Fire, water, air, earth… Does life consist of these four things only? As you live, as you write, as you set out on a new journey, you add new things to them.
Some of these are lifelong, some are as long as the road goes. Of course, the road goes on, after the human. Because the road goes through us and we are going through it and the road outruns us and our lives… We call it the road, not the one that outruns but the one that goes on…
While passing, going, driving through time, near the water, under the sky, the coolness of the trees, the fire of the sun and the spell of words… Maybe, a preparation begins to possess a pair of wings, maybe in your pocket or in your gaze or in your palm… Your hands are touching your head with a rush of excitement as if spring has come to you and this time it is hiding in you to spring in you… Oh, what a bliss!
We were talking about words as if they are the space of the life quartet. Space, that is emptiness, sometimes silence, occasional lightness, the weight of it sometimes heavier than stone, the breeze of it sometimes harder than the wind, and a guide to time. Words. Sometimes people say it like a spell and sometimes we write them on paper using the same spell. There were skies, clouds, waters, trees, roads, and winds before there were words, and words are written all over the sky, clouds, waters, trees, roads, and winds.
Around noon. It’s the right time for words. The words come out of the mouth and take off. They meet each other, meet the roads, and are happy to fly. At noon, the kingdom of the sun offers its generous lights to all its subjects. Some words are collected in poetry by diving into the back streets.
The sun makes noon excited but it cannot get it off the road. At lunchtime, everything waits for its turn. It’s the right time for the passenger to talk to the sun. Two old friends who met to offer each other gifts. Gift, life… Sunny letters walk around noon. And sunny waters flow. And the sun becomes everyone’s in the kingdom of noon.
Around noon. Beautiful time. Beautiful waters. Fluent, clean, sparkly, sunny, playful, clear waters. Where nobody measures anyone. Where the passenger does not measure the road. Where he doesn’t think of the end of the road. Where the end of the road is again the road itself. Water is the road. The road leads to the water. And man searches for himself on the road, he comes across in the water. In those waters, road waters, sun waters, noon waters.
Noon is an inn, mid-afternoon is its courtyard, the morning is the pebbles in the courtyard, the evening is the horseman who comes to the inn in the evening, tying his horse in the courtyard, tying the evening to the inn. It is not the place where the passenger weighs the road, but the place he lets it go through himself. Road and passenger, noon and sun, water and words walk together. None will be left behind when the other is around; none will keep its identity when there is the other.
Noon, the magic of the road. The light of time. The heart of the flow. The goodness of life. The opening of the heart.
The calmness of thought. The light of the dream. The smile of the eye. The joy of the face. The walk of goodness. Everyone is nobody. The happiness of being nobody. Noon: time said so!
Cengiz Aytmatov said that The Day Would Become a Century. It would become noon, road. And the man leaves himself to the sun. Noon is like a poem. Every beginning becomes a brand new poem. Poetry becomes the road, the road becomes a poem. Just as the road turns and finds you, poetry finds you. Didn’t life find you? Life, road, poetry, destiny, all meet each other at noon.
The passenger is in the sun, noon is in his pocket. Oktay Rıfat is one of those passengers. He takes out his noon from his pocket, gives it a good look, holds it up to the sun, holds it to his poetry, holds his poetry to us. In the morning, he bathes in the sound; at noon, he bathes in the sun; in the afternoon, he bathes in coolness; in the evening, he bathes in beauty.
O passenger, you are at noon, soak up the sun!