Şadiye Kılıç

She was born in 1989 in Tarsus. She graduated from the Turkish Teaching Department of Sakarya University. Şadiye Kılıç has taken part in various literary competitions since her childhood and has received some awards. She participated in writing and reading workshops at different platforms. Her writings and poems appeared in literary magazines such as Çağrı, İmge, Barbar, and Şiar. And she continues to write for Şiar magazine. Since 2013 she has been teaching Turkish at schools of Ministry of National Education.


-this is what the stone wall heard-

wouldn't be someone to see me off?
there're bird shadows of the roads migrating to distant climates
birds without a passport are a witness
to sharing of the orphan who is nibbling the piece of bread in his hand
and to the welfare of the house flies sticking to his inner corners of eyes

don’t take me the one who passes by collecting waters
by tidying his skirts and going mad through the pain of the night
they say humans are possibilities in this geography, they are
here humans are of insufficient remaining balance, all of them are lies
-first you touch the birds others gave birth, don’t you?-

the stool on which every tired clock gets some rest
jesus is on the nail you hanged your coat
humans become mortal at the places they don’t belong
there is no stronger pain in this world than being aware
it would not be mentioned even in their memoirs
cries of the home-loving villager with tattoos
then he can breathe the lie about to bloom like a daunted horse
pain is an open buffet for them in a different dosage
there is no reason not buy a glittering past
there is no reason here, living is always a coincidence
death is called here cheaply after visiting the cages
we are sufficiently free of charge here, worthless against dollars
it is allah who is our acquaintance on the very top position
the cages though are the same, looking for kafka
-o my heart, please let me grow up, will you?-

a patched african country inside me, dusty and pitch black dark asphalt
condemned old people are there, and the wheat are put on their headgears
speaking in the ancient language but by a blunt razor
small children would chill their hands in the moonlight
their eyes become rainy
and they keep sending babies to the world’s dumpsite
gods who hope against all hope
would like to take the road for a long migration
windows frames that emulate the migrant birds
tend to look for a broken consolation in the long stays
-let us not wear down the mirrors in one night, won’t we?-

i am trying to find out from whose ribs i was created
by turning the compassion i might fit into a tale
by forgetting the prayer after each rain
the stone walls i wept on their shoulders
have not looked at my face even once
my hope of becoming a child made out of wood remains
and the cages will take to the roads every day to look for me
i am a branchedland.
-should i find a voice from me and tell you about it, shouldn’t’ i?-

English Translation by Mesut Şenol