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Nationality: Chipre
Email: toncul@kibris.net



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...”


-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.




Translate by, Zeki Ali





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





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




24-01-97 Nicosia


Translated by Oya Akın & Gürgenç Korkmazel





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