read1 of 2
Mehmet Said Aydın

Mehmet Said Aydın was born in Diyarbakır (1983), spent most of his life in Mardin and İstanbul. The author of realities and tales of his homeland, which stayed unsung for centuries, Aydın’s poems and short stories are best known for its neo-realist texture. Aydın’s mother tongue is Kurdish and he studied Turkish Language and Literature.

Published in 2011, his first book of poetry Kusurlu Bahçe by 160. Kilometre was honoured with “Arkadaş Z. Özger First Book Special Award”.
In early 2014, Sokağın Zoru was released and his two poetry books were reprinted 7 times. In 2017, Sylvain Cavaillès translated his first volume of poems Kusurlu Bahçe into French as Le Jardin Manqué. He’s currently working on a novel and new volumes of poetry to be published in 2018.

He translated two books from Turkish to Kurdish together with Süleyman Sertkaya: Murat Özyaşar, Bîr (Doğan Publishing, 2011); Aziz Nesin, Zarokên Niha Çi Jîr in (Nesin Publishing, 2012).

His column “Pervaz” appeared first in BirGün, then in Evrensel newspapers every week since 2013. He currently writes weekly for the Duvar Newspaper. Aydın expresses the political conjuncture with a delightful sense of humour using his childhood memories and similes.

He hosted a radio show on Kurdish Literature aired by Açık Radyo, every 2 weeks for 2 years. This program was popular among circles of interest that he was proposed hosting a TV show Keçiyolu which was broadcasted in 2015 and 2016.

He makes a living as an editor for Everest Publishing House in İstanbul married to Selin Fişek Aydın. He experiments with language and methods of translation. He’s a member of Amnesty International Turkey and Journalists Union of Turkey.

Mehmet partipated in our Istanbul Longform Workshop in March 2017. 

not the point

1 min

not the point 

you listen a ballad, sing along, “which vinery do you guard?” 

not an affinity bearing love but that’s not the point 

however that’s not the point, you singing along, love or nightmare

it’s very late, one’s nine years old wail, body and fever 

all these years i was thought a few alphabets, one arabic one cyrillic

hammer and sickle sociology of oppressed people,

pedagogy of the oppressed and manuscripts of 1844

your name is not zîn, mine neither mem nor tajdîn 

my name is not in a song, yours not in a poem 

you never sang to me on a november night 

i may be mem û zîn to you on the fourth of november 

if i may, like that poet, i’m fond of turgut uyar, i’m not 

i’m not an emigree, nothing of the maghrib nor do i know of the mashriq 

not brave enough to refuge, a state of poetry

kürdistan est un mot cool.

your coffee-coloured hair is on my mind. 

and that coffee has a colour. the smell of coffee 


yet that’s not the point. 

not the point

1 min