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Quote by Mehmet Murat Ildan

“Rural life is heaven for the urban-people, but when it comes to go to this heaven, they prefer to stay in the hell!”

Quote by Mehmet Murat Ildan

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Mehmet Murat Ildan
Mehmet Murat Ildan

Mehmet Murat Ildan is a renowned Turkish writer born on May 16, 1965. His works span various literary forms including novels, essays, and poetry, and have gained widespread popularity among readers. more

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“Thirty-Three If the martyr is made when the breaking heart breaks open, and one holds in the crib of her palm the ghost of something as singular as last night's argument, then what was mystery is worse—the advent of the end. They sleep in the sea of a bed, blue as breath, the tangle of needle-net holding them close. And if they dance, it is like lanterns on a lake, as nothing lasts for very long, so frail, those passive vessels. Imagine the elemental glow and a city of stars still forming, the work in progress of heaven like the swirl of color in a vanity rose: where one shade ends the other may begin, or not, its own red. She scowls her lover's scowl. When Christ comes down from the mountain, he marches to Jerusalem unaware. This is how the dead get by, and the dying make due: like anyone, they are preserved with such affection as to disenchant their grief.”

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“Rib I frown because you frustrate me, your wooly, muffled voice, and the dishes that will not do themselves. I have traded word for weary word with you and come up short so many sentences, that I am broke from paying attention. Maybe I have treated you badly. I am sorry if I have treated you badly, but other men have worn me out, and I no longer make love, it will not last. So if I linger at the arcs of your chest, we shall call it mere tenderness, or homecoming. And if I happen to write sonnets in the honor of us, I will not drown you in burdens of marigolds, rather clay, a kiss or two, some serpents looking on. I am near useless here, and if I cross myself, it is only because I am that lost, with nothing left to do for my hands.”

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“Heaven To live well under this dark shadow, it takes deep breathing and a resolution, for here it is monstrous cold, and the wind has teeth as large as testament. I wrap a sweater around the sleeve of my soul, and night after night, I sit and I stare at pumpkins, at the moon, at roses falling short of themselves. They are thorn and mere bloom, and I no longer know if they are beautiful, just as I no longer know if I am beautiful, and whether I am or I am not, I do not know if it matters, if it ever did. Nevermind. I am still as uncertain, or at least just as chill as this gray sky above, and that one cold hope success, below, and this unsavory room of waning passions in between. I wanted to make music or love, and having the talents for neither, I settled on both. Do you see these scars? They bear the teethmarks of the angels.”

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“The Coming When apple-birds have drowned themselves in milk, the old bones take it well. They gather smoke to ink the mountainsides with letters of regret. And when the moon burns through its orbit, men take cover in cramped rooms, while all the dead begin to roil within the ground. And as He comes, the night completes itself. The end arrives as if a telegram, in series, inconsolably. And if they wish to suckle the Messiah's breast, it is too late, He's dry. Look to the stars— a trumpet and a train conclude the sky.”

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