the archive.
November 2017, Rome
balance What I have is what I build one step after the other. I focus on what’s beyond the change of the hour. I keep the old [yet] I make space for the Newcomer. Truthful, I stay to what has been offered. I accept freely, I give without hesitation. My borders are evident [yet] my Pathway is open. Like an acrobat on a tightrope, this is how, I maintain balance. Truthful, I stay to what has been offered.
July 31, 2017, Île de Ré
borders As the sun is rising up, I hear the Imam announcing the funeral of the woman from the village who died last night. And I realize, as I was lying in this new bed at this new place sleeping an uncomfortable sleep, a woman was dying. Was she in her bed when she died? Unknown. Whether an uncomfortable death? Unknown. How long it took her before the last breath? Unknown. I open my eyes and shiver. If you let go of first rooftops and then walls, every single mundane moment, we are sharing space with dying people.
May 2019, Adrasan
the man without a name Oh, let me become the man Without a name Let me drop all the names that were given And those that I have taken Let me become the man Without a name Let me shed all the layers That I have built Let me destroy all the shelters That I hid in For there is no need for cover For a man without a name Let me go and not reach Let me find and let loose For there is no aim For a man without a name Let me burst out with joy Let me be shattered with pain For they are all the same For a man without a name
March 2018, Luxembourg
mundane, I I don’t try to stop the mundane from overtaking my little breaths anymore. For now, I understand the inevitability of repetition. I let it rule. Yes, I surrender. Yet, I don’t feel that I have been defeated. This is my new tactic! I let the mundane in. I become the mundane. Mundane I swims in the lake. Mundane I has a nice dinner. Mundane I talks to a man about mundane things. Mundane I reads a novel. Mundane I does everything with such ease and clarity. Mundane I is obedient and devoted. It asks no questions, and does it all over again. Breathe in, breathe out. Hey, Mundane I! How about a trip! Out of this World.
May 7, 2011, Somerville
on being Life is an intervention. Choose your intervention. Are you going to be the rock by the ocean? A comb of the wind. Are you going to be the air on top of a mountain? A dancer with the thrill. Are you going to be the metal that makes into a perfect sword? Slaying without hesitating. Are you going to be the fire that ignites a storm? The end in the beginning. Are you going to be the tree at a desert? An expert on giving and receiving. Are you going to be? Are you going to keep on striving?
July 2018, San Sebastian
in between A word is hanging on the wire. Suspicious of its fate, the word looks behind. “We can’t help you,” they say. The word says, “I understand,” and takes a step back. The wire shakes. The word says, “Wait! I need more time.” “Take your time,” a bird on the wire says. The word asks: “Do you know the meaning of freedom?” The bird says, “Oh, I know it well; I once was an egg in a nest, now I have wings, I can fly.” The word says, “I don’t have wings, can I fly?” The bird says, “Sorry, I can’t help you,” and flies away.
The word stays on the wire. Summer arrives. The sun shines. The word looks at the sun. The sun smiles at the word. “Time and light,” the Sun says, “are one and the same.” The word dissolves.
a fish-bird
 Flowing with the water light as a piece of cotton wrapped in the Mediterranean breeze. Belonging nowhere being everywhere spreading my fins. One eye in the east the other in the west in awe I watch this world spin. My roots are invisible. I leave a smile where the sky and the earth meet.
October 2018, Kavala
Chullachaqui Are you ready to discover what your ancestors left undone? Get on your feet. Seeking without seeking. You will be guided by your dreams. Don’t take any weight on. You have to be empty in order to be filled. A reflection of your self that has no memories. Learning without learning. Guided only by your dreams. Don’t be afraid to wander around. Fear is your scar and your salve. On the journey to rediscover your real name, remembering is forgetting.
November 2018, Barcelona
ziran Borders are made up. They exist both inside and outside. The more you believe the ones inside, the more you depend on the ones outside. Make sure you expand those borders. Let go of all names and titles. Let freedom unfold. By accepting yourself naked. If you are not sure of yourself, and you may very well be, just watch Mother Earth closely. The best mirror you will find. Accepting infinitely. Looking for a monument? Feel free to build your own. A strong anchor that will keep you holding on.
Don’t fall into rituals. Lead, rather, a ritualistic life. Remember, even on dark days, you are surrounded with light. Close your eyes. Look inside you. Bathe in the light. There. There is no self. There is no other. Here. You are love. And you are loved.
For my sons, Güneş & Dalyan
learning I learn by heart what I learn. What I learn I learn by heart.
a thousand faces Choose my face among the thousand faces that you have. Whisper my name. Promise! I will be there.