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T.A.S.K. Turkish Association for Secularism and Kemalism. T.A.S.K. Turkish Association for Secularism and Kemalism. T urkish A ssociation for S ecularism and K emalism. T.A.S.K. Turkish Association for Secularism and Kemalism. Objectives.

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Turkish Association for Secularism and Kemalism



Turkish Association for Secularism and Kemalism


Association for

Secularism and




Turkish Association for Secularism and Kemalism


  • emphasizing the need and importance of secularism

in protecting human rights, freedoms and democracy

  • informing the academic community at PSU and

urging them to take action against radical religious

activities all around the world



Turkish Association for Secularism and Kemalism


Secularity does not only mean the separation of religious and state affairs, but also the respect for freedom of moral sense, worship and religion for every individual.

Religion is a moral value and religious practice is a private matter between the person and the divine being in which he/she believes.

Religion shall never be used in an official capacity to enforce one group's religious opinions or beliefs on another even though the group in demand is in majority.



Turkish Association for Secularism and Kemalism


  • defined, described, interpreted and restated by
  • the association and its members as follows:
  • Secularism.
  • Real love of peace and mankind.
  • Peace in the nation, peace in the world. Mankind is a single body and each nation a part of that body.
  • Being scientific and rational.
  • Reformism.

T.A.S.K. Presents

Turkish Association for Secularism and Kemalism


He never tore wings off flies when he was little,

Nor tied cans to cats’ tails,

Nor kept cockroaches in matchboxes,

He didn’t destroy ants’ nests.

When he grew up

They did all that to him.

I was by his deathbed.

‘Read me a poem’ he said,

‘About the sun, the sea

About mankind’s great achievements’



Turkish Association for Secularism and Kemalism









Turkish Association for Secularism and Kemalism







The water flowed,

It showed

Willow trees in its mirror,

Weeping willows washing their hair in the stream.

Red riders raced towards the sinking sun,

Their flaming swords drawn to strike the willows.


like a bird shot

in the wing

a wounded horseman tumbled from his horse.

He did not shout,

Or call after those who passed,

He just looked with brimming eyes

At the flashing hooves of the riders receding.


Alas that he

Will never lay again foaming necks of his galloping horses,

Or brandish his sword chasing after the white armies! Gradually hoof beats die away,

The riders are lost in the sunset.

NAZIM HIKMET 1902/1963



Horsemen, horsemen, red riders,

Horses wind winged

Horses wind wing…

Horses wind..



Life passed like the wind winged horsemen.

The sound of the running water stopped.

Shadows grew denser

Colors were wiped away.

Black blinds came down,

On his blue eyes,

The weeping willows leant

Over his fair hair.

Don’t weep weeping willow,

Don’t weep,

In the dark mirror of water, don’t fold your hands,

don’t fold your hands,

don’t weep.

Do you know you live in me bit by bit

Yet there is such a thing as being lovely with you

For instance we drink raki and it is

As if a carnation were engulfing us.

Beside us a tree works with precision

Mind and belly lose sense and sway.

You are bent on that carnation, I take it

And give it to you.

You then pass it on

To someone else.

And a greater beauty is reached.

Do you know, that someone else forwards it again

And lo the carnation quickens from hand to hand.

As you can see we augment this love

With warmth I dwell upon you, but that is not it

Look how like seven colors into white translated

Each into each silently we cast our unison.




I walked away                    you forgot your hands on my faceI felt ashamed of my sorrowsashamed of my lonelinesssuddenly in the ruthless wisdom of our teensI felt ashamedof the dreams that poured out those maledictions                                                                       of love                                                                                of the forgot your marbles on my faceyou forgot your smell in my lifepouring a gallon of gasoline on my memoriesI set fire to our joys. I attached                                            to your hairthe whole splendor of my favorite sorrow,                                                its winds,there, yours is the autumn alsowhat else do you want of methere, yours is the most attractive suicide also





I walked away                    you forgot your islands on my faceyou forgot your eyes in my pastI felt ashamed of my desiresof my advanced ageand of the rain                      I am sick and tiredand you: sepia jazz kid abandoned by the cityyou forgot every chance you had in my unexpected death!they packed me and took me somewhereon my face you forgot                               your future

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when, no, they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me.

PABLO NERUDA 1904/1973


I did not know what to say, my mouth had no way with names my eyes were blind, and something started in my soul, fever or forgotten wings, and I made my own way, deciphering that fire and I wrote the first faint line, faint, without substance, pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing,

and suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened and open, planets, palpitating plantations,

shadow perforated, riddled with arrows, fire and flowers, the winding night, the universe.

 And I, infinitesmal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke free on the open sky.

I had a belovedwho sent me the sand of his hometown

I, however, always wondered about the wind of that land

whether it was tamed crazy continuous

whether it appeared suddenly in the sky

hurling what it gathered from the ground

there were cities we later shared

the wind masterful I inexperienced

it swept by violently, came and went

filling my eyes with sand




if one day our love flies away from us, my love,

like smoke with a rucksack at its back

if our love goes away, my love, somewhere we haven't dreamt of

like the dust fallen off from the wing of a butterfly hit by an angel

or like a broken branch floating in a waterfall

trust only your wings

life is a door handle which we hold tightly at the edge of a void we created ourselves

and love, a violin that fell into our deepest well

when the roads we walk on get narrower

and the stairs we step on collapse

my love trust only your wings




lovers know that

spring is a shower of birds

the taboos created by those who are unable to love

disappear in the childish shades of summer

and love goes to pieces in our mouths as autumn dissolves like a piece of yellow candy

and if there is talk of an unending winter,

my love, beloved,

trust only your wings

when I hold out my hand to show you the ships

there's a captain at the helm fainted by the odor of blood

in the horizon a country floating towards the heart of fire

and a swarm of locusts coming out of the suitcases

as the feathers of doves hit by fighters in the air scatter away

my love

comb your hair on the ever-changing maps

and trust only your wings

if they take me away one day with my hands tied

to places unknown by my poems and every other soul

stand on the rusty shoulder of the world like a migratory bird flown out from my forehead

and when you take off heading for my absence fear not,

my love fear not

trust only your wings


Before dawn,

While the sea is still snow-white, you will set sail;

The grip of the oars in your palms,

And in your heart the joy of toil and vigor,

You will go.

In the roll and sway of the nets, you will go.

For welcome, fish will appear on your course

Delighting you.

As you shake the nets,

Scale by scale, the sea will journey into your hands.




When silence pervades the souls of seagulls

In the cemetery of the rocks,

All of a sudden,

All hell will break loose on the horizon:

Mermaids will scuttle and birds scurry...

Saturnalia and festivals, orgies and carnivals,

Bridal processions, masquerades, revelries, carousals...


Whaddya waiting for, man, jump in the sea!

Forget who's waiting for you back there.

Don't you see: Freedom is all around you.

Be the sail, the oar, the rudder, the fish, the water,

And go, go wherever you can.


Do not pay attention to my blonde hair

I am an Asian

Do not pay attention to my blue eyes

I am an African

There is no shadow under the trees where I live

just like the ones in your place

In our land the bread is in lion’s mouth

Dragons wait at the fountains

and people live only fifty years

just like the ones in your place

Do not pay attention to my blonde hair

I am an Asian

Do not pay attention to my blue eyes

I am an African

eighty percent do not know how to read and write

poems learned by word of mouth becoming folk songs

poems could become flags where I live

just like the ones in your place

NAZIM HIKMET 1902/1963



your poems should be able to till the soil next to underfed oxen

they should be able to get into swamps in rice fields

up to their knees

They should be able to ask all the questions

They should be able to collect all the light

They should be able to stand in street corners

Just like milestones our poems

They should be able to identify the approaching enemy

they should be able to play the drums

and till there is no human who is not free

and till there are no more nuclear clouds

they should be able to give their possessions money mind and life

for the great freedom , our poems

There’s something I have learned from what I’ve lived:

If you’re to live something, live it to its fullest

Your beloved should fall exhausted from your kisses

You should fall exhausted from smelling a flower

One can watch the sky for hours

Can for hours watch the sea, a bird, a child

To live on earth is to mingle with it

Growing roots that cannot be eradicated

When you hug a friend you should hug him vigorously

You should fight with all your muscles, body, passion

And once you stretch out on the hot sand

You should rest like a grain of sand, a leaf, a stone




One should listen to all the beautiful music on earth

So as to fill all his being with sounds and songs

One should dive into life as if

Diving from a rock into an emerald sea

Distant lands should lure you, people you do not know

You should burn with the desire to read all the books, to know all the lives

You should not exchange for anything the pleasure of drinking a glass of water

All the joys should fill you with the yearning to live

And you should live grief also, with honor, with all your being

For grief also, like joy, matures a person

Your blood should mingle with the great circulation of life

In your veins must circulate the eternal fresh blood of life

There is something I have learned from what I’ve lived:

If you’re to live, live big, as if you are mingling with the rivers, the sky, the whole universe

For what we call a life span is a gift to life

And life is a gift to mankind

Your love never left me.

I hungered and thirstedin the treacherous, dark night.

My soul was stranger, my soul was silentmy soul was shattered...

And my hands were handcuffed

I was without tobacco or sleep

but your love never left me...




You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?

and the poppy-petal led metaphysics?

and the rain repeatedly spattering

its words and drilling them full

of apertures and birds?

I'll tell you all the news.

I lived in a suburb,

a suburb of Madrid, with bells,

and clocks, and trees.

From there you could look out

over Castille's dry face:

a leather ocean.

My house was called

the house of flowers, because in every cranny

geraniums burst: it was

a good-looking house with its dogs and children.

Remember, Raul?

Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember

from under the ground

my balconies on which

the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?

PABLO NERUDA 1904/1973


Brother, my brother!


loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,

pile-ups of palpitating bread,

the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue

like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:

oil flowed into spoons,

a deep baying

of feet and hands swelled in the streets,

meters, liters, the sharp

measure of life,

stacked-up fish,

the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which

the weather vane falters,

the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,

wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

And one morning all that was burning,

one morning the bonfire

slept out of the earth

devouring human beings --and from then on fire,

gunpowder from then on,

and from then on blood.

Bandits with planes and Moors,

bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,

bandits with black friars spattering blessings

came through the sky to kill children

and the blood of children ran through the streets

without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise,

stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,

vipers that the vipers would abominate!

Face to face with you I have seen the blood

of Spain tower like a tideto drown you in one wave

of pride and knives!


generals: see my dead house,

look at broken Spain :from every house burning metal flows

instead of flowers,

from every socket of Spain

Spain emerges

and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,

and from every crime bullets are born

which will one day find

the bull's eye of your hearts.

And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry

speak of dreams and leave

sand the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.

Come and see

The blood in the streets.

Come and see the blood

In the streets!

…It is sometime after midnight

I can hear the voices of the cars

The voice of the water that the tires splash

It rained like crazy today

Sky was like an ocean

You know, they say that nature cries when it rains

I don’t think nature cares who is leaving or who is dead

This is just sweet dreams of human being

Right now I am writing you

Even though I don’t know whom you love, but

I know you don’t love me

I know from the night, the candle, the clock

And from all the hearts filled with pain

I know you did not love me anyways.




Translated by :SULE ERGUN

The rough man entered the lover's garden

It is woods now, my beautiful one, it is woods,

Gathering roses, he has broken their stems

They are dry now, my beautiful one, they are dry

In this square our hide is stretched

Blessed be, we saw our friend off to God

One day, too, black dust must cover us

We will rot, my beautiful one, we will rot

He himself reads and He also writes

God's holy hand has closed her crescent eyebrows

Your peers are wandering in Paradise

They are free, my beautiful one, they are free


Whatever religion you are, I'll worship it too

I will be torn off with you even the Day of Judgement

Bend for once, let me kiss you on your white neck

Just stay there for a moment, my beautiful one, just stay there

I'm Pir Sultan Abdal, I start from the root

I eat the kernel and throw out the evil weed

And weave from a thousand flowers to one hive honey

I am an honest bee, my beautiful one, an honest bee.

It looks like

Our wager will take some time

Leaving work and occupation

I moved to a house facing the cemetery

Death you can not cheat me

The wager is still on




Summer is waning, fall

as for us Russian dolls who never grow at all

in a dream we met and in a dream we parted

come on, it's time that one of us should wake the other up

each of us inside the darkness of the other captive

each of us inside the snowdrift of the other buried

far from the long winters of different ilk for each cocoon

come on, it's time that one of us should wake the other up

the writs of our youth have passed. The farms are now deserted

the nests of the storks emptied with the falling rains

we have questions now at hand; each day keeps doling out to us

what's written down for those who linger on summer's ending summer's ending summer's ending

Well I know itagain a June

again July and once more august




Remember that little girl at Afyon train station,

Who took off her shoes when she got on the train;

Think of the Varto earthquake, a box of milk powder,

And a bra sent as charity by the West.

The man whitewashed the walls of his house with the milk powder,

His wife kept the bra that was unknown to her,

She planned to use it as earmuffs in winter;

My God, was it really in your childhood days?...

Lots of people sitting on thresholds

I wish I would have loved you just for this.






Living is no laughing matter:

you must live with great seriousness

like a squirrel, for example-

I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,

I mean living must be your whole occupation.

Living is no laughing matter:

you must take it seriously,

so much so and to such a degree

that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,

your back to the wall,

or else in a laboratory

in your white coat and safety glasses,

you can die for people-

even for people whose faces you've never seen,

even though you know living

is the most real, the most beautiful thing.

I mean, you must take living so seriously

that even at seventy, for example, you'll plant olive trees-

and not for your children, either,

but because although you fear death you don't believe it,

because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

NAZIM HIKMET 1902/1963




We'll know this with a curious anger,

but we'll still worry ourselves to death

about the outcome of the war, which could last years.

Let's say we're in prison

and close to fifty,

and we have eighteen more years, say,

before the iron doors will open.

We'll still live with the outside,

with its people and animals, struggle and wind-

I mean with the outside beyond the walls.

I mean, however and wherever we are,

we must live as if we will never die.

Let's say you're seriously ill, need surgery -

which is to say we might not get

from the white table.

Even though it's impossible not to feel sad

about going a little too soon,

we'll still laugh at the jokes being told,

we'll look out the window to see it's raining,

or still wait anxiously

for the latest newscast ...

Let's say we're at the front-

for something worth fighting for, say.

There, in the first offensive, on that very day,

we might fall on our face, dead.



This earth will grow cold,

a star among stars

and one of the smallest,

a gilded mote on blue velvet-

I mean this, our great earth.

This earth will grow cold one day,

not like a block of ice

or a dead cloud even

but like an empty walnut it will roll along

in pitch-black space ...

You must grieve for this right now

-you have to feel this sorrow now-

for the world must be loved this much

if you're going to say ``I lived'' ...

Neither to be Tahir is a shame

Nor being Zuhre

Even to die

Because of love is not shameful,

The thing is to be able to be Tahir and Zuhre

That is due to the heart.

For instance while fighting at a barricade

Or while going out to explore the North Pole

For example while trying

a serum in your veins

Is it a shame to die?

You love the world at your full speed

But it is not aware of that

You do not want to be separated from world

But it will from you

Namely because of the fact that you like apple

Is it necessary for the apple to like you?

That is if Zuhre did not love Tahir anymore

Else never loved

What could Tahir lose from his own?

NAZIM HIKMET 1902/1963


Today is Sunday.

For the first time they took me out into the sun today.

And for the first time in my life I was aghast that the sky is so far away

and so blue

and so vast

I stood there without a motion.

Then I sat on the ground with respectful devotion leaning against the white wall.

Who cares about the waves with which I yearn to roll

Or about strife or freedom or my wife right now.

The soil, the sun and me...

I feel joyful and how.




T.A.S.K. Presents

Turkish Association for Secularism and Kemalism


He never tore wings off flies when he was little,

Nor tied cans to cats’ tails,

Nor kept cockroaches in matchboxes,

He didn’t destroy ants’ nests.

When he grew up

They did all that to him.

I was by his deathbed.

‘Read me a poem’ he said,

‘About the sun, the sea

About mankind’s great achievements’