Poems Liberated by Awareness

When was the last time you wrote or read a poem? Was it dedicated to someone, or was it a reflection of your own abstract emotions? Let’s explore together how personal and social dynamics might shape our poetry.

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I realised that I hadn't written anything about poetry for months. This, combined with the fact that I hadn't written any poems or prose recently, made me feel uneasy. I usually carefully archive every piece I write, but I hadn’t recorded anything recently. Strangely, however, I experienced some fleeting moments of poetic inspiration just last week. This made me question the value I place on my poems.

Recently, I visited an exhibition by the painter Burhan Uygur at Casa Botter. Uygur had drawn illustrations directly onto the pages of Can Yücel’s poetry book, “Rengâhenk”. If I were a painter, I would love to try something similar. Then again, designing book covers might be just as thrilling.

As I examined the illustrations, I read each poem carefully. I tried to establish connections between the visuals and the verses, but often found it difficult to create clear harmony between the two. However, I didn't find this off-putting. Uygur had a unique style that wasn't immediately apparent. Similarly, I thought that the essence of Yücel’s mind was perhaps too layered to align perfectly with the illustrations. As I continued looking, I asked myself, 'How would I have visualised these poems?' Soon, my focus shifted entirely to 'How would I have written them?'

The more I read, the more I realised how distinctive and original Can Yücel’s writing truly was. His expressions felt interwoven, as if he transitioned from one topic to another mid-flow. These poems, especially in their visual context, created an impression unlike anything I had experienced before. I appreciated how the fusion of two art forms could produce something so striking.

After this experience, I began organising my past writings. I gathered all my scattered poems and prose from as far back as 2022. While revisiting them, one thing stood out:

Most of my poems no longer felt the same.

I accepted this with a bittersweet yet natural sense of understanding. Poems often reflect our emotional state at the time of writing. If we’re no longer in that state, it’s only natural that the poems won't evoke the same feelings.

However, I also noticed something else that connected back to the exhibition.

Casa Botter, Burhan Uygur Exhibition, Drawings on Can Yücel’s “Rengâhenk”

While reviewing my old writings, I reflected on how long it had been since I last wrote a poem, and considered my current feelings about poetry. For me, writing poetry can be both an instantaneous act of expression and a more periodic, time-bound one. Looking through my earliest poems, I noticed that I often wrote them for specific people at regular intervals. Over time, I transitioned to theme-based writing, expressing emotions within a more conceptual framework. Yet most of those themes were shared experiences — subjects that anyone could write about in their own way. Perhaps only a few were truly personal.

What really caught my attention, though, was Can Yücel's approach to poetry. There’s a consistent sense of abstraction in his writing. Yes, you can visualise what he is referring to and grasp the essence, but then a line comes along that takes you down an entirely different path. The tone and emotion can shift entirely. Since I wasn’t used to this structure, I couldn’t fully immerse myself in it at first. But I kept reading. This time, rather than trying to understand the content, I focused on deciphering his style. I think I identified a particular structure in many of his poems which, once again, highlighted the differences in our approaches. It was as if I was comparing a seasoned writer with a complete novice. I was glad that I could perceive that difference at all.

On my way home, I started thinking about the themes commonly addressed in poetry. I considered how these themes differ on a local and societal scale. While Can Yücel’s poems contain unexpected lines and unique perspectives, they also touch on universal human experiences.

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I realised that our personal experiences have the greatest influence on how we shape our poetry. The things we experience during certain periods of our lives find their way from our hearts to our pages. These experiences may contain romantic nuances or raw, unfiltered thoughts. It all depends on how bold and transparent we choose to be in our expression. As you know, Can Yücel is particularly fearless in this regard. He doesn’t filter his emotions; he expresses them exactly as they are. This enables us to relate to his poems, even if our feelings differ from his. He doesn’t fear vulnerability. Most of us, though, tend to hold back — often as a matter of habit. If that’s our style, there’s nothing wrong with it — I’m not suggesting we should be any different.

I also reflected on this socially. I didn’t need to recall every subject I’d written about — I already knew they clustered around certain recurring themes. I questioned the elements that define us in both local and societal narratives. The best example, I think, is our traditions, which are shaped over time by moral frameworks and cultural codes. In daily life, whether in our physical surroundings or the abstract spaces of our minds, we exist intertwined with these values.

When we channel our emotions into poetry, our everyday problems inevitably find their way in, as do the chaotic fabric of the city, unforgettable scenes that mark certain moments in life, distant towering mountains, vast seas, lush greenery and nature itself. These elements seep from the edges of the page — they're hard to ignore. Yet we’re not always aware of them. The eye settles for what it constantly sees. When we are worn down by traffic, we rarely think beyond it. A beautiful sunset, on the other hand, becomes an unattainable element that quietly embeds itself within us — something we carry inwardly.

As well as nature and landscapes, historical and cultural elements also shape our collective memory. Don't we sometimes draw inspiration from epic tales of struggle, folk songs or everyday local life?

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Ultimately, I realised two things. Firstly, Can Yücel is a poet who blends individual and social elements in his writing, which comes straight from the heart and does not conform to expectations. Secondly, I realised that my own poems had become somewhat one-dimensional and confined within a narrow framework. But isn't poetry, whether it has a subject or not, a form that defines its own boundaries?

Here's to liberating our poems.