MURAT YURDAKUL

MURAT YURDAKUL

Wound

I'm starting to get creeped up in the morning.

to the sky of the calm kites...

let the candles flow

let the trains pass now

I drop night on the tracks to my face

I'm ready

outside the snow is said softly

the kids who stutter inside me grow

in a world where you can see

still the winds work

no season warms my hands like a mother

the sardines died dead

world blood in sleep

a sweaty sky, boredom, heavy time

erase the fire of anger

it turns out it's an old convent garden in postcards.

I'd Save my scattered breath from the breath of birds

love is everywhere

it's a train ride inside me

it's a good time to kiss a child

every passage of the wind licking the stone

fall to the bottom of the wall gives my life

Away

I look like a naked woman

opens on the fact that when we do make love music

I kiss my lips waiting for the sky

the birds are staring at the sky!

I'm tired on your face this morning

a counselor teaches you to save your eyes

I'm falling into the sky with the spindles

a female who is judged on her breasts

my sleep is in the city where I was born,

was it the patience on my feet or did you say goodbye?

the last poet before he gets shot…

a country named after you

you're one of the letters I can't send.

my childhood's neck is cold

we're not from a garden

I'm leaving, without a suitcase, and now!

Yellow Laughter

you come across the yellowed photos you took

old tale with the album stuck.

yellow laughs,

to your calendar pages

the years of cruelly battered ...

loneliness came from the jingles

you sound to me, I breathe you ... when the heavy bird wing

light bell sound, your eyes black amber

time is

the heart of love with the warm blood

Too late for the now forgotten sky on the land.

after the betrayal between the leaf and the tree that keeps the forest

tears your shoulders and mountain heads, lonely on your face

a tongue voice, a pebble in the cliff vault

kissing your hair and sweeping from your shoulders the most delicate of the winds

silent and stretched to the feet of the most secluded loneliness

my fingers become a mother

search by the shadow

I take two dresses from my apology

I do not like the god of the god I do not like my eyes

shimmering rose like a seale

my lonely one season you can make love to you

Do not forget that everyone's wounds are far away.

Lemon Flowers

faster than the wind from the train

I found sadness in cities I don't know

a God dies on your face from boredom

the birds are closing your face, I'm lost!

all night long 

if I burn away all the letters

who can I leave now

peace is as delicate as touching you,

you're never too late

the water was suicidal.

I raise the voice of lemon flowers

I've reached the blood sleep of a sweaty sky

born of a beautiful body, the world is poured from the sounds of the fussy children of the pigeon

time was the birds ... waiting for the seasons…

MURAT YURDAKUL

MURAT YURDAKUL was born in Adana on 01.01.1980. He completed his English Department at Anadolu University. He started his summer life with a story. His stories, poems and writings were published in Arıda, Kitab-I, Milliyet art, a literature, Yom literature, Ekin art literature and thought, Literatureist and Karakedi magazines. MevzuEdebiyat.com literature analysis, poetry and novel criticism articles are published.  Yurdakul's verbal ability, which also translates poetry into Italian, Spanish and English, consists of a wide range of languages. Murat Yurdakul speaks Advanced Spanish, Italian and English. Poet / writer;● International poetry competition “Ventuio prize” - XIII Edition - year 2018 ‘la voce di mia madre’ was awarded the merit award in the Department of Peace weapons. ● He appeared as a contemporary Turkish poet in a literary magazine published in Portugal named” espaco do ser".