Provisions are the poem of the one who sets off on a journey. They are the necessity of the journey. They are the joy of being a passenger who shares them with the journey and with the fellow traveler.

They are provisions; they are less but warm. They are what those, who prepare it with love and see off in tears the one who departs, can afford. They come from the heart, as the heart is soothed by words.

Provisions come from less as poetry does. Lyricism in what is less feeds provisions, too. Lyric feeds the journey, within the same manner provisions feed the passenger. The journey is written through provisions and the words try to catch up with them. “Being content is appreciated”, both in provisions and poetry. So is catching up: imagine the happiness of the words that catch up to a poem.

The words of a journey do not stand still somewhere or do not fit into an alphabet but they do not escape from coming together, or entering a poem, sometimes entering a folk song… Which is the lyric word in “I put a rose in the provisions”? Rose or provisions? Or rose being mentioned as a provision? Or the element of admiration in the amazement of love being this thoughtful and delicate?

If a rose is blossoming somewhere, someone looks at it in tears of happiness and becomes an enthusiastic poem. If a rose exists somewhere, someone smells it and becomes a love poem. If a rose is withering somewhere, someone touches it and becomes a faded poem. If someone is preparing a rose as a provision for a lover somewhere; do tell, what else would one expect?

Just as setting off on a journey with a rose as your provisions is lyrical, so is the journey… No metaphor is as modest as the journey is. It is bad to comprehend being a metaphor as double roasted. It is not fair to others; not fair to the quiet space that does not have words to tell. So would that rare rose fall from value when it becomes a provision?

Heavenly like water; provision like rose; lyric like journey. There is no other poet as enthusiastic as Edip Cansever who is envious, happy, and excited about the ‘beginnings’. Maybe it is because every beginning is lyrical. A journey evokes the feeling of a beginning in us, even the thought of it… Lyrical thoughts… It might put a smile on our faces even when we think of it…

Well, the beginnings are lyrical alright but what about afterwards? Let us not say until the finish line but until the end… Let journey be the metaphor of flow; the lyre of life; and nonexistence as much as existence; let space be lyrical as much as words…

I did not used to think that poetry or what is lyrical would be in such harmony with human nature. Maybe it was because I used to be young. Later we came across with the line of saint-like poet Necatigil: “because, in fact, the poems wait for some certain ages.” We said ‘it is a beautiful line’, ‘very beautiful!’ but we realized that to realize its truth it was necessary to reach those certain ages.

Our “great expat” Nazım Hikmet’s “Great Mankind” poem is one of those poems. I remembered this poem so many times in the recent years. He says, “Bread is enough for everyone but great mankind/so is rice/so is sugar/so is fabric/so is book.” Then he adds, “but great mankind has hope/one cannot live without hope.”

Lyric is something like hope, like summer, like tree, like spring, green, blue, water, bird, bread, rice, sugar, fabric, and book… Rather it is something like being in love from head to toes… So is rose… If provisions are lyrical, lyric is provision. It is a provision for the road, for the world, for the journey, for the spirit. Bread smells like rose, book smells like spring, what about hope, it smells the best, its scent envelopes the world. Smell of rose blossoming in garden, smell of bread coming out of oven, smell of hope, warm and shining, dropping from the sun meet. Less comes from the heart, becomes a provision, sets off on a journey, becomes a poem, becomes visible…

Lyrical dream. It becomes the journey itself all over… If there is rose, there is poem… Both become provisions… Both become love… Journey is lyrical. It is how life orders.