Murat Yurdakul ( Turkey)

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, Advanced Spanish, Italian and English
he knows.

Poet / writer;
● International poetry competition “Ventuio socket” – XIII Edition – year 2018 ‘ la voce di mia
madre was awarded the merit award in the “D peace weapons” section.

● “Espaco do ser” is a contemporary Turkish poet in a literary magazine published in Portugal
he took part in it.

● “Opa anthology” took part in the selection of modern poet anthology.

 

purple inside me

fall breath would fall to the edge of my face
but every woman in my night of the frightened roe that comes down to the water
the birds are cold to heaven
our hair scattered in the tender chest of the night,
it hides our shy look

kite skeleton released in almond tree
the blue of the sea wandering through my window
cold, lonely
it smells like sadness now

growing dreams of lonely children
I come from the night of the sky
the desert mountains have left the color of desolation in the mist of their eyes
like a long grief, I went to the streets of your face with pain.
love is washed in the blemish sound of my heart
I’m in front of the mirror all night not to leave myself alone.

 

wound

I’m starting with the little wrinkled morning.
to the sky of the calm kites…

let the candles flow
let the trains pass now
on the tracks the night every drop of my face
I’m ready
outside the snow is said softly
dirty stutter inside me grows children

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.

 

Red Song
 
dust accumulated with the old
whatever it may be.
we don’t know, our mouths stink like suicide.
my sleep is in the city where I was born
before an erguvan distance
I’m not grieving the birds
these mountain villages where I’m scattered in their skirts
a child is mingled with tiles with broken glass
moreover, before the time of the trains to get up.
my tickets are on fire;
let me through your door!
he died in the sea on the balcony, and then The Seagull…
I’m in a hurry
bird parks take off from my purple dreams
dreams are long from sleep
one red song in cherry trees
thanks, that proves my lack of sleep to the wind.
a naked Angel.
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