Biography of Deniz Atay
- The first thing I'm looking for in a work of art is originality. It's about
seeing the unseen, catching things no other people caught before. This includes poetry.
- Imagination is probably the copilot of this work which is the helper of our focus. From time to time, writing becomes a habit, just like a food that gives us energy.
- My inspiration can be anything. Anything that interests me, anything that I have
Deniz Atay Poems
The Extant Song
With whom I dive below the sky In the silver rain like a tranquil cry Into golden seas - beyond the glow I hear her eyes singing lullaby.
Your Beauty Once Was Gold
Your beauty once was gold - Brightly sung -From the soothing voice of dusk To a hooting owl behind the mask-
A Polar Bear
If each breathe is a frozen sleep If each exhale is a pleasure deep And if blurs sail over the ocean And my eyes; the only vision
Songs Of You
I Come to me as a dream, Where flowers of dusk
I thought I saw a somewhat-cloud, Somewhat-wool, and some colors around: 'Twas an evening, but whoa! What's that mournful vision called?
I sometimes look at a pure beauty, And I seek it above, that I can reach Those touches of the brush, and feel it Within my bluest sense and reddest desire.
Come to my garden and smell The vivid mimosas Each glimmer upon your spell When yours is all roses.
Bir gül - her daim bir gül Oysa gönüllerde Bir elma da gül, Armut ve erik de öyle,
The First Bloom
I would be the echo in your thrill - Merely a sound of the nature A posy in your hands, or a chill -maybe- in a distant pasture.
Time—in whose arms we drown Under the moon semi mauve And the waves turn upside down As we're like a cloud and its rain;
When tender is the night, and the woods are deep And the only light - as Orion's - piercing the dark, Gazing a child in his sleep - child whomever he fears He wishes he has gone, and left him to his sound sleep.
Lonesome hands... Dew-like. Shaking in the snowy cold Before the day's first sunlight. Is this whiteness the cause of
Life Is But A Dream
Life is but a dream - A day-night scene - As we're still waiting To be waken by somebody.
Joy Is Unattainable
Though I wait, and time overpasses by a mile It still seems as a perfect lie To me, that; the recent palate is transparent - You never know it is to die.
I thought I saw a somewhat-cloud,
Somewhat-wool, and some colors around:
'Twas an evening, but whoa!
What's that mournful vision called?
Creepy as a spark, sleepy as the dark,
As it's telling tales to me: all lark.
But it, the only seeming thing, is said
To inspire a human being, instead
It only reminds me of the people now are dead!