Şiir, Sadece: Oscar Wilde
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20 Aralık 2019 Cuma

The Ballad Of Reading Gaol II

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,
In the suit of shabby grey:
His cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay,
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every wandering cloud that trailed
Its ravelled fleeces by.
 
He did not wring his hands, as do
Those witless men who dare
To try to rear the changeling Hope
In the cave of black Despair:
He only looked upon the sun,
And drank the morning air.
 
He did not wring his hands nor weep,
Nor did he peek or pine,
But he drank the air as though it held
Some healthful anodyne;
With open mouth he drank the sun
As though it had been wine!
 
And I and all the souls in pain,
Who tramped the other ring,
Forgot if we ourselves had done
A great or little thing,
And watched with gaze of dull amaze
The man who had to swing.
 
And strange it was to see him pass
With a step so light and gay,
And strange it was to see him look
So wistfully at the day,
And strange it was to think that he
Had such a debt to pay.
 
For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
That in the springtime shoot:
But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
With its adder-bitten root,
And, green or dry, a man must die
Before it bears its fruit!
 
The loftiest place is that seat of grace
For which all worldlings try:
But who would stand in hempen band
Upon a scaffold high,
And through a murderer’s collar take
His last look at the sky?
 
It is sweet to dance to violins
When Love and Life are fair:
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
Is delicate and rare:
But it is not sweet with nimble feet
To dance upon the air!
 
So with curious eyes and sick surmise
We watched him day by day,
And wondered if each one of us
Would end the self-same way,
For none can tell to what red Hell
His sightless soul may stray.
 
At last the dead man walked no more
Amongst the Trial Men,
And I knew that he was standing up
In the black dock’s dreadful pen,
And that never would I see his face
In God’s sweet world again.
 
Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
We had crossed each other’s way:
But we made no sign, we said no word,
We had no word to say;
For we did not meet in the holy night,
But in the shameful day.
 
A prison wall was round us both,
Two outcast men we were:
The world had thrust us from its heart,
And God from out His care:
And the iron gin that waits for Sin
Had caught us in its snare.


Oscar Wilde
The Ballad of Reading Gaol
Selected Poems

18 Aralık 2019 Çarşamba

The Ballad Of Reading Gaol I

In memoriam of C. T. W.
Sometimes trooper of
The Royal Horse Guards
Obiit H.M. Prison
Reading, Berkshire
July 7th, 1896

 


He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.
 
He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.
 
I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
‘That fellow’s got to swing.’
 
Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.
 
I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.
 
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
 
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
 
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
 
He does not die a death of shame
On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
Into an empty space.
 
He does not sit with silent men
Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
The prison of its prey.
 
He does not wake at dawn to see
Dread figures throng his room,
The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
The Sheriff stern with gloom,
And the Governor all in shiny black,
With the yellow face of Doom.
 
He does not rise in piteous haste
To put on convict-clothes,
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
Fingering a watch whose little ticks
Are like horrible hammer-blows.
 
He does not know that sickening thirst
That sands one’s throat, before
The hangman with his gardener’s gloves
Slips through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs,
That the throat may thirst no more.
 
He does not bend his head to hear
The Burial Office read,
Nor, while the terror of his soul
Tells him he is not dead,
Cross his own coffin, as he moves
Into the hideous shed.
 
He does not stare upon the air
Through a little roof of glass:
He does not pray with lips of clay
For his agony to pass;
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
The kiss of Caiaphas.


Oscar Wilde
The Ballad of Reading Gaol
Selected Poems

16 Aralık 2019 Pazartesi

To My Wife - With a Copy of My Poems

I can write no stately proem
As a prelude to my lay;
From a poet to a poem
I would dare to say.
 
For if of these fallen petals
One to you seem fair,
Love will waft it till it settles
On your hair.
 
And when wind and winter harden
All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
You will understand.
 
 
Oscar Wilde
Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde

2 Ocak 2017 Pazartesi

Zindan Türküleri'nden

Al ceketini giymedi
Çünkü kırmızıdır şarap ve kan
Elleri kan ve şaraba bulanmıştı
Onu cesetle buldukları an
Bir ölü vardı yatağında
Sevdiği zavallı kadından

Geziyordu mahpuslar arasında
Başında kriket şapkası
Soluk gri bir ceket sırtında
Yürüyüşü hafif şen-şatırdı
Ömrümde görmedim böyle bir adam
Güne bu kadar ihtirasla bakan

Ömrümde görmedim böyle bir adam
Mahpusların gök dediği
O küçük mavi çadıra
Ve gümüş yelkenlerle geçip giden
Her buluta
Böyle ateşli gözlerle bakan

Dünyanın bir başka ucunda
lzdırap çeken başka ruhlar da olacak
Nasıl iş yapmıştı bu adam acaba
Ki arkamdan bir ses duydum:
- Bu adam asılacak


Oscar Wilde
Çeviren: Halim

5 Temmuz 2012 Perşembe

Karıma

Yazamam hiç bir önsözü görkemle
Bir başlangıç gibi şiirime;
Bir şairden bir şiire
Kalkışırdım söylemeye.

Çünkü bu düşen petaller içinde
Biri sana güzel gözükse,
Sürükler o yerleşinceye dek
Aşk onu saçının üstüne.

Ve rüzgâr ve kış sertleştirdiğinde
Bütün aşksız ülkeleri,
O fısıldar bahçeyi,
Senin anlayacağın gibi.


Oscar Wilde

Rosa Mystica

Requiescat *


O çok yakında, yavaşça yürü
O burada, altında karın
Usulca konuş, büyüdüğünü
Duyabilir papatyaların
Altın sarısı o parlak saçlar
Hastalıktan sararmış solmuş
O körpecik o küçücük şey
Toza toprağa belenmiş

Kar gibi ak, hem benziyor zambağa
Öylesine güzel öylesine hoş
Bir kadın olduğunun farkına
Varmadan büyüyüp serpilmiş

Bir tabut tahtası, ve ağır bir taş
Düşmüş göğsünün üzerine
Kalbim daha fazla dayanamaz
O ölmüş öylece yatıyor yerde

Duyamaz artık, huzur içinde yatsın,
Duyamaz şiirlerimi şarkılarımı
Gömüldü kaldı burada hayatım
Yığın üzerime kara toprağı

Oscar Wilde

* Rosa Mystica Latince'de “Gizemli Gül” anlamına gelmektedir.
* Requiescat Latince'de “Huzur içinde yatsın” anlamına gelmektedir.

Reading Zindanı Baladı'ndan

Kulak verin sözlerime iyice,
Herkes öldürebilir sevdiğini
Kimi bir bakışıyla yapar bunu,
Kimi dalkavukça sözlerle,
Korkaklar öpücük ile öldürür,
Yürekliler kılıç darbeleriyle!

Kimi gençken öldürür sevdiğini
Kimileri yaşlı iken öldürür;
Şehvetli ellerle öldürür kimi
Kimi altından ellerle öldürür;
Merhametli kişi bıçak kullanır
Çünkü bıçakla ölen çabuk soğur.

Kimi aşk kısadır, kimi uzundur,
Kimi satar kimi de satın alır;
Kimi gözyaşı döker öldürürken,
Kimi kılı kıpırdamadan öldürür;
Herkes öldürebilir sevdiğini
Ama herkes öldürdü diye ölmez.

(…)


Yasaların yargısı doğru mudur
Ya da yanlış mıdır bunu bilemem;
Bildiğim tek şey bu hapishanede
Demir gibi sağlamdır tüm duvarlar,
Bir yıl kadar uzundur her geçen gün
Yıl bitmek bilmez, uzadıkça uzar.

Kabil'in Habil'i öldürdüğü
Günden beri hiç dinmedi acılar
Çünkü insanların insanlar için
Koymuş olduğu bütün yasalar
Tıpkı adaletsiz bir kalbur gibi
Taneyi eleyip samanı tutar.

Bildiğim başka bir şey daha var
-Ki bilmeli benim gibi herkes de-
İnsanın kardeşlerine ettiğini
İsa Efendimiz görmesin diye
Utanç tuğlalarıyla, parmaklıklarla
Örüldü yapılan her hapishane.

Parmaklıklar güneşi engelledi,
Kararttılar tatlı ay ışığını,
Cehennemi böyle ört bas ettiler
Yaptıkları bütün iğrenç şeyleri
İnsanoğlundan, tanrının oğlundan
Gizlemeyi ustaca başardılar.

Zehirli otlar gibi kötülükler
Büyür hapishanenin havasında,
Yok olur burada harcanıp gider
İyi olan ne varsa insanda:
Kapıyı tutar soluk bir keder
Umutsuzluk bekçiliğini yapar.

(…)



Oscar Wilde

13 Nisan 2012 Cuma

Roses And Rue

Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,
Were it worth the pleasure,
We never could learn love's song,
We are parted too long.


Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead,
Could we live it all over again,
Were it worth the pain!


I remember we used to meet
By an ivied seat,
And you warbled each pretty word
With the air of a bird;


And your voice had a quaver in it,
Just like a linnet,
And shook, as the blackbird's throat
With its last big note;


And your eyes, they were green and grey
Like an April day,
But lit into amethyst
When I stooped and kissed;


And your mouth, it would never smile
For a long, long while,
Then it rippled all over with laughter
Five minutes after.


You were always afraid of a shower,
Just like a flower:
I remember you started and ran
When the rain began.


I remember I never could catch you,
For no one could match you,
You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,
Little wings to your feet.


I remember your hair - did I tie it?
For it always ran riot -
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:
These things are old.


I remember so well the room,
And the lilac bloom
That beat at the dripping pane
In the warm June rain;


And the colour of your gown,
It was amber-brown,
And two yellow satin bows
From your shoulders rose.


And the handkerchief of French lace
Which you held to your face -
Had a small tear left a stain?
Or was it the rain?


On your hand as it waved adieu
There were veins of blue;
In your voice as it said good-bye
Was a petulant cry,


'You have only wasted your life.'
(Ah, that was the knife!)
When I rushed through the garden gate
It was all too late.


Could we live it over again,
Were it worth the pain,
Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead!


Well, if my heart must break,
Dear love, for your sake,
It will break in music, I know,
Poets' hearts break so.

But strange that I was not told
That the brain can hold
In a tiny ivory cell
God's heaven and hell.


Oscar Wilde