Harman Yeri Şiiri - Ömer Çağlın

HARMAN YERİ DESTANI

Anadolu’nun özü harman yeri,
Başak savrulur, döner harman yeri,
Güneş alnında kavrulur toprak,
Başak savrulur, döner harman yeri.

Buğday, arpa, çavdar demette,
Bir yılın umudu alın terinde,
Öküzle at ile geçer düvenler,
Tane başaktan düşer yerinde.

Sap saman olur ayrılır tane,
Rüzgâr savurur altın zamane,
Reçber bekler bir yılın sonun,
Şükür karışır yorgun lisane.

Az ürünü olan çeker içli ah,
Ağıt yükselir, yanık bir nigâh,
Derdi acısı çöker gölgesin,
Türküye döner sızlayan sabah.

Bol ürünü olan çalar maniyi,
Şen kahkahası sallar ovayı,
Davranır, döner, oynar neşeyle,
Bereket sarar bütün havayı.

Sevdaya düşen genç bakar gizli,
Yürek çarpar hem sessiz hem hızlı,
Bir bakış ile doğar muhabbet,
Harman yerinde kader yazılı.

“Kaç kile çıktı?” sorar komşular,
“Nereye satılır?” der yolcular,
İstişareyle döner muhabbet,
Sohbetle ısınır yorgun bağırlar.

Toprak testide buz gibi su var,
İçtikçe ferah, yudumda bahar,
Testide değilse ekşir ayran,
Sıcak kavurur, dudakta zarar.

Sap gider ahıra yem olur pay,
Hayvan doyurur gecede ay,
Tane değirmene varır un olur,
Un fırına varır ekmek olur vay.

Ekmek sofrada aş olur katık,
Helâl lokmada alın teri hakik,
Yiyen bilmez ki hangi çileyle,
Gelir o nimet, zahmeti artık.

Düven yerini patoza verdi,
Patoz biçere boyun eğdirdi,
Sustu türküler, sustu maniler,
Harman yerinin sesi dindirildi.

Ne toprak testi kaldı ne suyu,
Ne genç bakışta sevda huşusu,
Anı oldu o içli sohbetler,
Saman kokulu yaz akşamı duygusu.

Keşke bir harman olsa insanlık,
Ayırsa eğriyle doğruyu artık,
Mazlumu seçse zalimden bir bir,
Yusuf’u kardeşten ayırsa artık.

Saman kokusu sinmiş dizime,
Geçmiş gün çöktü nemli gözüme,
Harman yerinde kaldı çocukluk,
Mahrumi der: Hasret özümde.

Nigah: Bakış, nazar, göz atışı
Kile: Genellikle tahıl ölçmede kullanılan, yaklaşık 25 kg. oylumunda

THE EPIC OF THE THRESHING GROUND

The essence of Anatolia is the threshing ground,
The wheat is winnowed, the threshing ground turns,
The earth is scorched by the sun,
The wheat is winnowed, the threshing ground turns.

Wheat, barley, rye in the sheaves,
The hope of a year in the sweat of the brow,
Threshing machines pass with oxen and horses,
The grain falls from the ear in its place.

The stalk becomes chaff, the grain is separated,
The wind scatters the golden age,
The farmer awaits the end of the year,
Gratitude mixes with the weary tongue.

Those with little harvest sigh deeply,
A lament rises, a mournful gaze,
The shadow of sorrow and pain falls,
The morning, aching, turns into a folk song.

Those with abundant harvest sing folk songs,
Their joyful laughter shakes the plain,
They move, turn, and play with joy,
Abundance envelops the whole air.

A young man in love looks secretly,
His heart beats both silently and quickly,
A glance sparks the birth of love,
Fate is written in the threshing floor.

"How many kilos did you get?" ask the neighbors,
"Where will it be sold?" ask the travelers,
Conversation turns into love,
Tired hearts warm up with conversation.

There's ice-cold water in the earthenware jug,
Refreshing with every sip, spring with every gulp,
If it's not in the jug, the buttermilk sours,
It burns hot, it hurts the lips.

The stalk goes to the stable, it becomes feed,
The moon feeds the animals at night,
The grain goes to the mill and becomes flour,
The flour goes to the bakery and becomes bread, alas.

Bread becomes a meal on the table, a side dish,
The sweat of the brow is real in a halal morsel,
The one who eats doesn't know with what hardship,
That blessing comes, but the effort is gone.

The threshing machine gave way to the threshing floor,
The threshing floor subdued the harvester,
The folk songs fell silent, the ballads fell silent,
The sound of the threshing floor was silenced.

Neither the earthenware pot nor the water remained,
Neither the reverence of love in the youthful gaze,
Those heartfelt conversations became a memory,
The feeling of a summer evening smelling of straw.

If only humanity could be a threshing floor,
Separating the wrong from the right,
Choosing the oppressed from the oppressor one by one,
Separating Joseph from his brother.

The smell of straw clings to my knees,
The past day has settled in my tearful eyes,
Childhood remained in the threshing floor,
Mahrumi says: Longing is in my soul.

Nigah: Gaze, look, glance
Kile: A unit of measurement, usually used for measuring grain, approximately 25 kg.

Ömer Çağlın
Kayıt Tarihi : 27.2.2026 11:14:00