and I’m in Offenbach

and we can’t fly to be with one another

or take the train

even the 15-hour dri­ve on the Megabus

the only oth­er possibility

is no longer possible.

Or that I

hap­pi­ly wave at you at Frank­furt cen­tral station

or that you

hold me long­ing­ly at the air­port in Vienna.

The bor­ders are closed

to all lovers, my love

our hold­ing each oth­er forbidden

and we can’t find our way to one another.

Which would be a great pity of course

if we hadn’t already

sep­a­rat­ed.

How for­tu­nate.

2.

You’re in Düsseldorf

and I’m in Offenbach

and we can’t vis­it one another

by car or train

even the tri­al by Megabus

the longest of all possibilities

is no longer a possibility.

Or that I

run into your arms at the cor­ner of the old school

or that you

await me eager­ly at the train sta­tion in Düsseldorf.

The bor­ders are closed

to love, my love

our hold­ing each oth­er forbidden

and I can’t find my way to you.

Not because the world these days

has been struck by a pandemic

or the two metre rule.

But sim­ply because

with or with­out pan­dem­ic or lockdown

you don’t want me anymore.

How unfor­tu­nate.

April 2020

Nanatea

We nev­er drank Nanatea together

and on the whole

we didn’t dance enough.

We nev­er went cycling together

on the whole, I didn’t pinch

your nose enough

to hear what you sound­ed like when you talked.

We didn’t kiss each oth­er enough

on the streets.

But when is kiss­ing ever enough

when you love each other?

I haven’t smoked since last year

I’ve been veg­e­tar­i­an for many years 

and don’t eat eggs.

I have sur­vived a pan­dem­ic with­out you

cat­a­stroph­ic nat­ur­al disasters

and racist ter­ror attacks

I have sur­vived you with­out you

and nev­er­the­less have stayed sane.

In the sum­mer, I paint my nails merry-red

in autumn blue-black.

Many things stay the same with people

I still love to laugh loudly.

I over­flow with love

for every­thing that car­ries life inside it

that car­ries no life inside it.

And I want to sow love

wher­ev­er I tread

wher­ev­er I’ll nev­er go.

I’d take the whole world in my arms

and always want to keep

life from harm.

Next to noth­ing of this succeeds.

We nev­er drank Nanatea together

and I know

we’ll nev­er make it up now.

June/October 2020

Smoke curls from a cigarette

Smoke curls from a cig­a­rette, the

con­tours dis­ap­pear into the room

your eye­lash between my fingers:

will it be up or down? In us the

after­taste of some­thing stares at us

from the sofa, if you crouch down

wolves won’t eat you, so the rumour

your nose is splen­did, is real­ly something

no rumour, feed the earth, or

out­side the hous­es will collapse

top­ple over, words swamp us

on days of inspi­ra­tion we’re washed

away, put the ket­tle on the hob, release

the Turk­ish tea glass from its see

through corset, draw nearer

to assim­i­la­tion, to islamophobia

unlearn your lan­guage. be. up. to. date.

Pos­si­bly well and truly

Per­haps home is a line of Kurt Cobain

a verse of Attilâ Ilhan

a thou­sand-year old long­ing, grey­ing hair

the smell of rain on fields

the view from a win­dow, black-and-white

a rut­ted path with leaves on an autumn day

or Uncle Cemil in his wool­ly hat laughing. 

Per­haps home is that shoot­ing star

from Lloret de Mar

this very mil­lisec­ond or the Repub­lic of Adygea

is Offen­bach city library

Ernst Buch­holz inside

or the house key handed 

to the exile. 

Per­haps home is a dead­ly seri­ous matter

with a wal­rus moustache

a stretch of pier run barefoot

the fragili­ty of the poppy

of our childhood

a Cal­lithrix jac­chus, a com­mon marmoset

or Hel­lo-Kit­ty-bal­loon

even hides itself in candyfloss.

Per­haps home is a nomad with tukumbut

rests here and there

or a Mick­ey Mouse shirt and shoelaces

at the Baltic

hair woven into a plait

is a shat­tered glass on which you step

that unex­pect­ed ache in the chest.

Per­haps home is falling into your own bed

after a night out, still wear­ing jeans and trainers

and hold­ing it there, hold­ing it there.

Is a cou­ple danc­ing, for­get­ting them­selves in the tango

the sight of two white-brown horses

some­times Frank­furt Air­port Hall B

or sim­ply Fouzia’s voice. 

Per­haps home is the square root of eight

or a thing with a trunk and cin­na­mon on top

is a chameleon blend­ing in.

Per­haps though it’s Mrs. Green

from the ground floor, mither­ing about everyone

per­haps. 

Not a Syn­onym of Love

love is a dark thing

as dark as human

trapped in a dun­geon night

a thou­sand cock­roach­es in my head

get lost in the dark

winds

and squirms.

love is a bright thing

as bright as a human being

in the street full of light

free­dom to the bone marrow

every minute car­ried ashore by the waves

finds

and he finds himself.

[土耳其]萨菲耶·迦

封闭中的爱（外四首）

1

你在维也纳

我在奥芬巴赫

我们不能飞到一起

或者坐火车

甚至在超级大巴上15小时的车程

唯一的另一种可能性

不再可能。

或者说我

在法兰克福中央火车站向你愉快地挥手示意

或者你

在维也纳机场渴望抱着我。

边境关闭

所有情侣的往来，

我心爱的人

我们被禁止互相拥抱，

寻不着抵达彼此的道。

当然，如果我们

没有分开，

那会是一件莫大的憾事。

多么幸运。

2

你在杜塞尔多夫

我在奥芬巴赫

我们不能互相访问

乘汽车或火车

甚至是超级大巴的“审讯”

那所有可能性中煎熬最长的

不再有可能。

或者说我

在母校的拐角处与你邂逅

或者你

在杜塞尔多夫的火车站热切地等着我。

边境已关闭爱情，

我心爱的人

我们被禁止互相拥抱

我找不到去你那儿的道。

不是因为当今世界

被大流行病袭击

或两米规则。

却仅仅因为

有或没有瘟疫与封闭

你不再需要我。

多么的不幸！

                  2020年4月

嗱茶

我们从未一起喝过嗱茶

总的来说

我们跳舞不够多。

我们从未一起骑过自行车

总的来说，我没捏你的鼻子

听不到你交谈时的声息。

我们在街上

亲吻不够多。

你们相爱

何时接吻充足？

去年开始我便不再吸烟

我已吃素很多年

并且不吃鸡蛋。

没有你的陪伴

我捱过了一场大流行病

灾难性的自然灾情

和种族主义恐怖袭击

有你没有你

我仍幸存

只是我保持清醒。

夏天，我把指甲涂成快乐红

秋天则涂成蓝黑色容。

许多事情与人们一样

我依然喜爱笑声朗朗。

我对所有承载生命的事物

都充满了爱，

而这些事物本身

并不承载生命。

无论我走到哪里

或是永远不会到达之地

我都想播种爱。

我要将整个世界都抱在怀

并一直想保护生命

免受伤害。

这几乎没有成功。

我们从未一起喝过嗱茶

我明白

我俩永远不会从头再来。

2020年6月/10月

香烟袅袅

香烟的烟雾袅袅升起，

轮廓消失在房间里

我手指之间你的睫毛：

会上升还是下降？

在我们身上，

某种东西的余味从沙发上

凝视着我们

如果你蹲下来，

那些狼就不会吃掉你

谣言亦如此

你的鼻子很棒，你真了不起

没有谣言可养活地球

否则外面的房子会垮塌

灵感被冲走的日子里

谣言淹没我们

将水壶放在灶台搁架上，

将土耳其玻璃茶杯

从它的透明紧胸衣中释放

更接近同化和伊斯兰恐惧症

忘掉你的语言。

及——时——更——新

很可能是真的

或许家是科特·柯本的一句台词

阿提拉·伊尔汗的一节诗

千年的渴望，白发苍苍

田野上雨的味道

窗外的景色，黑白相间

一条秋日布满树叶车辙的小道

或是戴着羊毛帽子的杰米尔叔叔在笑。

也许家是这一毫秒

来自滨海略雷特的那颗流星

或是阿迪格共和国

是奥芬巴赫市图书馆

恩斯特·布赫霍尔兹在里面

或是递给被流放者

的房子钥匙。

也许家是一件极其严肃的事，

留着海象式的小胡子

一段码头赤足奔跑

我们童年的罂粟的脆弱

普通狨，一种常见的狨猴

甚至是把自己藏在棉花糖里

的凯蒂猫气球

也许家是一支土库曼民族

到处迁居游牧

或是在波罗的海

的米老鼠衬衫和鞋带

编成辫子的头发

是你踩到的一块碎玻璃

胸口那种意想不到的疼痛。

也许家是出去玩了一夜之后，

跌落到自己的床上

依然穿着牛仔裤和运动鞋

等一下，等一下。

是一对情侣在跳舞，在探戈中忘我

两匹白褐色马的风景

有时是法兰克福机场B大厅

或者只是福齐亚的声音。

也许家是八的平方根

或是一件顶上有肉桂树干的东西

是一只融入的变色龙。

或许不过是一楼的格林夫人，

母亲般呵护着每个人

或许。

不是爱的代名词

爱是一种黑暗的东西，

就像被困在地牢之夜

的人一样黑暗

我脑子里的一千只蟑螂

迷失在黑暗中

的风

和折腾。

爱是一件和人类一样

欢快的事情

在自由到骨髓

充满光明的街上

被海浪冲上岸的每一分钟

发现

他找到了自己。

                （曙磐  汉译）

About the author:

Safiye Can, born in Offen­bach, Ger­many, Safiye Can com­plet­ed her sec­ondary and high school edu­ca­tion in Offen­bach, and her uni­ver­si­ty edu­ca­tion in phi­los­o­phy, law and psy­cho­analy­sis at Frank­furt Goethe Uni­ver­si­ty. Her fam­i­ly is from Sam­sun and Çarşamba.

The poet, who has been on the stage with her poems and sto­ries writ­ten in Ger­man since 2002, pub­lished her first poet­ry book called Rose und Nachti­gall (Rose and Nightin­gale) in 2014, after being fea­tured in many mag­a­zines, news­pa­pers and antholo­gies. Adapt­ing the metaphor of the Rose and the Nightin­gale to Ger­man lit­er­a­ture, the poet’s book went into the sec­ond edi­tion in the first week, and won the title of Best­seller in 2020, and Longseller in 2020.

She pub­lished his sec­ond book of poems called Diese Hal­testelle hab ich mir gemacht (I Made This Stop Myself) and his third book of poems called Kinder der ver­lore­nen Gesellschaft (Chil­dren of the Lost Soci­ety), each of her poet­ry books achieved the sta­tus of Best­seller. The author’s sto­ries and poems trans­lat­ed from Turk­ish to Ger­man are also avail­able: She brought select­ed poems of Safiye Can Ataol Behramoğlu to Ger­man lit­er­a­ture under the name of Im Herzen ein Kind in der Tasche ein Revolver

Known for her lit­er­ary con­certs in Ger­many, Switzer­land, Aus­tria and Amer­i­ca, the author has been orga­niz­ing a Poet­ry Work­shop for chil­dren since 2004 – under the name Dichter-Club (Poets-Club) since 2014.

Safiye Can, a mem­ber of Ger­many PEN Cen­ter, Ger­man Writ­ers Union and Ger­man Trans­la­tors Asso­ci­a­tion, gave train­ing on poet­ry at the USA North­ern Ari­zona Uni­ver­si­ty and dif­fer­ent Uni­ver­si­ties in Ger­many. Her poems have been trans­lat­ed into many lan­guages (except Turk­ish), Eng­lish, Bul­gar­i­an, Czech, French, Ara­bic, Circassian.

作者简介：

    萨菲耶·迦，出生于德国奥芬巴赫市，在奥芬巴赫完成了中学和高中教育，并在法兰克福歌德大学完成了哲学、法律和精神分析的大学教育。她的家人来自土耳其的萨姆松和恰尔尚巴。

    这位女诗人自2002 年以来一直以德语创作的诗歌和故事登上舞台，在被多家杂志、报纸和选集专题报道后，2014 年出版了她的第一本诗集《玫瑰与夜莺》。此书将玫瑰与夜莺的比喻改编为德国文学，第一周就进入第二版，并获得2020年畅销书与2020年长销书的称号。

    她出版了第二本德语诗集《Diese Hal­testelle hab ich mir gemacht》（《我自己让这停止了》）和第三本德语诗集《Kinder der ver­lore­nen Gesellschaft》（《失落社会的孩子》），她的每本诗集都获得了畅销书的地位。也有土耳其语译成德语的作者的故事和诗歌：她以Im Herzen ein Kind in der Tasche ein Revolver(“内心是个衣袋装着左轮手枪的孩子”)为笔名将萨菲耶·迦·纳道·呗拉毛卢的精选诗歌带入了德国文学。作者以其在德国、瑞士、奥地利和美国的文学音乐会而闻名，200年以来一直在组织儿童诗歌研习班——2014年以来是以 Dichter-Club（诗人俱乐部）的名义组织的。

    萨菲耶·迦，系德国笔会中心会员，德国作家联盟会员，德国翻译家协会会员，曾在美国北亚利桑那大学和德国多所大学进行诗歌培训。她的诗歌已被译成多种语言（土耳其语除外）、英语、保加利亚语、捷克语、法语、阿拉伯语、切尔克斯语。

译者简介：

    曙磐(1968- )，男，原名高绪华，安徽六安人。中学英语高级教师，六安市作协、安徽省散文随笔学会、中华诗词学会会员，《诗人地理周刊》编辑部英文译审，《儒林文院》“中英双语诗歌”栏目主创人，《Rainbow Arch乐诗中西》双语编辑。1996年参与部分章节合译出版美国托马斯•沃尔夫长篇小说《天使望故乡》。诗译获两届全球“百人百译”翻译大赛二等奖；《道德经》英译获美国《新文学》杂志翻译贡献荣誉奖；2021年，译文获首届中国法律外交翻译大赛优秀奖。

About the translator:

    Rock at Dawn (1968- ), male, for­mer­ly known as Gao Xuhua, is a native of Lu’an City, Anhui Province, Chi­na. He is a senior teacher in Eng­lish sub­ject in a junior mid­dle school, a mem­ber of Lu’an City Writ­ers’ Asso­ci­a­tion, of Anhui Provin­cial Prose & Essay Soci­ety, of Chi­nese Archa­ic Poet­ry Soci­ety, a senior trans­la­tor in the Edi­to­r­i­al Board of Poets Geog­ra­phy Week­ly, founder of the col­umn “Chi­nese-Eng­lish Bilin­gual Poet­ry” in Con­fu­cian Acad­e­my of Lit­er­a­ture, bilin­gual edi­tor of Rain­bow Arch Chi­nese and West­ern Music Poems. In 1996, he co-trans­lat­ed and pub­lished Amer­i­can Thomas Wolfe’s nov­el Look Home­ward, Angel. His poet­ry trans­la­tions have gained the sec­ond prize twice in the Glob­al “100 Trans­la­tors” Trans­la­tion Con­test; his Eng­lish trans­la­tion of Scrip­ture of the Way and Ethics has won the hon­orary award for trans­la­tion con­tri­bu­tion from the Amer­i­can New Lit­er­a­ture mag­a­zine; in 2021, his trans­la­tion won the Excel­lence Award of the First Chi­na Legal and Diplo­mat­ic Trans­la­tion Contest.