In the spring of 1928, among the publications of the newly established publishing house by the late teacher Ahmet Halit, there was a poetry book titled "Seven Torches" by seven young men, two of whom had already passed away. The passion, love, and enthusiasm of "Seven Torches" continued in the summer of the same year with the magazine "Meşale" published by Yusuf Ziya Ortaç, who gathered these young men around him. Then autumn arrived, and schools reopened.
Having completed the 1927-1928 academic year as a first-year high school student at Galatasaray, I was preparing, with a mix of shame and sadness, and a broken sense of honor, to be a student in the same class again for the 1928-1929 academic year, perhaps as a result of all these poetry efforts. Now, I feel like kissing the blessed hand of the mathematician Dellou, who made me repeat that class, thereby granting me the closest friendship of one of the best poets, friends, and people.
The subject I would feel most ashamed of repeating was, of course, the literature class taught by Fâzıl Ahmet Aykaç. While I was his student last year, my friends read poems from "Seven Torches" to him, and thus, although I didn't want him to, he found out that I wrote poetry. In his eyes, what could I be but a failed poet? Thankfully, there were rumors that he would be elected as a member of parliament. With this hope and wishing for his swift departure to Ankara, I had skipped his class numerous times.
However, he could not part from teaching, and my skipping his class was becoming increasingly difficult. Finally, I blushed and attended one of his classes. It was on that day, in that class, that I would first carefully notice the face of a new student among my new classmates, a face that would later hold a significant place in my life and our literature.
Fâzıl Ahmet had found a clever method to gauge the literary interest of his new students: he asked each student to recite a favorite poem, whether in Turkish or French, in full or in part. Some students, utilizing their old memorized lessons, recited something, others were content with notable couplets or even proverbs, and a few, since the teacher had given them that right, admitted they didn't know any poems by heart and sat back down. It was during such a class that a slightly interrupted voice from behind me started reading Lamartine's famous poem "L'Isolement" with excitement.
"Souvent sur la montagne, À l'ombre du vieux chêne;
Au coucher du soleil, tristement je m'assieds."
This poem was something for the class; I had looked back with interest, trying not to make it obvious. He was a dark-skinned, neatly dressed young man with hair combed back, thin lips, a slightly wide gap between his upper lip and small nose, prominent ears, a somewhat narrow forehead, and dark chestnut, slightly Mongolian eyes with a hint of sadness. Determination could be read in his demeanor; his appearance and the prominent scar from a boil on his left cheek indicated he was not from Istanbul, at least.
There were some new classmates whose names I even knew. Most of them were old students of the school. The student invited to read one of the poems he knew, addressed as 1106 Cahit Efendi, was relatively new to Galatasaray. He had entered the final grade of the intermediate level by examination and now advanced to the first year of high school. This one-year Galatasaray experience had already earned him a nickname among his friends: The Fascist!..
Before attending Galatasaray, he had been a good student at Kadıköy Saint-Joseph French High School. In class, when the teacher asked a question, he would immediately jump in, raising his whole hand instead of just a finger. He wanted to continue his habit at Galatasaray, and while frequently raising his hand, he ended up giving what seemed like Fascist-like salutes. But Cahit quickly adapted to Galatasaray's customs, where one didn't answer unless directly asked, and it seemed that both his nickname and the habit had been forgotten, as he now appeared to have fully integrated into Galatasaray.
Now, as I try to bring to mind the first-year high school class of Galatasaray that year, the seat near the door that I shared with another "repeater" like myself, and the entire row's community, I wonder if Cahit was right behind us or if there was a row between us. Wasn't there a row between us? Surely, didn't he send his poem to me through a friend sitting behind us because he was shy about handing it to me directly? This means he had probably been interested in poetry and attempted writing poems since at least Saint-Joseph.
If I'm not mistaken, the poem he sent me was three stanzas long, quite pessimistic, and undoubtedly amateurish. I don't remember its title or any part of a line, but I clearly remember the signature at the bottom: Pirinçcizade Cahit Sıtkı. It would be years before the surname law came into effect and Cahit would become Tarancı. However, the law mandating Latin letters was imminent, and the "Meşale" magazine had started placing poems typeset in Latin letters among articles printed in Arabic letters as practice and exercise. Soon, "Meşale" closed, and because I was more involved with the magazine and saw Yusuf Ziya more often, my poem given to Yaşar Nabi did not even need to be discussed whether it was worth publishing.
That year, our friendship with Cahit perhaps only sowed its seeds. Partly because I, thinking I didn't need to study as a boarding student for the classes I would repeat that year, was a day student for the first and last time in my high school life. Moreover, wasn't I, in Cahit Sıtkı's eyes, a poet of "Seven Torches," for better or worse? I must confess, I considered myself superior to Cahit then.
Our friendship truly began to develop in the following academic year. When we moved to the second year of high school, as everyone chose their seats, with diligent students selecting the front rows and less diligent ones choosing the back, Cahit and I found ourselves side by side as if drawn to each other. It was again a row near the door. But now that I was a boarding student again, it wasn't just about the row and the class; it extended to the dining hall, dormitory, and a complete school friendship, spending days and nights together.
On weekends eagerly awaited, we seemed to pull the same string together, heading out to Beyoğlu after putting on our new clothes following the sweet Saturday lunch, feeling light and happy, forgetting the week's burdens and the old clothes we wore in school.
During summer vacations, Cahit went to Diyarbakır his home town, while he spent weekends at his uncle's house in Kadıköy. Since we lived in Feneryolu at the time, we were somewhat in the same neighborhood. Close to exams, I visited Cahit to study with him maybe four or five times; now, when I pass by that house, I cannot help but recall those days. I remember the bright room at the top floor, his beloved aunt, and the loyal maid he loved.
One of the best stories Cahit wrote and published in Cumhuriyet newspaper, "A Winter Night," carried the atmosphere of that house, leaving the impression on me that it was inspired by it. In that bright room, Cahit, who hadn't yet rid his poems of unnecessary pessimism, was always optimistic about lessons, saying, "You'll see, we'll pass," and in the end, though often with make-up exams, we both advanced, now sitting side by side in the final class.
Meanwhile, I had learned more about my friend's biography and family. His middle name was Hüseyin, given to him by his father or another relative who admired Hüseyin Cahit Yalçın. His father's name was Sıtkı, and his mother's was Arife. Hüseyin Cahit was their first child, born in one of the autumn months of 1910 (October or November, unfortunately, I forgot the exact month and day). He had two sisters (Nihal and Hilal) and two brothers (Halit and Yılmaz). One of his early poems included in his first book "In My Life Silence," written during his homesick years in Istanbul, and perhaps referenced his four siblings in his poem "In My Room Silence" with the lines:
"The ceiling, like a mother, leaning over me,
The walls around me, like my siblings."
Their house, much later mentioned in the poem "Fate," was in the Camii-Kebir neighborhood. From what he described, I imagined houses from Aleppo, which I had visited in the last years of World War I, before it fell from our hands: "A small door opens into a courtyard with a pool in the middle, and rooms with balconies overlooking the courtyard."
I don't know if Cahit’s house was like this, but when reading his writings about visiting this paternal home after his illness, I realized that my imagined house wasn't too different from the real one. He said he learned to swim in the pool in the courtyard of this house; on hot summer nights, they would go up to the terrace to cool off, sometimes even sleep there, and years later, the poem "In the Gardens at Night" from "In my Life Silence" was born from these nights:
"In the gardens at night,
Shining brightly at times,
Swinging like ripe fruit,
Are the stars."
Living under almost the same warm, starry skies, Ahmet Haşim1 from Baghdad and Cahit Sıtkı from Diyarbakır might have been thinking the same thoughts, perhaps at the same hours and ages, looking at the same stars, unaware of each other. At that time, his father, Sıtkı Bey, known as Pirinççizade, was wealthy with rice (Pirinç in Turkish) fields and was also a broad-based merchant, as my friend mentioned that during his time at Galatasaray, his father was an agent for Dodge automobiles. The family was considered noble and old, part of the notable citizens of Diyarbakır.
One of the early poems in "In My Life Silance" ends with:
"Time, like a belt;
Wraps around, never ending."
When I told him I didn't fully understand these lines, he said it was nothing more than a vague childhood memory of a grandfather wrapping those old-time belts around himself.
He completed his primary education in Diyarbakır, then moved to Istanbul and enrolled in Saint Joseph High School, near his uncle's house in Kadıköy, which I mentioned earlier. After studying there for four years, he transferred to Galatasaray with an exam. Although he could recite pieces from the poet of "Harmonies poetiques et religieuses," he hadn't yet read the poet of "Les Fleurs du mal," perhaps due to the nature of his education at the Saint-Joseph or because the opportunity hadn't arisen.
It was Galatasaray that introduced him to Baudelaire. This encounter was transformative for Cahit, who felt he had found what he was searching for. Alongside Verlaine, whose eyes in photographs resembled Cahit's - though Cahit's were more soulful and compassionate - Baudelaire became one of his most beloved poets, so much so that he couldn't love another as much.
During our final year, books by Baudelaire and Verlaine, whose many poems were memorized but still frequently opened, had a special place. We couldn't resist visiting the Hachette bookstore every week, and despite thinking we knew all of Baudelaire's works, we'd discover something like "Vers retrouvés" on the shelves. I'd grab the book immediately, Cahit would eagerly flip through the first pages, and read a line to me with admiration:
"Je rêvai cette nuit qu'il me fallait mourir."
We'd rush to the counter to pay, fearing other customers might snatch the book from us. That book, now with a yellowed cover from its once pristine white, remains among my books, carrying the pure excitement of our first steps in the world of poetry and the precious memory of Cahit.
Among the books Cahit frequently kept close was the anthology by Ad. Van Bever and Paul Léautaud, starting with his beloved Apollinaire and continuing with many other favorites. The first volume of this anthology still remains with me. Among the Turkish poets he loved, apart from the universally admired Ahmet Haşim and Yahya Kemal, was the young poet Necip Fazıl Kısakürek. I remember he once wrote a letter expressing his admiration to Necip Fazıl, who replied joyfully.
In his final year at Galatasaray, Cahit’s poetry attempts were mostly published in "Muhit" magazine’s talent pages and Galatasaray's magazine, "Akademi." I believe a few poems also appeared in the literary magazine "Servetifünun2" under Halit Fahri Ozansoy’s editorial guidance. But those looking through the "Muhit" collections would feel the first poems like the fluttering wings of a fledgling bird. Before reaching the joy of publication, all these poems were written, scratched out, and rewritten in a yellow-paged draft notebook by my side and were often read to me during breaks or on our way to the dormitory.
When that yellow-paged notebook, filled more with poem scribbles than class notes, was opened, I especially tried not to disturb Cahit. He would write and rewrite, sometimes finding inspiration from the stars outside the high windows of our classroom. After study time ended and we headed to the dormitory, I often saw Cahit already in bed with the covers pulled over his head. Perhaps he was planning the poem "Bed" (Yatak in Turkish) from "In My Life Silence":
"Run quickly into the open arms of your bed,
Waiting with the same patience every day.
(...)
Far from the memory of a cruel day."
Yes, no need to read further, this "bed" was the boarding school bed, just a few beds away from mine. For him "Sleeplessness" was always a tragedy:
"A woman whose absence I feel in my arms."
And to sleep, he might have repeated:
"The ceiling, like a mother, bent over me,
The walls, around me like siblings,"
What about classes? As he mentioned in an interview published in Varlık, "from high school onwards, mathematics, physics, chemistry, and descriptive geometry" began to bore him. But unlike me, his struggles with math weren’t apparent. Always optimistic and confident about lessons and exams, he tried to encourage me, promising to help during exams, and somehow managed to send me the answers. However, I knew the solution on that tiny piece of paper passed from hand to hand was always wrong, as my dear brother was not a good mathematician. We preferred to submit blank sheets rather than draw attention to ourselves with incorrect solutions. On the blackboard, the scenario was similar; while I quickly gave up, Cahit, partly with the teacher’s help and classmates' whispers, mostly with his determination, managed to solve the equations. I’m not a handwriting expert, but his determination was as evident in his early handwriting as it was in his last writings. Every piece of writing, every signature, showed his love and passion for the pen.
Beyond all he gave, Cahit, like Yaşar, was an invaluable friend, binding us together with a word, making us Galatasaray alumni. With a penchant for preserving everything related to that school, I managed to keep some of my old notebooks and textbooks. Not long ago, while moving them to a safer place, one of Cahit’s assignments fell out. This task, hidden in my notebook all these years, had our student numbers written in purple ink from our inkwells, neatly lined up like twin brothers.
The day when Cahit would leave his number to his successors at Galatasaray was approaching. Yet that year, we weren't sure if we would really leave our numbers. Yes, in the final year, we were divided into science and literature (then called philosophy) branches, and naturally, we were in literature. But according to the rules of that time, we had to pass the Graduation exam, responsible for all high school courses. Mathematics, with its geometry, algebra, trigonometry, and cosmography, loomed before us like a mountain range.
Having crossed that mountain range with only one loss, Cahit recounted our success in his final short stories in Cumhuriyet. So, we graduated, but I must note a few things. In our final years, despite not being older than the class average, Cahit began to be called "Cahit Ağabey." (big brother) Later, alcohol and spirits, which would occupy much of his life, had not yet become a habit. He was only a smoker, a habit that made the already frail-looking Cahit cough, which I tried to cure. The words of Cihat Baban, "Why do you interfere with this boy so much?" still echo in my ears.
(...)
In the large graduation photograph of Galatasaray’s 1931 graduates taken according to tradition, I cannot describe where late Refet Oymak was standing, as I do not have that photo. However, the late Cahit Sıtkı Tarancı, not being tall, was among those seated in a row of chairs in front of me.
AFTER GALATASARAY HIGH SCHOOL
After graduating from Galatasaray High School, Cahit entered the School of Civil Service (Mülkiye Mektebi) in Yıldız, Istanbul. The school was boarding, and Cahit was a permanent boarder, but we could meet in the afternoons between classes and study hours. We’d lie on the grass in the garden, and every time he’d read me his new poems. In the poems he wrote during his time at Galatasaray, Cahit couldn't get beyond a certain limit and remained insincere and artificial, I would say, due to a forced pessimism—except for a verse letter he wrote to Nihal, whom he said he loved very much, which, if I'm not mistaken, was unpublished. However, during our hours together on the grass of the Mülkiye garden, I saw that, even with Baudelaire's help, he was slowly finding himself. Whether he felt sorrow or joy, he first and foremost appeared sincere, and it seemed his art was ripening.
Yes, even though our time together had been reduced from days to just these meeting hours, during these few hours, we managed to exchange a week's worth of poetry and friendship. Every time I parted from him, I felt filled with new excitement and faith. My late friend, with his inexhaustible love for poetry and his poet's soul—which I have never seen so abundant in any poet I have known—seemed to breathe life into me, a feeling I can only describe with an Perso-Arabic word, nefhediyordu (literally; to win by breathing into).
Thus, during one of these meetings, Cahit read a few of the poems that would first bring him fame, such as "In a Climate Far Away" and "Night is a Result." After seeing that I liked them very much, he told me that he had sent them, along with other poems, to a well-known novelist—whose name I now regret I cannot mention (...)
Ziya Osman Saba
Letters to Ziya, pp. 3-13
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