Atıf Bedir
He was born in 1965 in Suluyayla village of Kahraman Maraş. He completed his primary school education in the same village, and his secondary education in Kahraman Maraş High School. He graduated from the Faculty of Letters of Ankara University. He worked at TRT. His first poems and writings were printed in the local newspapers and magazines in Kahraman Maraş. Later on he wrote for magazines such as Edebiyat, Mavera, İkindiyazıları, Kayıtlar, Türk Dili, Edebiyat Ortamı, and Hece

His published books

  • Ateş Salâları – Fire Knelling (Poetry, Hece Publishing 1997)
  • Rüzgârın Dili Lâl – The Language of the Wind is Scarlet (Poetry, Hece Publishing, 2010)
  • Har – Controversy (Poetry, Hece Publishing, 2017)
  • Yarasını Saklayan Şehirler – The Citis Hiding Their Wounds (Travel–Narrative, Cümle Publishing, 2015)
  • Gökyüzünde Arıcık Kuşları – Bee Eaters Are Airborne (Memoir, Cümle Publishing, 2015)

This world is not for us

If only I were a wounded city in desolate geographies
Then the homeless dragonflies would have sung around the wreck inside me
A ruined Aleppo would have been fallen over my chest
With all heart sore voice of all orphans
This world is not for us
Ümran would have said, let’s go to your lost land

There is a dark corner inside every human
From the depths though, always the brotherly voices surface
If you hit with an ax going deeper and deeper
A Caine comes out of every one
He can hide a bloodstained shirt
In the farthest corner of the cellar
Ümran, let us go to our lost country
Let us put a sad and black lament
On the wounds of our city torn to ribbons

Let us make up a story in pretense
Let it be seen innocent, let it be known to be true
Let nobody believe it down the ages
Let us be burnt five times a day, let them burn us
In the very private corners of my heart
Let it be forgotten for a thousand of years, let it be talked for a millennium
Let us not know whether we were forgiven or not

Tell it not to blow, not to whip around
Let this sorrow blow as if it is fate
Then this hopeless disappointment
Descends on your glances
It is not the wind of the blowing times
It is these mortal clouds to cause my country to feel cold

It lasted a short time in the shade of this world
A bronco has passed through your broken dreams
A never-ending winter makes your heart feel cold
You know a new love invent a new person
While the rivers out of the sun would slap on your forehead
I believe in the creator of the cherry and pomegranate

As the scorpions would be poisoning the town with black sirens
The walls would grow like a vicious avalanche
We would become grown-ups, and our childhood would end
Playing would stop, so does laughing, mother and father as well
Only remnant would be the hope we have been around it
What happened to our absence from home, where is our home land
Where is this magnificent line we have been looking for lifetime
Ümran this world is not for us
let us go to our lost country

Come on, bring a cure for this wound
What is left from our world story to tell
What did we carry with us except feeling shame
The mercy birds have flown away and gone
Let them stay for a big accounting hour
Classy painters dying our atlas have gone as well
As if they anointed their hair at the same fountain
As if taking a stand shoulder to shoulder
Without becoming red in our face, without getting our feet tangled

If only I were a wounded city in desolate geographies
Then the homeless dragonflies would have sung around the wreck inside me