Poems of Turkish Mystics

[Hattushil]

YUNUS EMRE,

(A 13th century poet)


O God, if you would ever question me,
This would be my outright answer to Thee:

True, I sinned-brutalised my own being,
But what Have I done against you, my King?

Did I make myself? I'm your creation.
Why drench me in sin, Benevolent One?

I saw dungeons when I opened my eyes-
Teeming with devils, temptation and lies.

To shun death by Hunger, many a time,
In prison, I had to eat dirt and grime.

Did your dominion become any less?
Did I usurp any of your prowess?

Are you Hungry? Did I eat your ration?
Did I deprive you, cause your starvation?

Do you still seek revenge though you hilled me,
Since I rotted, since darkest soil filled me.

You built me a bridge to cross, thin as hair;
Out of your traps I'm to choose my own snare.

How can a man pass through a Hair-thin bridge?
He falls or clings on or flies off the ridge.

Your slaves build bridges for the public good,
Those who pass through it head for the Godhead.

I wish its firm foundation will hold sway
So those who cross it know it's the true way.

You set a scale to weigh deeds, for your aim
Is to hurl me into Hell's crackling flame.

A scale is suitable for a grocer,
For a small merchant or a jeweller.

Sin, though, is the vilest, filthiest vice,
The profit of those unworthy of Grace.

You can see everything, you know me-fine;
Then, why must you weigh all these deeds of mine?

No harm ever came from Yunus to you;
Open, secret-all things are in your view.

God Almighty, why all this talk, why must
We prattle about a handful of dust?



KAYGUSUZ ABDAL

(A 15th century poet)

Petition

Lord, I humbly beg of You, hear my reverend request,
These are words straight from the heart, they are not spoken in jest.


First, a hundred thousand loaves , also fifty thousand pies,
One hundred sixty thousand buns, profusely buttered on both sides.


A thousand piglets should suffice, if added to a thousand sows,
With sixty of their young, some fifty thousand water buffaloes.


Ten thousand cows, a thousand oxen for a mustard stew,
The trotters separately served in vinegar, with garlic too.


A thousand sheep in casserole, an equal sum of goats at most,
But fifty thousand lambs and kids to grill uyon the spit, or roast.


Innumerable chickens, ducks, and in the same proportion, geese,
Some to make succelent kebabs, and others to be friend in grease.


Pray let there be dish after dish of pigeon and of tender quail,
Partridge and pheasant caught in nets, arriving in an endless file.


Fifty thousand pots of rice, and saffron puddings are inferred,
A thousand pots of porridge, the butter with o drum-stick stirred.


Soups with pleasant falovouring, meatballs gently made, I beg,
Ducklings, and on trays of brass, sweetmeats made of starch and egg.


Fifty thousand pasties and same amount of baklava,
Honey and almond cakes galore, and countless plates of fresh okra.


Helva fit for conquerors, served on trays and heaped in bowls,
For eager fingers to scoop up, making quite enormous holes.


Forty thousand, fifty thousand pecks of appricot and cherry,
Apple, pear and vintage grape, will be enough to make us merry.