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Fa T.. _;’:’,?41.,=1, ‘4%,..IPIts ifor t steg*T .-40`”r -Vi … ssomommrauswoftawraurvanuntemsvg y nar C.P.MTM0..MtrYtif::.fc..e.:14tsVngv.R1 41tE co Home White space empty of the grandfather clock Walnut table that has forgotten time Fingerprints cleansed by dust Keys long lost Letterbox locked in rust Old woman fast asleep her teeth in a glass And this typewriter that wrote father’s first poems, this house where mother fell in love and died, which was taken captive in every war, shot at, set on fire, looted of the dowries in the Ottoman chests, and mirrors that beheld all the women of the family naked, mirrors, their faces draped in sheets and all the flowers withered and gone, all but the wild pink fragrance of rambling roses time that great-grandmother stored away in white lace covers this little ghost who returned to his death-place the long and silent shadows of felled cypress trees and now the inhabitants of this house peer into the halfdark from photographs that ring with the crazy laughter of war a man in a fez smiles from behind the glass, he has forgotten why and this house wonders why I was spared by those who killed all that was mine suddenly there’s light in the nursery where this poem is sung Dead Home Dead Home Dead Home Nothing but poetry Can take me back there. MEHMET YASIN translated by Saliha Poker and Ruth Christie In Place of the End Brothers, All sorts of cruelty is bad None suits Human beings Planting trees, waking up in the mornings is good It’s good to look after animals and to water flowers It’s good to think of freedom To live for it To work for it the whole day is good The sleeping, the waking up of all children is good All sorts of cruelty, bad. ILHAN BERK translated by Yusuf Eradam warwanormrworaremearesantosawunurvar~uirsuos ‘sx’t some of the most warmhearted of the world community of writers. They rallied to calls for international work for anthologies, sending generous packets. \(I first learned to use e-mail to correspond with a twelve-year-old poet, Zeynep Beler of Ankara. She pleasantly hope for their well-being, and the healing of their stricken neighborhoods. \(The photographs are by my friend Marie Brenner, who Ali Cengizkan has written, “I should love small things / Advised my grandfather Ceyhoun… Aroma of bergamot tea… Standing upright like a flower… Embracing lovely babies… Rose, basil, narcissus….” Surely, so many people swept away and toppled in an instant did. Naomi Shihab Nye The Observer’s poetry page is partially funded through a grant from the Austin Writers’ League in cooperation with the Texas Commission on the Arts. SEPTEMBER 17, 1999 THE TEXAS OBSERVER 25