Poems by Murat Yurdakul

Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού

MURAT YURDAKUL was born in Adana (1983).  He graduated from Anadolu University, Department of Business Administration in English.  His poems, short stories and translations were published in various magazines.  He was named best translator in the British Journal of Modern Poetry Translation (2018).  He was awarded the XIII international Premio Vitruvio Poetry Award in Italy (2018), and the VI international Città Del Galateo Literary Story Award in Italy (2018).  Participated in the Casa Editrice Cento Verba short story collection in Italy (2019).  Homeros Literature Awards Tarık Dursun K. Story Award 3rd Prize (2020).  Participated in the poetry anthology of the International Poetry Translation and Research Center in China (2020).  He was awarded the International Poet of the Year Award (2021) by the International Executive Board of the Poetry Translation and Research Center IPTRC in the People’s Republic of China.  Included in the International Asia PEN [Egypt] “Silk Road Literature” poetry selection (2022).  He was awarded the International Translator of the Year Award (2022) by the International Executive Board of the Poetry Translation and Research Center IPTRC in the People’s Republic of China.


I write the sound of the birds on the windows
Winter is in a draft, rails pierce the night

Basil drying on the balcony
This is how I miss the courtyard you left

Angels forgot the city, I mourned for both of us
One morning visible from the cold walls that blue grove, the old park

The sound of the bird that hurls the tired sky falls inside me
A trouble late in the evening on my face

Life is a currant
We’re naked, your body is sand, your mouth is letter, your palm is goodbye

I’m in the shadow of a wound from a cut
Winter bleeds on my wrists
Evening left its last colors on her messy hair

There were no more wells to shout
Sounds of stray dogs accumulate on my face!

There are things I don’t forget while watching the rain
Drops hitting the glass, a movement…

Murat Yurdakul

Ink Sleep

reread the birds to the sky!
now sorrow opens all roads
every defeated woman is a cold deer
your silence is not the clay in my eyes

a window that opens from the outside to the night inside
we’ll be trapped in a rose now
cherry blossoms raise my voice

The sky bends a little more into the desert with every dying bird
children are already a dreamless sleep
train tracks… go!.. the last thing a cat wants

When there is no sound from the wells where I read my heart
to the sky that touched my heart with the pain of sorrow
I offer huge shooting stars inside me
May my aching heart not be ashamed of its wound in autumn
a bird draws tears in my inner night

Murat Yurdakul


Winter is over… old summers will begin again
Is the sadness of every garden its own?
The sky pours from the mouth of the timid pigeon
I’m a nomad in the accumulated sweat of the steppe
Let the pain that grows inside me fall into the water
My inaudible black voice, the derelict wind passes again

The sound of salt breaking on your eyelashes…
A silent cloud is crying in my eyes
A handkerchief tear in secluded theaters
Songs used to go to make love, carousels, sorrows
The wound that bleeds in my heart grows desert mountains

My sorrow accumulates in letters that I cannot write
A broken love is carried in the rain
Hence the corpus in me: rainbow
The waters are receding, our faces are red
I was born silently from the patience of water as it wears out
It was time for a rose to breathe
  Love is buried once
Oh how timeless it is to die now

Murat Yurdakul

My Mother’s Voice

It was always my mother’s tender voice,
I got involved in the dream of the silent with the redbuds
Boy painting his face into war
March remembered candles and sleep
I’m burning my sleep, winter makes you crazy… said god

Tanks, bombs, rifles, they’re drumming
Another judas tree while I cry…
The lamp went out, the fire poured into the sea
The veil of the world fell upon us with pain

The ant was whistling and to my left
Aching crust, no ribs, no bones
Teeth marks on your apple, the tailor’s bleeding hand
They said together that everything disappeared

Haydarpaşa ah, the neck of my childhood is getting cold
In the backyard of the earth.  Everyone in the world is cold.
And the land that forgives the land that forgives
“The bodies don’t fit,” said the boy with the cold forehead.

The morning burned my mouth memorizing bitter poems
The distant morning was yawning
My mother said, “Let the lead stuck in the bird dry”…
It was always his voice

Murat Yurdakul

Portrait of Solitude

you’ll find it in the yellowed photos you take
their old stories stuck to the album.
yellow laughter,
you buried it in the calendar pages
ruthlessly battered years…
loneliness would come ringing from the freckles
You sound to me, I breathe to you… time is heavy bird wing
the lightness of the bell sound, your eyes are black amber

is the hour
It sits in my heart with the warm blood of love
It’s too late now for the forgotten sky in the field.
after the betrayal between the leaf and the tree that silenced the forest
You tore the mountain tops with your shoulders, lonely on your face
the sound of a pipe, you’re stuck in the valley of the cliff with your smell of soil
kissed her hair and glided over her shoulder, the most delicate of winds on my face

you fell silent and lay at your feet in the most secluded solitude of the night
I’m widening the abyss I’ve knitted with your shadow
the birds revolted;  it was the great silence of the world
the rose trembles like the seal struck on the mirror and on sorrow
my loneliness is the only season that can make love to you
Remember, everyone carries someone’s wounds far away.

Murat Yurdakul


older than a train faster than a wind
I found your sadness in cities I don’t know
a god dies in your face from boredom
My mother takes that trouble and bury it next to me
Birds cover your face, I’m lost!
all the evenings of the world inside me
If I burn far away all with letters
who can i leave now

peace is delicate like touching you,
as endless as staring into your eyes
There were songs whose voice I collected, whose notes were lost
I’m venting a desperate pair of pigeons from your gaze
the sounds of dead birds in the trees
I arrived in the blood sleep of a sweaty sky
The world that gave birth to the fall from a trunk pours out from the voices of children

time was the birds… waiting for the seasonless flowers…

oh love!
your tears are dripping
to my heart … don’t bend
Look at the wound in my eyes!

Murat Yurdakul