TAMER ÖNCÜL
I was born on 3 October, 1960 in Nicosia. I graduated from the Dentiatry Faculty at İstanbul University in 1984. Also I am writeing on a weekly basis for the Cypriotturkish newspaper “YENİDUZEN” and is also on the board of a monthly publication, PYGMALION. He has had six books of poetry and one historic investigation book published. His last book “RE FE RAN DUM”, is a selection articles, which was puplished in Yenidüzen, since 1990...
He won the Cyprus Turkısh Peace Associaton Poetry and Peace Price in 1982. .“You Ask Me, / Why do you write so much / about war, poet. / To disgust you who are at war...”
BOOKS OF POETRY
-The Diary of the Child who Lost His Days -İstanbul, 1987
The World is Poem –Lefkoşa, 1992 December
I Hora –The City- Lefkoşa, 1996 January
The Street of Lost Loves- Lefkoşa, 1996 December
Dreams of Daytime –İstanbul, 1998 December
Inscriptions of Dried Spring –Lefkoşa, 2003 May
The Dreams- Lefkoşa, 2008 January
Earth- İzmir, 2015April
Outher Books
Activites of Cyprus Turkish Youths of Higher Education – Research and
Eclectic-Lefkoşa, 1999- written together with Öntaç Düzgün
Toyki- Eclectic, Lefkoşa, 2003 September
• SMOKEY EARTH
With tulle wings
The mist caressed the moon
And knelt in front.
The night is howling
Wrapped in balding fur.
A faint shiver, on cold skin.
The earth exhaled smoke, slowly
Like warm soup on boil
A faint ache, on swollen groin.
The old door with broken knocker
Has tired, creaky hinges
The key don't have the energy
To turn, as it hangs in the rusty lock.
Just waiting, passively: for fog to disperse.
The time, like words on hold
On the lips of an old woman, flows slowly.
A faint scream, in the torn dawn.
TAMER ÖNCUL
January-2003
Translate by, Zeki Ali
MY GRANDAD THE WIND
My grandad the wind was a porter
he carried his twin in the belly of his mom.
he had not the patience for nine months
he left his home early
his journey was not from being tired
but wondering how it would be like.
My grandad the wind was a porter
carrying sand from Egypt.
even though his mind was at home
his eyes was always on the outside
with his scales point
pointing the direction
My grandad the wind was a porter
carrying dreams from the bosom of the dark
he would cucold the scorpion with a ram
on comets, tie a tin-can
and milk dust from the clouds
My grandad the wind was a porter
carrying love down the mountains.
his tired old body would tremble
but his spirit would be on the run
behind some thighs
whipped by long tresses of hair.
trans.by Oya Akın
THE LAST STOP
There, the street murmurs
like a waterfall pouring to bottomlessness,
nature’s listening
to her own routine noise...
The soil is swallowing time,
the savage, unsatisfied soil
sponge of blood, tears and pain...
The music of the rain pours
from their long ears
to their dull faces and they leave,
their bare soles which never touched the soil
pitch black...
They leave, to their aimless lives
with empty road maps
scratched into their eyes...
With burning gases
spraying from their lungs,
indifferent to their scentless noses
they leave throwing heavy, foul smells into the air...
Ready to catch fire with a spark
To THAT LAST STOP...
24-01-97 Nicosia
Translated by Oya Akın & Gürgenç Korkmazel
English 
Spanish
