Turkish Poetry and Literature |
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İ Love YOU poem.
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| 140. |
19 Sep 2008 Fri 08:41 pm |
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A poem by one of the most well known poets in the Indian subcontinent.
Mirza Ghalib was a nineteenth century Indian poet of Turkish ancestory who wrote in Urdu ( a variant of Hindi with a large portion of vocabulary adopted from Persian, Turkish and Arabic) and Persian. The original version of the poem is Urdu written in Roman script. (unfortunately I couldn´t find the poem in Urdu or Hindi script)
Urdu in Roman Script English Translation
Ishq Mujhko Nahin I am not in Love
Ishq Mujhko Nahin, Vehshat Hi Sahi If not love, then let it be madness
Meri Vehshat Teri Shohrat Hi Sahi Even if my madness is your fame
Katta Keeje Na Taalluk Hamse Don´t sever these ties with me
Kutch Nahin Hai To Adavat Hi Sahi Even if nothing but enmity remains
Mere Hone Mein Hai Kya Rusvayee What is this displeasure in my presence
Ae Veh Majlis Nahin Khallat Hi Sahi If not in company, meet me in isolation
Hum Bhi Dushman To Nahin Hain Apne I am also not my own enemy
Gair Ko Tujhse Mohabbat Hi Sahi Even if they think it was a stranger who loved you
Apni Hasti He Se Ho Jo Kutch Ho I am where my life wants to be
Aagahi Gar Nahin Gaflat Hi Sahi If this is not known, then let ignorance be
Umr Harchand Ki Hai Barke-Kharam Life speeds forward like lightening
Dil Ke Khoon Ki Fursat Hi Sahi Even as there is infinite time for loving
Hum Koyee Tarqe-Vafa Karte Hain Do I debate the value of loyalty?
Na Sahi Ishq Museebat Hi Sahi If not love, then let the torment be
Kutch To De Ae Falke-Na-Insaaf Give me something, unjust one
Aaho Fariyad Ki Rukhsat Hi Sahi Present me the right to plea
Hum Bhi Tasleem Ki Khoo Dalenge I will also perpetuate this ceremony
Benayazi Teri Aadat Hi Sahi Even if cruelty is your habit
Yaar Se Chedh Chali Jaye ´Asad´ The playfulness will end eventually
Gar Nahin Vasl To Hasrat Hi Sahi If union is impossible, then let the desire be
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| 141. |
20 Sep 2008 Sat 02:28 am |
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According to philosophy, he/she who loves poetry is a good person.
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| 142. |
13 Oct 2008 Mon 12:34 pm |
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mashaAllah i love poems and i wrote some hopefully i´ll upload and put here and share with you all beside i need the comment to so i can be better and that seni seviyorum poem really awsome!!i took it and i gave my bf he is turkish hopefully he likes it tesekkur ederim for who wrote that...
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| 143. |
30 Jan 2009 Fri 10:52 pm |
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Maybe (lyrics by latvian band Brainstorm - Prāta vētra)
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English
My body, My hand
My heaven, My land
My guardian angel is mine
You say…
My dreams, My head
My sex, My bed
And it´s my Corona with lime
And then I say ..
Maybe we could divide it in two
Maybe my animals live in Your Zoo
Maybe I´m in love with You….
You say..
My hate, My frown
My kingdom, My crown
My palace and court is mine
You say..
My lights, My show
My years to grow
The time that I spend is fine
But then I say ..
Maybe we could divide it in two
Maybe my animals live in Your Zoo
Maybe I´m in love with You….
But You say…
My coat, My hat
My bones, My fat
My zipper is shut by me
You say..
My Skin, My blood
My devil, My God
My freedom is what You see
But still I say
Maybe we could divide it in two
Maybe my animals live in Your Zoo
Maybe I´m in love with You….
My begining, My end
My nuclear bomb to pretend…..
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Latvian
Mana miesa, mana roka
Manas debesis, mana zeme,
Mans sargeņģelis ir mans
Tu saki...
Mani sapņi, manas domas,
Mans sekss, mana gulta
Un tā ir mana Corona ar laimu
Un tad es saku...
Varbūt mēs to varam dalīt uz diviem
Varbūt mani zvēri dzīvo Tavā Zoo
Varbūt, ka es Tevi mīlu...
Tu saki...
Mans naids, mans drūmais skaties
Mana karaļvalsts, mans tronis
Mana pils un galams ir mans
Tu saki..
Manas gaismas, mans šovs
Mani gadi, lai augtu
Mans pavadītais laiks ir lielisks
Bet tas es saku ...
Varbūt mēs to varam dalīt uz diviem
Varbūt mani zvēri dzīvo Tavā Zoo
Varbūt, ka es Tevi mīlu...
Bet Tu saki...
Mans mētelis, mana cepure
Mani kauli, mani tauki
Pats aizveru savu rāvējslēdzēju
Tu saki...
Mana āda, manas asinis
Mans velns, mans Dievs
Mana brīvības ir tas ko Tu redzi
Bet es joprojām saku
Varbūt mēs to varam dalīt uz diviem
Varbūt mani zvēri dzīvo Tavā Zoo
Varbūt, ka es Tevi mīlu...
Mans sākums, manas beigas
Mana atombumba, lai aizbildinātos....
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| 144. |
30 Jan 2009 Fri 10:54 pm |
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ooooopsss, some errors appeared maybe due to formating
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| 145. |
02 Nov 2009 Mon 07:37 pm |
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Mexican poem : Jaime Sabines. English translation is neccesary but it really changes the feeling 
LOS AMOROSOS
Los amorosos callan.
El amor es el silencio más fino,
el más tembloroso, el más insoportable.
Los amorosos buscan,
los amorosos son los que abandonan,
son los que cambian, los que olvidan.
Su corazón les dice que nunca han de encontrar,
no encuentran, buscan.
Los amorosos andan como locos
porque están solos, solos, solos,
entregándose, dándose a cada rato,
llorando porque no salvan al amor.
Les preocupa el amor. Los amorosos
viven al día, no pueden hacer más, no saben.
Siempre se están yendo,
siempre, hacia alguna parte.
Esperan,
no esperan nada, pero esperan.
Saben que nunca han de encontrar.
El amor es la prórroga perpetua,
siempre el paso siguiente, el otro, el otro.
Los amorosos son los insaciables,
los que siempre ¡qué bueno! han de estar solos.
Los amorosos son la hidra del cuento.
Tienen serpientes en lugar de brazos.
Las venas del cuello se les hinchan
también como serpientes para asfixiarlos.
Los amorosos no pueden dormir
porque si se duermen se los comen los gusanos.
En la obscuridad abren los ojos
y les cae en ellos el espanto.
Encuentran alacranes bajo la sábana
y su cama flota como sobre un lago.
Los amorosos son locos, sólo locos,
sin Dios y sin diablo.
Los amorosos salen de sus cuevas
temblorosos, hambrientos,
a cazar fantasmas.
Se ríen de las gentes que lo saben todo,
de las que aman a perpetuidad, verídicamente,
de las que creen en el amor como en una lámpara de inagotable aceite.
Los amorosos juegan a coger el agua,
a tatuar el humo, a no irse.
Juegan el largo, el triste juego del amor.
Nadie ha de resignarse.
Dicen que nadie ha de resignarse.
Los amorosos se avergüenzan de toda conformación.
Vacíos, pero vacíos de una a otra costilla,
la muerte les fermenta detrás de los ojos,
y ellos caminan, lloran hasta la madrugada
en que trenes y gallos se despiden dolorosamente.
Les llega a veces un olor a tierra recién nacida,
a mujeres que duermen con la mano en el sexo, complacidas,
a arroyos de agua tierna y a cocinas.
Los amorosos se ponen a cantar entre labios
una canción no aprendida.
Y se van llorando, llorando
la hermosa vida.
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The Lovers
The lovers say nothing.
Love is the finest of the silences,
the one that trembles most and is hardest to bear.
The lovers are looking for something.
The lovers are the ones who abandon,
the ones who change, who forget.
Their hearts tell them that they will never find.
They don´t find, they´re looking.
The lovers wander around like crazy people
because they´re alone, alone,
surrendering, giving themselves to each moment,
crying because they don´t save love.
They worry about love. The lovers
live for the day, it´s the best they can do, it´s all they know.
They´re going away all the time,
all the time, going somewhere else.
They hope,
not for anything in particular, they just hope.
They know that whatever it is they will not find it.
Love is the perpetual deferment,
always the next step, the other, the other.
The lovers are the insatiable ones,
the ones who must always, fortunately, be alone.
The lovers are the serpent in the story.
They have snakes instead of arms.
The veins in their necks swell
like snakes too, suffocating them.
The lovers can´t sleep
because if they do the worms ear them.
They open their eyes in the dark
and terror falls into them.
They find scorpions under the sheet
and their bed floats as though on a lake.
The lovers are crazy, only crazy
with no God and no devil.
The lovers come out of their caves
trembling, starving,
chasing phantoms.
They laugh at those who know all about it,
who love forever, truly,
at those who believe in love as an inexhaustible lamp.
The lovers play at picking up water,
tattooing smoke, at staying where they are.
They play the long sad game of love.
None of them will give up.
The lovers are ashamed to reach any agreement.
Empty, but empty from one rib to another,
death ferments them behind the eyes,
and on they go, they weep toward morning
in the trains, and the roosters wake into sorrow.
Sometimes a scent of newborn earth reaches them,
of women sleeping with a hand on their sex, contented,
of gentle streams, and kitchens.
The lovers start singing between their lips
a song that is not learned.
And they go on crying, crying
for beautiful life.
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Jaime Sabines
Translated by W.S. Merwin
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| 146. |
21 May 2012 Mon 09:43 am |
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There´s such nice poems here.
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| 147. |
21 May 2012 Mon 02:21 pm |
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There´s such nice poems here.
This is for you,  tristerecuerdos, for bringing back such lovely old threads!
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| 148. |
21 May 2012 Mon 05:08 pm |
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This is for you, tristerecuerdos, for bringing back such lovely old threads!
haha aw thank you!
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| 149. |
21 May 2012 Mon 06:50 pm |
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How about adding a new "I Love You" poem?
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| 150. |
21 May 2012 Mon 07:19 pm |
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How about adding a new "I Love You" poem?
sure! why not? 
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