At The Melbourne Cemetery… Poem by Ulas Basar Gezgin

Those who were buried
Are remembered only for a few days.
There is not even a single moment in which those whose bodies were burned,
Whose ashes were thrown away are not remembered.

Those that prefer the soil
Can even be buried under a mausoleum based on their wealth.
However, all the beings are monuments
For those whose ashes were thrown away.

I am the man of the cemeteries,
Rather than maternity wards,
I write about the graveyards in the Straits,
In Melbourne, in foreign lands, further lands…

Since my attempts to extract poetry from the skyscrapers failed,
-that's because I can't write this poem down in the performance plans-
Wherever I go, the first thing I search for, I look for
Is my gravestones, my gravestones.
Isn't it that I long for 60s,70s,
Each and every of my steps go to the bright past…

Will you read this poem more, if I will tell you 'I talked with the dead'?
Or what if I would say 'the dead dictated this poem to me'?
On the contrary, I didn't talk with them, they talked with me
And this poem… They didn't dictate it to me, I dictated it to them…

That means the writer of this poem is dead.
This was obvious from the fact that
He fell in love with women who lived a century earlier than him…

You can't find the enthusiasm and the exciting waiting of the maternity wards here.
However, if each end is a beginning;
Each death is a birth…
Think about this and you will start hearing in the cemetery,
The same exciting waiting, the same enthusiasm.


- Then who gives birth to dead?
- They are the ones who give birth without being born themselves.



If I would be religious,
I would consider the fact that
My photo camera broke down in the cemetery,
And that all photos appeared white, as the message sent by the dead.
But beware! This message of the dead
Does not necessitate the existence of God,
My greetings to my master, Arkadas Ozger…

You! My friend on whose stone it writes 'goodbye my beloved husband',
It is evident that you are uncomfortable about my photo taking,
That's why all photos come out white…
I promise you that I will put all the photos into the water,
In order to see the message you sent me clandestinely.

If you say your grandson who doesn't spare time for his grandmother
Due to his excessive stock exchange chasing would be a gentleman, would be humane,
Write it to 3449, it will be sent to your mobile -I'm sorry, that is it in this age…
Long time passed after the age of the secret postmen, and where were they buried here?

I don't want this poem to be buried under soil,
I don't want to build a stone for each of my dead poems.
I would rather burn the poem and throw the ashes,
Maybe, a tiny piece of it will reach my further country by this way.




10.04.2009, Melbourne, Australia
12.04.2009, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam