We had a celebrated pasture, that stroked
my child's head with tenderness. We called it
'Tapë Kozikan' in Kurdish: Peak of Trenches.
It took its name with Russian occupation, pre-WWI.
I saw no trenches, just empty, bleached-out cartridges.
I took its name to heart, like an old memory.
On Tapë Kozikan I rode my first horse. A chestnut.
Accepting me, thanks to its biddable breeding.
Bareback, I gripped its mane, its bright skin swarmed
my legs like a warm wave. The horse's power made itself known,
and I suffused the Spring with laughter.
His name was Koçe, he smelled clean, like someone
from the same house. I had no fear. Do we learn it retrospectively?
So I say: The horses that sweat and gallop in my poems
all assume the shape of Koçe.
Your poem filled the void of my lost past with a fresh breath.
Poetry is on the side of the weak, a nameless bud,
giving height to those who wish to fly. One day,
let's walk at Tapë Kozikan with the joy of children
playing hide-and-seek. Let's walk, walk, walk,
until we smell the lofty scent of a horse.
You ride on the horse with your tiredness
and your words, and I will hold the halter.
Friendship like that is such a thing!
Ilhan Sami Çomak, March 2021
written in reponse to Lee Herrick's poem 'In a Daydream'
Translated by C.Stockford
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