Lethe vol3 by ufuk yilmaz

Lethe VOLUME III

Founded in 2011, Lethe is an annual magazine produced by students at Koรง University. The magazine editors can be reached at lethemagazine@gmail.com

College of Social Sciences and Humanities Koç University

Faculty Mentor Lia Mccoskey (Academic Writing) Student Editorial Staff Eylül Tunç, Pınar Türer Cover Design Suzy Asa Special Thanks to Ufuk Küçükyılmaz, Umur Çelikyay

Printed in İstanbul 2015

Table of Contents Yokuş / Suzy Asa ...............................................................................................5 Göbek / Suzy Asa ..............................................................................................6 Eylül Tunç / Artık Geçti .....................................................................................7 Pınar Türer / Blue Lilies ....................................................................................9 Ahmet Manav / Stargazer .............................................................................. 19 Tuğçe Özateş / Solitude ..................................................................................23 Cihan Köseoğlu / Abstract Sun .......................................................................25 Tuğçe Özateş / L'esprit-d'escalier ....................................................................27 Suzy Asa / Gece ...............................................................................................29 Suzy Asa / Soyulmak ....................................................................................... 31 Tuğçe Özateş / Tête-chaotique ........................................................................ 33 Hasan Basri Çiftçi / Faces of İstanbul ............................................................ 35 Eylül Tunç / Çekik ........................................................................................... 43 Eylül Tunç / Eksik ...........................................................................................44 Tuğçe Özateş / Nu .......................................................................................... 45 Cansu Mumcu / Untitled ................................................................................ 47

Eylül Tunç / Angers ......................................................................................... 51 Pınar Türer / Victoria ..................................................................................... 53 Suzy Asa / Soyunmak I ................................................................................... 55 Suzy Asa / Soyunmak II .................................................................................. 57 Blake Shedd / poem ........................................................................................59 Blake Shedd / poem ........................................................................................ 61 Eylül Tunç / Branches ..................................................................................... 63 Pınar Türer / Başlıksız ....................................................................................65 Suzy Asa / Gun ...............................................................................................66

Yokuş* anlar için yaşarken anılarla öpüşmemiz ne anlamsız ne insanca dönüp dönüp sana çıkmaktır bu dönüp dönüp bana...

Suzy Asa

Göbek* sana dayanıp rüya seslerini dinlemek istiyorum kabuklusun bana dayanıp rüya seslerimi gıdıklıyorsun kabukluyum uyanıp rüya seslerini unutuyoruz kabuk; en yumuşak yerinden kırılıyor. yasaların devreye giriyor yasasızlık askıda askı bende ben küçüğüm, sen minicik, kabuklar kabuklar, kocaman askılıklar

Suzy Asa

Eylül Tunç

Artık Geçti 7

Blue Lilies

he evening sun softly crept into the room through the half-drawn curtains, making a small part of the floral bedspread burn with a sad glitter. She pinned her hair back on both sides, letting the golden curls hang loosely behind her ears. When the doorbell rang, she was pinching her cheeks in front of the mirror to redden them a little; she had never used rouge in her life, and she was proud of it. She quickly adjusted her dress one more time and went to the door. Pink lips curved with a smile, she turned the doorknob. As she uttered the usual welcoming words, her husband glanced quickly at her, tired yet content with how he was received. “You look beautiful” he said, approving the fair, young figure next to him, then moving towards the sofa, loosening his tie. As he dropped himself among the cushions, her eyes glowed slightly with pleasure: “Oh, I just wanted to look less like a cleaning lady. I was dealing with a lot today. But everything is orderly now.” Her face looked a little older for a second, and she sat next to him. He didn’t say anything, they seemed unable to share the silence that filled the living room. “Are you hungry?” asked Annie. “I made your favorite today. I can set the table in a minute.” He answered with his eyes closed, head thrown back upon the stiff cushion: “I am starving, actually. Let me go change, and we’ll eat.” As he got off the sofa, she turned her face towards the kitchen door, muttering an “Okay” in her little mouth. She put her hands on her knees, and felt the cotton fabric of the skirt with her fingers. This is getting shabby, she thought to herself, as she spotted the dark stain on the pale blue fabric again. She hadn’t managed to get rid of it so far. Pressing

Pınar Türer her hands on the sofa, she lifted her chin up and headed towards the kitchen with hasty steps. She was looking expectantly at her husband, slowly chewing her food. After a while, Walter realized she was waiting and his lips bent with a lofty, gentle smile. “It is delicious, darling” he remarked. After a contented pause, Annie replied coyly: “I’m glad you liked it. You know you are lucky to have me, don’t you?” Walter’s grin grew, he put down his fork and reached for Annie’s left hand, standing pale and fragile on the table. “I don’t know what I would do without you, believe me.” With a smile stuck on his lips, he drew away his hand and focused on his plate again. Soon enough, they were finished with their dinner, and Annie was doing the dishes by the tiny sink. After leaving the dishes to dry, she wiped her hands on her apron. Walter was in the living room, struggling with the radio again. The look of his large, well-built body by the little radio was amusing. But their battle ended with him finally getting the channel on. “Finally!” he exclaimed, then turned towards the kitchen: “Come on honey, it’s time for some good tunes.” Annie pulled off her apron and placed it on the hook glued to the whitewashed wall. She entered the living room as if she was attending a ball, placing her little feet carefully on the floor. Walter stood still in the nearly empty space of the living room, facing his wife. His hands folded behind his back, he pushed the coffee table aside with his foot, all the time pretending to restrain his elfin grin. Annie was giggling in front of him. Her eyes waited on his, with a spark of boldness taking control of their light. He held out his hand as the music filled every empty corner in the room. She let her hand drop into Walter’s, gracefully finding her way into his arms. The woman on the radio was singing the chorus now, asking for a tender lover through a melody adorned with a silvery voice. They began to dance, careful at every step to avoid hitting the coffee table, or the shelf

Blue Lilies nailed on the wall beside them. All the while they were either laughing loudly or smiling in peace. In harmony with the music, their bodies floated through the half empty living room. The light was dim, and they occasionally stepped on each other’s foot, especially Annie. But Walter was an excellent dancer, leading his wife just the right way. She felt like a swan in his arms, spinning and swaying, and always finding herself safe back in her husband’s arms. As the singer hit the highest note of the song, Walter picked her up, and spun her above him. Annie laughed merrily. When her feet were on the ground, she tried to balance herself, but Walter held her tight around the waist. She was still now, looking down with her face flushing. He lifted her chin with his fingers. Annie felt the contrast of his roughened fingertips on her soft skin. Before she lifted her eyelashes to look at her husband in the eye, he placed a kiss on her lips. Holding her breath, Annie stood motionless until Walter stepped back. He tilted his head back, looking at Annie with eyes half closed: “What do you say we go to bed now, darling?” he asked. Annie tried to lift the corners of her lips, blinking her eyes like she was hiding something behind them. On the radio, a woman with a deep voice was singing about her sorrowful life. She nodded her head. “Alright then.” Walter said. “Let me turn this off.” He reached for the tiny box, and the deep voice of the woman was drowned. Annie was in the bedroom, putting on her nightgown. The room looked mysterious with the dim light of the reading lamp on the nightstand. Some parts of the walls remained veiled with the shadows. Walter got under the blanket, and Annie followed him after she finished brushing her hair. She switched off the lamp. The smell of clean sheets reached her as she laid herself on the bed. “Goodnight darling” she smiled to Walter in the dark, and turned her face to the wall. The silence in the room was unsteady. She took a deep breath, trying to get comfortable. Behind her, she heard Walter

Pınar Türer moving. Her eyes were open, staring into the darkness. Then she felt his fingers on her arms, slowly moving from shoulder to elbow. He moved closer and wrapped his arm around her waist, and inhaled the air left amidst her hair. His hand went on and reached her thighs. Annie was forcing herself to make a move towards her husband. So it’s one of those nights then, she thought to herself and remembered the song about the tender lover on the radio. She closed her eyes and with guilt, and tried to feel better as Walter turned her body towards him. She felt his heart beat against her chest, and put her arms around his neck. Her body was so small in his hands, and the fresh smell of the sheets was getting fainter. Annie tried to inhale what was left of it, and fixed her eyes on the wall that was now gently illuminated with the moon. Later, Walter was lying asleep beside her. She lay still, looking at the ceiling, her hair spread on the pillow, her curls now deprived of air. She looked at him with tired eyes, and the corner of her mouth rose. Annie touched her husband’s serene face, gently tracing its lines; she felt jealousy wrenching her stomach. With a roaring sound of a car outside, she yearned for a dream that night, and turned around to let herself sink into sleep. The next morning Annie was sitting on the sofa stitching a rip on her apron. Through the open window, she could hear the birds outside in the garden twittering. Walter had been out for a few hours, and she tried to keep herself busy. But there is not much to do, since she was already done with the chores. Finished with the apron in her hands, she leaned back on the cushions and watched the house that was empty and still. Throwing her head back with a heavy breath leaving her lips, she decided to listen to some music and left the apron in the kitchen. Before she reached the shelf where the radio stood, she halted for a second, looking around uneasily. Then she went to the bedroom and approached the wardrobe. Under a pile of sheets, she pulled out a bundle tightly tied with a rope. She hastily returned to the

Blue Lilies living room and left the bundle on the sofa to switch on the radio. Soft notes filled the room immediately. She turned the volume down, and couldn’t help but let a tremulous grin spread over her face. She quickly untied the rope on the package. On the faded green of the sofa lay open the bundle, full of handwork embroidery. Annie sat right next to the pile and went through them with swift hands. Deciding on one of the unfinished pieces, she went to the kitchen and picked up the tin box where she kept her embroidery tools. Her lips moved slowly with the melody that floated in the room, as her hands remained busy. The living room was full of light, accompanied by the fresh air softly covering the few pieces of furniture, each looking dismally detached from one another. The needle between her fingers moved across the cloth on her lap, slowly forming blue calla lilies. Her hair was gathered up in a bun that day, but the golden curls had let themselves loose on both sides of her head, framing her pale face. With the sudden sound of the doorbell, Annie lifted her head in panic and glanced quickly to the clock on the wall. Her breath left her chest in relief as she put her work aside. At the door stood Karen, a skinny woman in her thirties with long ginger hair that fell down her narrow shoulders. She was wearing a kind of smile that gave Annie a feeling of intimacy. She invited Karen in with the same smile, although she wasn’t aware of it, and followed her to the living room, all the while mildly checking for any open curtain on the windows. “Oh please, don’t stand like a stranger, sit” Annie remarked politely. Karen seated herself on the sofa while Annie placed the pile of embroidery on the coffee table. “Thank you dear.” Her eyes found Annie’s with warmth: “Oh, It’s wonderful to see you! How are you doing?” “I’m doing fine” Annie answered carefully. She was unknowingly trying to imitate her neighbor’s friendliness. But like every time she had a visitor alone, she kept hearing her husband’s voice, and curt warnings filled her

Pınar Türer ears. But here Karen was, sitting in front of her, as kind as she was, Annie thought, What kind of harm could come from that tiny woman? But soon she realized that her gaze was on Karen for a while. She felt ashamed and lowered her eyes. “Are you sure Annie? Because you know you can talk to me. It is not easy to handle what you’ve just been through.” Karen’s voice was soft and cautious. Yet Annie was bothered that the matter was out in the open again. A feeling of bitterness shadowed her eyes. She impetuously replied: “I think I am handling it quite well. I have still Walter to care about, and he is the best husband that a woman can have.” Her pride sounded weak in her taut voice. Fearing that Karen would realize her uneasiness, she stood as still as possible and fixed her eyes on the coffee table. Maybe Walter is right, she thought, Maybe women here are trying to break our marriage, and here they find a weak spot! But her neighbor couldn’t understand her sudden reaction. She looked at Annie with her eyebrows raised, but then quickly tried to lighten the mood: “Of course, honey. I know how strong you are.” Holding a broad smile on her lips, she added: “And how gifted. I assume you are already finished with my handkerchiefs.” Karen giggled softly as she calmly waited for Annie to look at her. Her hands folded together on her lap, Annie turned her head towards Karen. She realized the music had become jollier. Her eyes were slowly losing the blur that covered them, and she let her mouth arch with a timid smile: “Of course! They have been ready for two days now.” She leaned and picked the bundle up from the table. Making sure to handle the right pack of handkerchiefs, Annie took a piece of ribbon out from the tin can and tied them carefully: “Here you go.” Karen took the little package and looked over the handkerchiefs with amazement. A sincere courtesy in her voice, she put her hand on Annie’s: “Honey they are wonderful! I don’t still understand why you don’t think about expanding this as a little business, though.” Karen paused and drew

Blue Lilies her hand away. The air stood stiff between them. “Oh, this is nothing like that.” Annie said, tilting her head a little with subtle traces of guilt in her voice . “I like doing these, but there is no need for more, you know?” Her fingers slightly went back and forth on the timeworn fabric of the sofa, she glanced at the watch. Karen took the hint, she looked at Annie like she found smiling difficult now: “You are the boss.”. She put the pack of handkerchiefs in her purse and took out some money, then left the folded bills on the coffee table. “Just be okay, alright? And maybe go out more often.” She inspected Annie’s face with a feeling that made herself think maybe she went too far this time. Not wanting to make her host feel uncomfortable, she quickly went on: “You deserve to be happy, Annie. It’s just that.” “I am happy.” Annie said defensively, staring at her guest with confused and resentful eyes. Karen lowered her eyes and calmly got up from the sofa. After a short, yet heavy pause, Annie got up too and showed Karen to the door. She carefully placed a polite smile on her face as she opened the door for her, yet they both knew it was a fake one. After closing the door, Annie waited hesitantly for a minute. Then she turned around and leaned her back against the door. Her eyes were still, locked on the moldy ceiling. She heard the music coming faintly from the radio, and Walter’s voice mixed with the lyrics which made it sound like the singer was articulating something from a far away place. She was trying to mess with my mind because she is jealous of our marriage. Annie heard in her mind, Why else would she imply that I’m unhappy? Her face contorted in fierce resentment. She moved away from the door and into the house. Her steps were like a ghost’s. But she looks like such a sweet lady, nothing like a home-wrecker, she felt her inner voice buzz. Standing in the corner of the living room, Annie rested her eyes on the simple view of the place. She couldn’t resist remembering the laughter of little babies accompanying the

Pınar Türer music. The moment she pictured them in their crib, tears filled her eyes. The empty space in that corner agitated her more than ever. She bit her lip, and let the air in her lungs remain there for as long as possible. Finally exhaling with a pain in her chest, she walked to the chair beside the window. As she sat staring at the street, her body gradually became less firm, and the youthful sparkle in her eyes grew paler. Her face reflected the remains of a battlefield, guilt moved about on it. Unsure of how long she had been sitting there, Annie jumped at the sound of the doorbell. She hazily looked around and headed towards the front door mechanically. She had a dreamy look on her face, but her limbs moved in the usual way. She calmly turned the doorknob and saw Walter standing there. The pale warm light of the sun rested on her face through the open door. Her body was briefly illuminated, and she inhaled the evening breeze that had arrived on their doorstep, playing with the fallen leaves, before she closed the door again. She took off her husband’s coat: “You look tired, darling.” Walter moved slowly: “I am, Annie. I am exhausted.” He walked towards the bedroom, calling with his gruff voice as he went: “Would you be a good wife and set the table?” Annie talked to herself as she went to the kitchen, her breath clouding the words: “Sure, I can do that.” She put on an apron and started putting yesterday’s leftovers on the table. Just as she placed two plates on the wooden table, Annie heard her husband’s voice coming from the living room. “Annie!” he roared. Hesitantly standing in the middle of the kitchen, Annie didn’t know what was going on, but she was scared. Her hands began to sweat as she went to the living room. “What is this?” Walter was asking, trying to control his voice that got tense and loud. He held out the folded bills in one hand, and a piece of embroidery in the other. Annie immediately started to curse in her closed mouth, “How could I forget and leave those out in the open?” She remembered Karen, and

Blue Lilies her stomach crumpled with revulsion. She lowered her head to hide the anger in her eyes. She could not be angry. “You are selling these things to those dirty women, aren’t you Annie?” Walter went on as he raised his voice, his face looked stiff in front of Annie. She struggled to open her mouth to let out the words: “I was just trying to make our life better.” But as soon as she heard these words, she knew they were the wrong ones. “Better?” Walter yelled, “So you think our life is not good enough now? And that’s because I can’t make enough money, huh?” His face was now red with rage. “You know I don’t think that!” Annie tried to talk clearly, but her voice was too thin and shaky. She walked hastily to the open window and closed it, her hands shaking. She could not handle judgmental glances thrown in her way in the market. She stepped into the bedroom, leaving the softness of the notes behind. Her pale face was veiled in a flush as she closed the door and went towards the dresser. Tucking her curls behind her ears, she pulled a drawer out with all her strength, and emptied it on the bed. Then she started to organize the pile of cloths on the bed, putting them carefully into the drawer again. Annie took her time in the bedroom, all the while listening to the thunderlike exclamations of her husband. While the tumbling sound came from behind the door, she filled her lungs with the thick air that had been trapped in the room all day. Her closed lips slightly separated as her small hands moved continuously. After some time, she realized the storm had passed. Cautiously, she opened the door and walked into the living room. Looking around, Annie saw the radio on the floor, small pieces of it scattered on the ground. Her lips arched, as if to act out the irony. She realized Walter was sitting on the sofa, and went to him very slowly: “Would you like to eat something, Walter?” her voice

Pınar Türer was moderated with unuttered apologies. “No, I would not.” Walter replied curtly. Annie walked shyly away, and entered the kitchen. She looked around for a while, her eyes shone with two drops of tears stuck in each of them. Annie kept them there. She took off her apron and threw it over a chair. Outside the wind was blowing hard, scattering leaves and dirt throughout the street. Annie tried to imagine what she would hear if she had been out there. Maybe the sound of the wind was jollier than the melodies that once came from the radio. She dreamt of the chill that would caress her tenderly while she stood in the middle of the large garden in front of the house, covered in the green grass that held little blue flowers. She pictured herself, hair ruffled by the wind as the leaves of the trees spinned around her feet. A sudden gust of wind shook the window pane, and Annie saw the leaves spinning towards up the sky. She placed her gaze on the kitchen table, and breathed in the silence.

K Pınar Türer

Stargazer

’m waiting in my cold cell, looking out the small window to a canvas of countless constellations. It was under these stars that I first felt love and all it’s pleasures. It was under these stars I left the house of my childhood, to find a home of my own. Under these stars I was baptised, basking in the moonlight. It is only fitting that my life would come to an end with the sunrise. Just as the stars faded, so would I. You are free to choose whatever life to live or life to lose, and I’ve made my choice. I made my choice as I looked into her eyes. I still remember every last detail, how she smiled without a care in the world, how her dark blue eyes drank the starlight. I remember how little everything mattered, everything but her eyes and smile. I was starblinded by the light of her eyes, and for the first time in my life, I was not afraid. I’m waiting in my cold cell when the bell begins to chime, and the sands of time for me are running low. As the priest comes in to read me the last rites, I take a look through the bars at the last sights of a world that has gone very wrong for me. At the last, sights of the fading stars... I bow my head and listen in silence. His cross pendant catches the light of dawn, just as another pendant that belonged to another man in another life caught the light of dusk. That man had stars in his eyes, just as she had the sun. All stars die as the sun rises, even the brightest ones, and his eyes were no exception.

Ahmet Manav I snap out of my thoughts as the priest ends his prayer with a beckoning sound. My lips open, but no words follow. That’s when I realise that I was silent the whole time, that the words escaped me when I tried to speak. When I tried to tell him before the stars left his eyes... Tears flow, but why am I crying? After all I’m not afraid of dying—don’t I believe that there never is an end? It’s so hard to stop the surmounting terror. This is really the end, not some crazy dream. I’m not going to wake up to the smell of dry leaves on her hair. I’m not going to wake up to her warm smile. Now that I think of it, maybe I never did... As the sun breaks above the ground, I rise up from my chair. I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder, offering warmth and forgiveness. There could be no forgiveness for a man such as me. I am but an arrogant fool who tried to cross God’s domain. I flew too close to the sun, and like Icarus before me, I got burnt. Or so the legend goes. As I flew towards the sun, I was not afraid. As I am falling, fear is all that I can feel. As the guards march me out to the courtyard, all the prisoners move up to the bars of their cells. It’s all too like a parade. I am marching with death as company and the crowd is watching us in amazement, their faces glowing in an eerie light. I see the face of my father in that crowd, the face of every man I ever knew. I see their eyes, shining with stars and blazing with fire. There is no sun in their eyes. They are alive after all. This is the place where sun comes to die... Somebody cries from a cell, “God be with you!”. If there is a God, why has he let me go? As I walk, my life drifts before me. All my joys, all my woes, all my rights, and all my wrongs... How little everything matters, everything but

Stargazer the stars in his eyes. I think I will miss the stars the most, I will miss them more than the sun. It is only fitting that my life would come to an end with the sunrise. Just as the stars fade, so will I. As the gates open, the sun pierces my eyes. I lower my gaze down to the ground and start my silent march towards the gallows pole, one foot after the other. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help but remember an old nursery rhyme my sister used to sing me to sleep. I brought no silver, I brought no gold. I brought nothing to save me from the gallows pole. As I walk over a shallow pool of water, I catch a glimpse of my eyes. They look just like his eyes did when I removed my hands from around his neck. Cold, starless, dead... It is true after all, when you look into the abyss, the abyss looks into you. It was the abyss I saw in his eyes, the death of stars, the end of a life... There are no stars inside the abyss, there could be no life. As her sun rose upon the night, our stars died. Mark my words: believe my soul lives on. Do not worry that I have gone, for Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve gone beyond to seek the truth. When you know your time is close at hand, maybe then youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll begin to understand... that life down here is just a strange illusion.

K Ahmet Manav

Tuğçe Özateş

Solitude 23

Abstract Sun Glory, Majesty, Unity I had no time to leave here Got no faith in sympathy Nobodyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s home to meet me again There ainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t no time to miss your face Breathing the air feels so strange Watching the sky and oceans meet where I left myself Let the rain wash my sorrow away Let the guilt just make you stay Let the memory of my face keep you awake Till the lights of day Whats left of us is gone Just a vast empty void We never bothered to fill again

Abstract Sun I hope deep down you’re pleased You kept your smiles away from me Tearing apart the fading pictures of our shiny days Let the rain wash my sorrow away Let peace and love make you stay Let the memory of my skin keep you awake Till the lights of day Soon we will be gone Back where we belong Venice is calling Onwards we carry on Candles are lit, the raft is sailing Tears won’t save the day We need a place to hide from this world Surrender, and hold my arms Let the rain wash my sorrow away Let our past make us stay Let the memory of our love keep you awake Till the lights of day

Cihan Köseoğlu 26

Tuğçe Özateş

L'esprit-d'escalier 27

Gece Hala ahenksizliğin ahengiyle uyuyuyoruz, aynı yastıklarda* bir iz vardı eline aitti sana değil gelip çalmış gibiydin onu bulmuş gibiydin. -uçsuz bucaksız bir tarlanın korkuluğunu almış eline hapsetmiş!bir başaktı o, tutuşmuştuk onunla, hatırlamazsın. sahi motosiklet kazası niye demistin niye çaldığını söylememiştin? niye tarla niye kork -ulu -k

Suzy Asa 29

Suzy Asa

Soyulmak 31

Tuğçe Özateş

Tête-chaotique 33

Faces of Istanbul

his morning, I woke up with the excitement and the fear of seeing Orhan Pamuk in my dream. When we were on a bus from Erzurum to Kars, exactly the same bus as in his novel Snow, the novelist who I followed closely said that he had a big problem. The bus was motionless. Due to the coldness, the windows of the bus were freezing slowly, and the citizens of Erzurum were going ahead with their daily lives. The dark sky was mixed up in the darkness of the city and in the possible darkness of Orhanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s problem. I got myself ready for sad news before he started to talk. It was as I expected. He looked at my face, shuttered like a shy kid, then said these four words that I could not forget easily: â&#x20AC;&#x153;I cannot write anymore.â&#x20AC;? Anymore. His last word was an adverb. The meaning of the adverb did not impress me so much. However, I wanted to not think about that issue, and I tried to find something different outside of the bus. I gave an eye to the street, and saw the old chestnut-seller. As a photographer, I always think of details as significant things to understanding the world. The chestnutseller was great to see the details. While he was smoking, he seemed tired due to the darkness of the city. His coat was worn, and he was trying to warm himself by the stove that he used to cook chestnuts. For a while, I could not distinguish the yellow cigarette filter from his yellow teeth. When I saw a young customer who could not easily decide to buy chestnuts, I lost my attention to the details of the chestnut-seller. At that moment, I realized that Orhan was seeing the same scenery as me. Also, he was crying. He could

Hasan Basri Çifçi not write anymore. Perhaps, he would write the story of the chestnut-seller in a different style. In the future, I will never learn how he would write this story, and what he would say about the yellow cigarette filter in the yellow mouth of the seller. Write. The other word that he used was a verb. I did not expect to hear this verb when I went to bed last night. When I woke up, I did not know whether I was coming or going. If someone saw me in the bed as I was trying to understand where I was, he would think that I was stupid. I looked at the nightstand on the left side of the bed, and I saw the book by Orhan, The Black Book, and a magical book by Latife Tekin, Berji Kristin: Stories of the Garbage Hills. I realized that I should finish reading these two books as soon as possible. After the dream, I was now the confidant of Orhan. I feared that Orhan’s writing would come to an end, and the excitement of seeing him in so desperate a mood. I could not forget the four words I had heard. Orhan could not write anymore. He could not tell the story of the old worldly-wise lady who keeps living as a beggar, and hides all the emotions behind her wrinkled and sad face; he could not tell of the guy who has an irritating voice and knows all of the bus drivers in the city that would let him travel free of charge. Orhan also could not tell the story of the policemen in plain clothes who pretended to like three old friends, even though they did not know each other, or of the literature teacher at the German college who expected respect from her students, and cried when her expectations were not satisfied. When I first read a novel by Orhan Pamuk, I had been studying in university for just three months. The first book by him that I read was The New Life. I was mesmerized. Even the first page of the book convinced me that I should continue to read this guy. The book starts with these two sentences: “I read a book one day and my whole life was changed. Even on the

Faces of Istanbul first page I was so affected by the book’s intensity I felt my body sever itself and pull away from the chair where I sat reading the book that lay before me on the table.” The book that the main character read was exactly the same as The New Life was for me. I read the book in one day and something changed in my life. I was not only living in Istanbul, but I was also enjoying realizing all the details of Istanbul. Istanbul became a city where all the details should be captured meticulously. It was Orhan who made me feel like this. I could not give in to the probability of the loss of his writing abilities. I read the books by Orhan unceasingly. After I had read The New Life, I read Snow which I saw in my dream this morning. While I was studying in university, I added The Museum of Innocence, My Father’s Suitcase and Istanbul: Memories and the City to my reading list, and The Black Book was waiting for its turn on my nightstand. After the puffiness in my pants fell down, I tried to get out of the bed again. I was more conscious then, which simply meant if someone saw me in that situation no one would think that I was stupid anymore. I went to the bathroom to wash my face. I turned on the tap, and swiftly splashed the water from my palm to my face. The loss of writing abilities for a writer is similar to a loss of voice for a singer, a stroke for a dancer, cut fingers for a carpenter. The readers who follow the writer who cannot write anymore would come to a quandary, and would feel like they lost a close relative. A fan of the singer, an amateur dancer who believes that she would be like the stroke-dancer or the wife of the carpenter probably would feel like this. While Orhan’s words were echoing in my mind, I had a selfish question: what would I do? I splashed the water to my face more swiftly. I could not accept that the writer who made my city a city of literature could not write, but I had to. The streets of Istanbul, the Bosphorus, the tramways, the stuffed mussel sellers, the brokers in the bus terminal, the

Hasan Basri Çifçi street performers… Everything like this should be shared with somebody somewhere. I decided to ask myself a different question: what should I do? I splashed the water on my face one last time. Once, I had tried to write a story. The relationship between mother and children was the main theme, and I created an utopic world for my story. But it was not as good as in my mind; it could have been better. After my failure, I understood that writing was not my job, and what I could do to keep the literary influence was to read more and more. It was in my first year at the university that I attempted to write a story. As I mentioned before, I had started to read Orhan’s books at the same time. So the decision about reading was not difficult for me. Because after I had finished one book, I found another, and if I could not find one, it was a good enough reason to go mad. Reading became a vital necessity for me. I looked in the mirror, and smiled to myself. I was happy to remember my university days. While I was drying my face with a towel, I heard the voice of Orhan again, and became stressed. When I came back to the room, I saw the camera on the table, which was placed by someone like God. Actually, it was not God. I realized that it was me who put the camera there after I had come from the birthday party of my friend of seven years, Talha. We had celebrated it in an underground bar on Istiklal Street. I put the camera there because I would back up the photos from last night on my computer. I took portraits of all the participants, and decided to make a catalog with them, and give it as a present to Talha. At that time, I produced a new idea and I would be grateful for finding such a great idea in the future. If Orhan was not be able to write, and I already failed at writing a story, why not take photos of some noteworthy things? Taking photos was my life, actually. It was my major, and I did not know anything better than that. “If I record something,

Faces of Istanbul somebody can write it them one day,” I said to myself. What I should do is record the “hüzün1” of Istanbul. Thus, I had a chance to silence the voice of Orhan in my mind, and to annihilate the sadness about the fact that he could not write, and to not care about the probability of losing the “hüzün” of Istanbul in literature. I threw myself to the street. Gabriel Garcia Márquez died, and he could not write anymore. But the story of his melancholy whores2 continues to live and they have told their stories for years. Goethe is also dead, but Young Werther has not given up saying that “A tiny piece of land is enough to enjoy the life”. I was sorry that Orhan could not write, because a writer who had lost his pen before he died was completely different from a writer who could not write anymore because of his death. To enjoy life as Werther said was possible through writing for great writers like Goethe or Márquez. The activity of writing was the source of their lives, and they could not give up their pens that easily. They did not like the world. They needed a new and different tiny piece of land, because they did not have any. They had to create their own world and own reality, otherwise they had to accept falling between the cracks. On this basis, the acceptance of Orhan’s situation was like a betrayal of him. So the death of Goethe or Márquez was not too similar to Orhan’s problem that he shared with me in my dream. It was just a dream, not reality. While I was sitting on the subway, I started to think about why I took it so seriously. The subway was going to the Taksim Square. Like my dream, Kemal Basmacı who was the main character in The Museum of Innocence was not real, but he was there, he was living, and he was telling his story. K. in the Snow was also real. We 1

Hüzün: A Turkish word means sadness, Orhan Pamuk uses this word to describe the city of Istanbul.

“Memories of My Melancholy Whores” is the last novel written by Gabriel Garcia Márquez (1927 – 2014).

Hasan Basri Çifçi walked in the streets of Kars. He told his story to me. Even so, it was unreal at the same time. Novels, characters, stories… etc. were not real. All these kind of things were fiction. But “fiction” is a word which has a different reality inside it. I believed in this reality in my first year of the university, and to say that there was no reality in fiction was meaningless. So, it was my responsibility to record the reality of the outside. By recording the city of Istanbul, I was giving writers like Orhan a chance to interpret it from the reality outside of fiction. When I arrived in Taksim Square, I took my first photos and realized the the other side of Istanbul. In every corner of the square, there were many people who were carrying the “hüzün” of the downfall of empires, of the tiredness of the city, and of bad straits on their faces. Their faces were brown like the brownness of the Anatolian soil. At that moment, I realized the importance of what I was doing, and my idea about the reality of fiction became stronger. There were too many people to take photos of them all. Let the photos of people from various places of Istanbul tell the rest of the story.

K Hasan Basri Çifçi

Faces of Istanbul

Hasan Basri ร ifรงi

Çekik Senin gözlerin çekik Orada düşüşlerimiz gizli Bana kırılganlıkların kaz ayaklarında uyuyor kirpiklerinden dökülen ninniler bekliyor başucunda İzin vermiyorsun seni sevmeme Sevişirken yok oluyoruz ve Puff! Sen ben o Onlar onlar Onlar Sen izin vermiyorsun ve Çekiliyor gözlerimden sular

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Eksik Dokunuyorum sana Parmak uçlarımdan cinayetler geçiyor Bu, dudaklarının suçudur Dokunuyorsun bana Şarkılar söylüyoruz beraber Tüm la ve si notalarında En tiz yerlerimden öpüyorsun beni

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Tuğçe Özateş

Nü 45

he was just nineteen years old when her mother died. Life gave her the worst pain ever and she experienced it very early. She was my best friend and I could not decide how to talk to or what to say to her. No one knew what to do for her. It was the first day of their new life and nothing would remain the same as in the past. Her mother was seriously ill, she had a malignant tumor in her liver. Three years ago she had an operation and doctors treated her with chemotherapy. After a long treatment period she recruited her health again. The next two years passed normally, but under doctor control. She could not escape from doctors and hospitals because her blood tests were alarming again. The bad news arrived one more time, and the result of the tests was metastasis. This time the doctors suggested no operation, just treatment with medicine. It looked like she was getting better day by day. The most important thing was she never gave up. She struggled for her only child, for her family, and for herself. People who did not know of her illness would never have said that she was ill. She was so cheerful and was still very kind to life. It was her birthday on the 20th of November. She was forty four. Her family and her friends organized a little party for her. Who could know that it was the last day that she would seem like a healthy woman? Who could know that it was her last birthday? My friend invited me too because we had known each other for fifteen years. I went to the party and I witnessed the happiness of the whole family.

Cansu Mumcu We were eating our dinner, drinking wine, singing, and dancing. It was a very enjoyable night for everyone. It was a weekday, so I left a little earlier because the next day I had an early class. My friend did not come to the class the next morning. When I called her, I learned that they were in the hospital because her mother had been bleeding. Her mother stayed in the hospital for three weeks because her bleeding would not stop. Doctors gave her blood every day and she had a special diet. Then doctors decided to again perform an operation, but this time a harder one. Her mother wanted to stay at home before the operation. They let her to stay at home for two nights. The last two nights at home. On the 18th of December, it was time for the surgery. I of course went to the hospital with my friend. She was trying to be optimistic and trying to give power to her mother. Her mother was trying to be powerful and to be optimistic too. She wanted a pine tree for the hospital room after the surgery because she wanted to see the New Year. Everyone was acting very well although they knew it was going to very hard, long and critical. It was the time, the doctors came. My friend and her mother hugged and said “I love you” to each other for the last time. The surgery took ten hours and it still had not finished. Our friends came to the hospital and we were trying to calm her down by talking and telling funny stories. But she did not speak because she became impatient. When the surgery had finished for the day we left hospital together. The next day it continued, and the surgery was finished. My friend was happy because she thought that the hardest part was over and that her mother would return back to her room in two days. But she was the only one who thought that. Her father tried to say that it was a hopeless case now because her mother’s bleeding was continuing. Although he was trying to say indirectly that she was going to die, my friend kept asking about when she would wake up.

Untitled She did not wake up. She fell asleep forever on new yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first morning, January 1st. She wanted to see the new year, so she saw it and then she died. My friend fainted and everyone was crying in the hospital. I really did not know what to do. I called all of our friends and they arrived hospital in half an hour. The funeral day was depressing and tragic. It is the worst day ever for my best friend. All of us were there, but we could do nothing for her and her family. Even I still could not believe her mother was dead. I knew her very well, and death did not suit her. We knew that everything would change and we were there to help my friend. She was terrible and struggled with nightmares every night. And her dreams were always same. She would see her mother, talk with her, and they would make arrangements to meet again. It was a pity that she started to believe her dreams and to wait for the meeting day. Fortunately, my friend had fallen in love with a sensitive boy. He was really a gift for her because he was the one who consecrated his life to hers. They were meeting every day and doing whatever she wanted. Unconsciously, he became a hero who reduced her pain and tied her to life again. People who did not know my friend could not imagine that she had faced with such a terrible pain and had lost her mother. She was exactly the same as her mother about struggling and being powerful. She succeeded in beating depression until the first anniversary of her motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s death. That New Yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s night, her mother came to her dream and said that the next day she would be out of her grave because she did not want to see people crying for her. While people were visiting her she preferred to meet with my friend at home. She said that she missed her home and she wanted to see it one more time. Although my friend believed her mother,

Cansu Mumcu she went to the graveyard because family members would get disappointed if she did not go to visit her mother. When they arrived they were shocked. They could not believe their eyes. The grave was open and empty. My friend remembered her dream, and while the others were getting crazy, she was only smiling and happy person. My friend ran home and hoped she would not be disappointed. When she arrived she started to cry when she saw her mother alive again. They could not talk too much because other family members came. When they came, her mother disappeared. My friend understood that she came only for her and so she did not say anything to anyone. After that event, it became a tradition and her mother continued to come and see my friend on every anniversary of her death. They both promised each other not to tell this to anyone. And every year my friend grows impatient for the coming of January 1st, although everyone else becomes sad and depressed.

K Cansu Mumcu

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Angers 51

Victoria Arching her back as my fingertips ran through her spine bloomed little flowers in the places where I carelessly kissed thousands of times. Daydreaming eyes closed, she let me hold her tight everlasting hopes swallowed once more, she led me through her forbidden forest, enclosing the tower she built with golden pieces and mud. And left me lost among high trees and darkness, only allowing kisses and sighs, and “I want you”s. And never did I not want her. Jamie, she used to say, I’m not a ghost, but I have been killed so many times. Don’t shine your eyes on mine. And I didn’t. Laughing with fear, a fear that was obscure, I kissed the road climbing her breasts. Moonlight sang to her across the sky, a song I never understood the words of naked and troubled, we got lost in the all-too-familiar pits of our bodies. One time I looked for her eyes amidst the golden hair pouring down her head parted lips found mine, and my eyes forgot what they sought

Victoria quivering breaths silenced our wounds, shamelessly. Rhythm becoming louder than our heartbeats, I returned seeing only her body in my hands, her valleys and mountains true tales were in the rivers, I didn’t know. Unseen remained her eyes, dark eyelashes hit her cheeks right on time Victoria, I said one night. She replied with my name, moaning betwixt the sheets why are you hiding your eyes, I whispered in her hill of golden curls yellow moon was singing to her, melodies crashed all over her crystal skin. Zest was peeled from her voice: because darling, that’s where I’ve been killed so many times.

Pınar Türer

Suzy Asa

Soyunmak I 55

Suzy Asa

Soyunmak II 57

Blue Lilies

Blake Shedd 1* anlar için yaşarken anılarla öpüşmemiz ne anlamsız ne insanca dönüp dönüp sana çıkmaktır bu dönüp dönüp bana...

Blake Shedd 2* anlar için yaşarken anılarla öpüşmemiz ne anlamsız ne insanca dönüp dönüp sana çıkmaktır bu dönüp dönüp bana...

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Branches 63

Yatağın üzerinde Uzanmış Bir tutam bulut gibi Hayali bir yumuşaklık tüm vücudu, aklı. Bir rüzgarla dağılmayı bekliyor. Ya da yağmur olup birinin ellerine düşebilmeyi.

Pınar Türer

Gun* akışına bırakılmayacak kadar beklenen bir an yaşamaya tezat ateş böceklerinin karanlıkta bıraktıkları izler gibi aşk gibi ölüm gibi ama birkaç yerinden vurularak bam bam bam kan gibi karların içinde sevişmek gibi sonra dirilmek gibi ve tekrar ölmek üzere ya da dönmek yaşamak kadar gerçek olana sevmeye bam bam bam akışına bırakılmayacak kadar beklenen bir an ölüme tezat kanıyorum karda gülüyorum gibi sabah sabah ateş böceklerini arıyorum gibi.

Suzy Asa