Poetic Encounters: An Interview
Erkan Karakiraz vs. Aytek Sever
(Originally published in the journal Öteki Eleştiri (Issue 1, 2025, 83-90). Translated from Turkish by Aytek Sever.)
Poetic Encounters is the English version of an interview between Erkan Karakiraz and Aytek Sever, published in the journal Öteki Eleştiri (Issue 1, 2025, 83-90). Conducted originally in Turkish with questions from Karakiraz and answers from Sever, the interview has been translated into English by the latter poet. Short biographies of the participants appear at the end.
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Erkan Karakiraz: What first grabs my attention in your poetry is the systematic use of repetitions. Repetition sometimes appears in titles, sometimes in themes, and sometimes in words. You transform repetition into a motif, creating a structure that builds on enriched, multiplied associations from one poem to another. Do you aim to draw the reader’s attention to intra-ontological differences? What is the significance of this repetitive structure, which seems poised to be further articulated in an endless cycle?
Aytek Sever: Is there any escape from repetition? Repetitions are everywhere. Breath is repetitive, pulse is repetitive, tree is repetitive, bird is repetitive, cloud, mountain, star, day, hour is repetitive, stuff, item, and human as well. But each one is different in every repeat: at its temporospatial node—same and so different. Number, pattern, form, copy, location, change: the mystery of rhythm, the magic of recurrence, the routine extraordinariness of one and otherness. It’s worth sensing and experiencing. A hyperactive eye like George Nelson’s had built a whole archive (which is but a drop in the ocean) out of repetitions (associations, clusters, plots, but repetitions foremost!). I think you have drawn attention to that subject because of the phenomenal (or phenomenological) poems with the question-verse “What is——?” you came upon in my book Hiperbor (“Hyperborea”), as well as other collections. Although they do not occupy a large place among my writings –since I am mostly on the prose poetry side (as opposed to verse), and repetitions are not central to my poems– I found it significant that you highlighted this point. In these poems which I can call “pseudo-versified” –and in which I deliberately keep my distance from poeticality–, the question-verses are actually prompts to approach phenomena within a particular context of time-space-matter-body > Soul (Spirit). What is presented thus is a kind of record, projection, imitation of the subject’s moment-to-moment, insistent, passionate experience of being (or “presence”). Of course, an influence from music is at play here—the art of variation as seen in the instances of Beethoven, Weber, Bach, Rachmaninov, Ligeti, and the like. On the other hand, there are also non-prose poems in Hiperbor (and other collections) that feature verse repetitions without the interrogative mood; perhaps it would be accurate to speak of a leitmotif influence along with variation in these. Each attempt represented by the repeated verses and/or stanzas seeks to attain epiphany at the beginning, the end, or halfway through—or to remain in epiphany! I cannot but mention Scriabin’s Prometheus, which often haunts me—“The Poem of Fire,” where the protagonist seems to go for the fire not once but countless times, even similarly and almost as fiercely, himself aflame!
Erkan Karakiraz: When I consider your poetry books chronologically, an obsession with order stands out to me. Hiperbor (2018) consists of six volumes, Siòn (2019) three, and Moto Perpetuo (2021) two. There is an almost geometric procession, with elements preceding and succeeding one another, which, along with experiments in form, explores the potentials of verse, prose, visual poetry, and text. Together, they create a whole body of work. Did you intend to “construct a world” all along? How did it all progress?
Aytek Sever: I have nothing to say about “obsession” because it is not something I experience, but let’s give “order” its due. Order is everything. The cosmos is order. Even disorder refers to order. I take disharmony, incoherence, amorphousness, contradiction, disarray, nay, nothingness as topographical or temporal elements corresponding to particular intervals, phases, twists of structure or process (and this does not change the fact that they are also primary elements); they all form a whole. “Know thyself!” is one of my main mottos, and here “the self,” with its influences and effects, is inside a dense material and immaterial cloud of existence; its mirror –its traces, hints, signs, stirrings– is at every moment on every side; meanwhile “knowing” also has to be subject/material/input to its own (via the self and the other). All of these relate to the life of the body, perception, and power—in other words, to actual living, the beyond-word that is far more comprehensive than the word itself: the process of “making” (poiesis) embedded in experience. I find poetry at the point where the making in life and the making in writing contact, interpenetrate, and overlap—in the breathlessly narrowing and widening gap, in the progress of that sphere. When did this start, and what kindled the first fire? Peak events, turning points, traumas, and dazzling escapes in personal history determine authentic existence and make one discover the world. Adventure renders the world existent; from that world issues “the world” in writing. Of course, the will to keep a record of the progress is a different matter. But it also arises from the same source. The ecstatic experience leaves its mark on life, and one wants to remain around that supernova forever: the burst of light to be repeated is a source of inspiration and revelation. What is miraculous is that it truly reappears now and then: how similar to itself it is—the very same one! Its absolute proof is ecstasy again. But how rare that is! What about all those attempts, those trials—failures, defeat, devastation, nothingness, absence? This is the adventure and the progress; “the world” is its world. Half of the story is awkwardness, absurdity, alienness, vagrancy: the tremulous world of the antihero, meaninglessness, vanity—aphasia. In that respect, my “logbook” is, in its essence, not public but private; “poems to myself,” just like Marcus Aurelius’ “thoughts to myself.” It could turn out to be public at its most private. Who does it concern? Who would read it and why? After all, this totality is not geometrical in a Spinozan way. Yet there are meaningful webs that run in a minor key through themes, words, and trajectories in each poetical cluster—episodes that begin and end, separate dominant notions, investigations, and, as you said earlier, obsessions. As you noted, these poetical clusters follow a chronological sequence, from one to the next and within themselves. With regard to the date of composition instead of publication, the books are Hiperbor (2010-2012), Siòn (2012-2014), Moto Perpetuo (2014-2016) and, then, Anka (“Phoenix,” 2016-2018), and Omega (2018-2023) (works before 2010 and after 2023 are irrelevant for now). A reader who is a peer, kin, or fellow traveler to me might discern the gleams and the general character of the journey in each of these to the extent that it concerns him/her. Maybe it is only one reader I am looking for. I had said that before. An ambiguous remark maybe. I am still at the same point.
Erkan Karakiraz: Here, I have one more comment to add. In your poems, out of the repose in the details of everyday life, a hidden unease, sometimes even a blunt violence surges up. The poem titled “Neo-Pythagorasçı Kanunlar” (Neo-Pythagorean Laws) from the second volume of Moto Perpetuo can accurately be shown as an example. What starts with benign directives suddenly transitions to commanding, malicious ones uttered from a seat of domination. Other examples can also be given. What would you say about that?
Aytek Sever: Matter calls out; flesh raises its voice. The daimon is vigorous. It coils, strains its shell, lingers on the threshold, is almost kneaded like dough, struggles, pokes, and charges again. Its only care is to exist, to thrive. Is that violence? It is Power. Power that fluctuates, passes through rugged terrain and twists and turns, drops to the bottom and hits the peak, fades in and out. Power that is preoccupied with life, panting. Power that exists from life to life and never even thinks about death. Death is neither ground nor backdrop; there is the dream, and death is part of it, a particular function of vitality—a radioactive niche, pit, mine, resource. A continuous cycle is the daimon’s—passion in the sense of both fervor and suffering. The daimon rams through rock, crosses the desert, survives the ice and lava, and holds fast to the slime of the pit and the surface of the asteroid; a Proteus ever-changing; both angel and devil. So, is all that impulsivity, exuberance, and audacity violence? Maybe; but there is a secret that the daimon hides. What is it? It’s Light. The only treasure. The daimon ceaselessly strives to rise to the upper cycles of the soul, to higher circles, and passes through straits. Often its preparations will come to nothing, sometimes no breakthroughs will be achieved; all will be a struggle with weakness, nonsense, misery, and inertia. Completing the circle just for a moment and seeing the blaze would suffice: a rare trophy! Then, on the road again, asking, “Where am I? Where did I leave off?”—throbbing with glimmer. This experiment/experience may be going on inside an utterly calm, unruffled, and composed life. Would not such an Eros, pardon me, ethos generate an ethics? If anything, ethics derives from Eros, pardon me, ethos, and becomes character, attitude, manners, and will, even dictates laws. Ethics is a solid ground—a beginning—for philosophy, literature, art, and politics; ethos manifests its presence and effects in the closest, essential, urgent, and actual personal realm. For instance, through an ethics of communication, work, friendship, and neighborhood—with word, conduct, yes and no, truth, volition, labor, and care. Because there are such sensibilities and sensations here that could be lost… See if you can stray from ethics! What else do you have? When I first read some of the Pythagorean rules, such as “abstain from beans,” “do not touch a white cock,” or “do not break bread,” I was amazed at their absurdity, but Light is also therein. After all, we are talking about the predecessor of a school that spread through myriad branches over thousands of years. So I wrote my “laws” inspired by Pythagoras (the final title being “Neo-Pythagorean Precepts”)—of course, an irony. Joyous, humorous, and satyrical is the daimon. But let me remind you that the “precepts” ended (or began?) with a kind of “heat.”
Erkan Karakiraz: Yes, the poem ends, in parantheses, with “Thus you can maintain the healthy heat of memory maybe.” OK. So… Where do you think you stand within the independent “new poetry” that encompasses various individual poets following their own paths? What would you say about the results of a time-resistant act of writing, of the desire to poke at the outside world through poetry?
Aytek Sever: I am not sure whether my poetry is “new” or not. Maybe it is already outdated, obsolete, or somehow untimely. Often, I feel that I am not writing for the present or the future but for the past, as if my audience is there. I may seem to write in a personal, idiosyncratic, opaque, even esoteric way, but even though I vigorously defend my unique sensation and experience, my spontaneity, and my existential authenticity, I will not deny that the curves I trace contact a succession of predecessors and traditions that includes some of my contemporaries as well. Within the context of this interview, I deliberately refrain from mentioning names. I insist on staying on the vital side of poetry. We must talk less about the Word than the Beyond-Word. For instance, today, one comes upon an investigation in a literary journal about the present and future of poetry; the contributors only discuss the “text”—sources, influences, the logic of synthesis, and reproduction. Intertextuality, even interartisticality, is crucial for me too, how could it not be; but why not talk about the primary act of the poet, poiesis itself—the life discovered and essayed? Maybe “new” is there, in the wild difference. The poet is a person of the age and resists the age as much. He/she finds, defends, and maintains his/her own time—diachrony. Writing is secondary. Craftsmanship is also secondary to the primary act. How the authentic character will reflect on the language is fate, and despite utmost truth and care, the opaqueness, obscurity, absurdity, and repulsiveness related to one’s aura may be inevitable. It is a paradox that Time will solve or leave unsolved. Therefore, I will respond by transposing the second part of your question: With a vitality resistant to the outside world, I also poke at and interpret the Word—poetry—, and the results are the subject of Time. I don’t know where (or whether) I would be placed on the map of poetry regarding other poets; what determines permanence, besides poetry itself, can be quite mundane reasons, like social skills, hitting the right sensational notes, or having a memorable, interesting, iconic (iconizable) story for example (certainly, the second part is meaningless without the first, but in some cases, the second part dominates concerning permanence). Personally, I am subject to the Soul of poetry, that is, to the work (“making”) itself, and I will remain in the shadows if I have to (wasn’t I already in the shadows?). On the other hand, there are many names, no doubt, in poetry and other genres of literature and fine arts that I have been strongly influenced by, and these can be identified through particular affinities, even sometimes easily. However, most of these are from periods that precede us, and some are our contemporaries. Some poets of my generation, who I think share similar concerns, albeit in diverse poetic frameworks, and with whom we occasionally converge on themes, concepts, vocabularies, or various attitudes and commitments, thrill me with their vision, command of language, craftsmanship, and dynamism. Sometimes, I appreciate the tectonics of writing or the mastery displayed in constructing that particular unity called a book. Then I pursue the glimmers I catch, but sometimes my interest does not last long. There are certain vital reflexes, expressive savageries, phenomenal sensibilities, libidinal compulsions, and signs of power that I seek and am passionate about; they keep my curiosity alive. On the other hand, I am in no position to deny the importance of mediocre verse, premature even, written with a contemporary lyricism through certain discourses (or rhetorics); the survival of the poetry ecosystem in every age has necessitated and will necessitate a wide range of constituents. For example, we have a giant of poetry who has been publishing his works for fifty years, and his actual audience is still limited to a few hundred readers (but this does not damage the grandness of that output). I deliberately refrain from mentioning names. Or see another master whose every line, word, syllable, point, comma, and em dash is poetry (both in verse and prose), but anthologies, journals, and reviews have failed to give that output its due (perhaps implying a malevolent nonrecognition). Nevertheless, these issues belong to the reception side; poiesis is always on the other side. The work (output) is only its remnant, evidence, or residue: an interface—a tough mirror for the curious.
Erkan Karakiraz: You publish your works as e-books on your website İşaret Ateşi. Can you discuss the advantages and disadvantages of self-publishing and digital publishing?
Aytek Sever: You asked a worldly question, so let me give a worldly answer! İşaret Ateşi (“Signal Fire”) dates back to late 2017. At that time, I wasn’t making sufficient progress with the publishers I was working with, and I felt frustrated by the persistent disorganization in the publishing industry. Therefore, I wanted to create an online platform where authors could bypass the market mechanism and present both their translations and original works directly to readers in e-book format. I acted alone with my limited technical knowledge (in terms of web design), but İşaret Ateşi has always been a website open to authors’ contributions. I never spent time on any aggressive promotional campaign but relied on a gradual and spontaneous formation of the audience through the readers that the e-books, as well as the smaller-scale translations in the [PANO] section, would reach. In about seven years, we published works by three authors, including myself (the others being Ahmet İnam and İmge Seren). Up to now, all translations were mine, but we will soon be featuring the work of a new translator if all goes well (a selection of essays from René Daumal is at the top of our list). İşaret Ateşi is an “e-publishing initiative” in which works are freely made available to readers. In legal and commercial terms, it is not a publishing house. We have had paperback special editions of three of our e-books (50 copies each), which I published in 2021 as a “personal publisher” (a legal term). These were delivered to specific recipients without being released into general circulation. In the last couple of years, İşaret Ateşi has been less active as I started working with publishing houses again, but we continue to move forward, albeit at a slower pace. New contributors and supporters will determine where things will evolve. We currently have twenty-five open-access e-books (six are translations from D. H. Lawrence, W. Whitman, G. Stein, and W. Kandinsky) and seventeen shorter files in the [PANO] section. E-publishing is actually not so different from conventional publishing (regarding the work produced) as long as it is done with diligence. Yet the reader’s relationship with the book is via paper in one and via screen in the other, and the organic/inorganic or vegetal/mineral difference here radically affects the reading experience. Good readers know how to get the best out of both formats, but I generally observe that the reader’s reaction to e-publication is to look rather than to read. In other words, they have a glance and move on; typical habits related to the screen apply to e-books as well. This is, of course, a handicap for texts that require patience, attention, effort, and persistence. The blessings of the internet can also turn into a curse: accessibility with a single “click” can undermine the sense of distance that is an integral attribute of the work—thus virtualizing (or superficizializing) it. But this is not the case for the good reader; the one who truly seeks and finds also knows how to receive. Nevertheless, similar paradoxes prevail for self-publishing in general: when an author bypasses the institutional structures of publishing, his/her work is almost inevitably perceived as “amateur” (egocentric, virtual, or delusional) (and now you have to overcome this impression, how about that?). Therefore, I think a hybrid approach to publishing –through both organic-vegetal and inorganic-mineral media– is best for authors and translators. Nowadays, I am pleased to have an option like İşaret Ateşi while also strengthening my ties with conventional publishers. I’m focused on generating value on both tracks.
Erkan Karakiraz: In 2023, you published a collection of your poems written in English between 2008 and 2022 under the title Fluke. What does it arouse in you to go beyond Turkish?
Aytek Sever: I live in an “interlingual zone.” I also do readings in German and French, as well as small-scale translations from these into Turkish, but I can say that I have embraced a habitat where I especially breathe the air of Turkish and English. The pursuit of literature and translation often leads me to etymology, where I find a vast universe in Greek, Latin, Arabic, Persian, and so on. English is an enthralling language in this respect, and it is the lingua franca of our time. Today, I don’t think it is possible to produce anything substantive without being directly immersed in the world of more than one language. The contours of a strong locality/selfhood can only be forged with a universal understanding, through a certain conception of Weltliteratur. (However, I have to underline that I am not arguing for “convergence” but locality/selfhood—ethos. Without ethos, you end up with a stinking pastiche, no matter what names you quote.) The fact that I have written directly in English is the result of such an attitude combined with a dynamic expressive urge. At any rate, first –from the Beyond-Word to the Word– the “urge” has prevailed, then –from the Word to the Word– the craftsmanship conditioned by the “attitude.” The poems I have collected under the title Fluke were not originally written to compose a book—they are pieces from diverse collections spanning fourteen or fifteen years. I write in Turkish and, occasionally, in English. A dynamic expressive urge can make one write outside his/her native language. In 2019, my experiential relationship with English had reached a peak, and I was working on a long poem entitled Omega, consisting of “rhapsodies” partly in Turkish and partly in English (the poem is finished, but I have no idea when it will be published); it was then that I first thought of collecting my poems in English, as I retrospectively perceived a particular coherence in them. Anyway, it took me until 2023 to prepare and publish the book (an e-book), also including some translations (my renderings) from Hiperbor as an appendix. Fluke reflects the general character of my poetry, and I like its timbre and glow, but I don’t know if it will reach others, or who will read it or pay attention to it, or whether anyone will see a specific value in it, or whether it will have any permanence. It is a message in a bottle, already thrown into the sea, hovering over the waters.
Erkan Karakiraz: Apart from writing/making poems, you also write essays on poetry and translate texts in different genres. What drives you to work on essays and translations, considering their benefits and detriments to your poetry?
Aytek Sever: Poetry is an existential mode of activity for me; all my pursuits have evolved around it. This is how I took to translation in the first place, but today I am also a professional translator (literary, and, occasionally, technical). My book-length translations are mainly in the genres of poetry and essay—works of Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, Tagore, D. H. Lawrence, G. Stein, and Kandinsky. Soon, H. Crane and others will be added to these. I have two published translations in literary studies as well (Introducing Comparative Literature by C. Domínguez et al., and Literary Geography by S. Hones). My passion and sensitivity for language and thought drive my commitment to literary translation. I generally concentrate on classical works with no Turkish editions, perceiving the absence as a major gap, and toil devotedly both toward the source language and the target language, delving into the profundity of the text, as well as its anteriority and posteriority. And I dedicate myself to ensuring that the translation sounds vigorously Turkish. If you are engaged in translating classical works, strenuous labor is inevitable. It is a process that is both exhausting and enriching. What this has benefited me regarding my poetry has to do with textual scrutiny and verbal craftsmanship, that is, the publisher and reader side of the writing. You need to cultivate a Janus-eye that looks into and out of the text at the same time (Botticelli’s wonderful St. Augustine comes to my mind, the Uffizi version—those crumpled papers on the floor, one after another!). What translation takes away from my poetry, on the other hand, has to do with fruitfulness. Because output also depends on stamina. I now spend so much effort on my non-poetry literary projects, especially translation, that I have to proceed more economically by extending the expressive “urge” to the whole. I wish I could do more with the essay genre. Nevertheless, I have to make a choice, and translation predominates at the moment. I have book-length notes on poetics (“Mini-Poetics”), but it is too early to publish them; except for a short selection that appeared in a magazine, they will remain in my drawer for a long time. I do my best to create value from a nook of my own and to demonstrate a particular ethics, starting from my vicinity. Care (curo) should be a way of living in itself—in every period, especially in these turbulent, dark, apocalyptic times that the world is going through. It is a motto worth adopting: Curo ergo sum.
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ERKAN KARAKİRAZ
Erkan Karakiraz is a poet, critic, and editor living in Izmir, Turkey. He has published four poetry collections: İçgeçit (“Innerpath,” 2016), Gürült. (“Nois.,” 2018), (Ayrıca bkz. Erkan Karakiraz) [“(See also Erkan Karakiraz),” 2021], and Fısıldayangaleri (“Whisperinggallery,” 2024). He prepares and delivers the fanzines Yer Üssü Alfa (“Ground Base Alpha”) and UBA, and has also worked as an editor-in-chief for literary and cultural journals and websites, including Kurşun Kalem (2016-17), CazKedisi (2018-21), Eleştirel Kültür (2021-24), and ibid. Şiir (2025–), and the publishing house Pikaresk Yayınevi (2020-21). He produced, edited, and hosted some episodes of the “Turkish Sofa” literature show on Trafika Europe Radio. Karakiraz is also one of the four founders of the Açık Şiir (“Open Poetry”) Movement. His interdisciplinary video installations have been exhibited/screened at events/festivals like the International Istanbul Literature Festival (ITEF), Exiled Writers Ink, Norwegian PEN, Venice Borders Festival, and Izmir International Literature Festival. Some of his poems were translated into English, Russian, Spanish, Greek, Romanian, and Armenian.
AYTEK SEVER
Aytek Sever is a poet and translator. Born to Balkan immigrant parents in Turkey in 1981, he grew up in Bursa and received his B.A. and M.S. degrees from Boğaziçi University, Istanbul, and Middle East Technical University, Ankara. From 2012 to 2013, he was a visiting researcher at George Washington University. Since 2018 he has been the editor of the literary publishing website isaretatesi.com, where several of his e-books have also been published. His poetry collections include Hiperbor (“Hyperborea,” 2010-2012), Siòn (2012-2014), Moto Perpetuo (2014-2016), Anka (“Phoenix,” 2016-2018), Omega (2018-2023), and Fluke (Poems in English: 2008-2022); his translations into Turkish include works by R.W. Emerson, W. Whitman, H.D. Thoreau, R. Tagore, W. Kandinsky, G. Stein, and D.H. Lawrence. He also translated Introducing Comparative Literature by Domínguez et al. into Turkish. His Turkish rendering of Whitman’s “Song of Myself” was published on the WhitmanWeb under the auspices of the International Writing Program (IWP) at the University of Iowa (UI). He lives in Turkey and writes in Turkish and, occasionally, in English.
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Date of Publication: February 2025
www.isaretatesi.com
