Jashiin - Ten Poems by Birhan Keskin

A Closer Listen

Only a few days ago we wrote, “more albums should be inspired by poems,” and already we’ve gotten our wish.  Ten Poems by Birhan Keskin is an aural reaction to, and reflection upon, the work of a famous Turkish poet, but it’s much more than this; it’s also a treatise on national identity and the attempt to find one’s place in the world.

After emigrating to Türkiye (Turkey) two years ago, Jashiin became immersed in the local culture, and while engaging in works of translation was especially enamored by the work of Birhan Keskin.  Poetry and music each offer windows through which one may peer intently while seeking a deeper connection.  The word “elusive,” used by multiple commentators on Keskins work, may also be applied to Jashiin’s music; neither is completely straightforward, hinting at hidden meanings.  Another connection is that each artist is inspired by nature, although Keskin is sometimes unfairly tagged as a nature poet; her work resounds with personal and societal significance, and can escalate from a whisper to a scream, or de-escalate from a scream to a whisper, in a single line.  Her early work also pulses with the vagaries of love.  These ten pieces are directly connected to poems from 2002’s Yeryüzü Halleri (States of the Earth), seven of which are replicated in & Silk & Love & Flame (2013), translated by George Messo.

While the music is instrumental, the surprise is that it is not placid: an echo of Keskin’s tone, which is often turbulent beneath the surface.  The poem “Kapı (Door)” begins in kind, quotable fashion: “I was told, there’s a ripe fruit behind the curtain of patience,” but swiftly turns dark and disturbed.  The first electronic notes sound like multiple doors being opened and closed before one can rush through them, a perfect reflection of the poem.  And then huge swaths of static, like “no”s echoing through a cavern.  The last poem in the written compilation is the album’s first track, implying by extension the doors to understanding language, culture and even one’s own heart.  A thin line late in the track suggests reassessment.  How might one approach such a door?

“Buzul (Glacier)” may be about a heartbreak, or it may not.  Who cleaved me, who was my love? / Who shed my blood, / I don’t know / I don’t recall.  But reader and listener suspect the author does recall.  The track lurks, then leaps.  This manner of drone, seeded with light feedback, reflects the line The great depth, eternal, and / low lying, is shifting in me.  In the music one may hear sirens, skitterings and screams.  In contrast, the more straightforward poem “Çöl (Desert)” serves as a Turkish mirror of Coldplay’s “Yellow” ~ Because sand was yellow / the sky, yellow remembrance.  Jashiin wanders through a desert of mind and culture; the track wanders through a desert of sound, looking for an arrow of melody; Keskin wanders through deserts literal and emotional.

The fascinating “Ova (Plain)” contains one of the poet’s most memorable couplets, the closing I spread myself, flat on flat, me, I am a plain. / As the wind stirs me, let the grass resound.  In similar fashion, the music attempts to flatten itself against the turbulence of the world, to melt into the sonic ground.  Poet and musician seek camouflage.  Neither disappears; their outlines can still be seen.  The peaks of “Dağ” jut like an out-of-control toy; Keskin contrasts sound and silence, while Jashiin does the same, not silenced by morning but loquacious in its gaze.

“Balık (Fish)” is an odd construction: a three-line poem that has become a twelve-minute song.  The piece builds and builds, thickening, growing ever more claustrophobic, haunted by a slow, insistent pulse.  Only in the closing minute – when perhaps the fish, which is not a fish, is caught – does the tension ease to sorrowful acclimation.  The gorgeous “Sea” reflects both disappointed yearning and unbridled hope, brighter and darker synth tones carrying the contrast across the waves.  And then there are three tracks whose English translations are unavailable, ironically containing the album’s brightest (“Seashell”) and most rhythmic (“Horse”) tones.

We suspect that Jashiin, who is home and not at home, displaced yet lodged, connected yet adrift, has found kinship with a poet who is “two sides / rising mountains,” “cleaved,” “cracked,” “opened, closed.”  But perhaps the most fitting line is from a poem not addressed on the album; “Traveller”s most striking couplet reads,

I’m a memory fragmented, scattered to the world.

Richard Allen