This article was automatically translated from the original Turkish version.
Sometimes the best way to understand a poet is not to think about the era in which he lived, but to reflect on the person of today. For true poets do not merely describe their own times; they describe humanity. As people change, the subject of poetry changes, but its essence remains the same.
I often find myself asking: If Özdemir Asaf were alive today, what would he write?
I believe he would still write about love. But this time he would not explain why two people could not be together merely by citing distant cities. He would write about people sitting in the same house, at the same table, on the same couch, yet growing apart. He would write about those who ask each other “How are you?” but do not truly listen to the answer, those who see a message but do not reply for hours, those who say “We’ll talk” but never do.
Now the distance is not between cities, but behind screens.
In the past, people traveled long distances to see each other. Now they spend days in the same place without truly seeing one another. We can communicate with dozens of people at once, yet we lack the courage to express even a single thought from within. Conversations grow longer, meanings grow shorter. We write a message and delete it. We record a voice note and then say “never mind.” We miss someone, but instead of telling them, we simply follow their story. Perhaps the greatest loneliness of our age is living unnoticed in the midst of a crowd.
We feel excitement when we hear a notification sound, yet we are startled when someone knocks on our door. We know how many people liked a photo, but we fail to notice that we have not looked anyone in the eye for a long time. We celebrate a friend’s birthday because social media reminds us, yet we forget to call and hear their voice. Even at a funeral, people first take out their phones to send a message, then bow their heads.We are occupied not with life itself, but with its image.
Technology has made our lives easier. There is no denying that. We can conduct banking transactions without visiting a branch, find directions by opening a map, and access the details of a news story in seconds. Even writing an assignment, drafting an email, or outlining a presentation now takes just a few minutes. But within this ease, something has become harder: being human.
Everything has accelerated. Food arrives in minutes. Information is found in seconds. Messages reach us instantly. Packages arrive at our door the next day. But trust still requires time. Love demands effort.
Perhaps that is why we constantly find ourselves rushing to arrive somewhere—as if we must produce more, share more, and appear more. The moment we open our eyes in the morning, we check our phones: an earthquake report, a currency update, a political debate, a fire image, a woman’s murder, an economic statistic, a football score… Before the day even begins, our minds are full. Then we spend the rest of the day trying to live under this weight. Yet it is only in stillness that a person can truly hear themselves.
Today we consume not only objects.
We consume news.
We consume relationships.
We consume memories.
We even quickly exhaust our emotions.
Instead of listening to a song all the way through, we move on to the next. We judge a film before it ends. We form opinions about a person without knowing them. We grow bored on the first page of a book and say “I’ll find the summary.” We become angry at a headline without reading the article. We laugh at a video after three seconds and forget it after five.
Everything grows old too quickly.
Phones…
Fashion…
The news agenda…
Even people.
It is as if life whispers to us constantly that we must acquire something new: a new phone, a new city, a new friend, a new relationship. Yet no one teaches us how to preserve what we already have. We do not know how to repair a relationship, how to sustain a friendship, how to speak about a grievance, or how to offer an apology in time. We buy the most expensive things, yet neglect the most precious ones.
Yet the most precious things cannot be replaced by acquiring something new.
Lost trust.
A friendship abandoned.
An unspoken apology.
A delayed thank you.
A mother asking “Is there anything you need?”
A father quietly closing the door.
A friend saying “You can talk if you want.”
A child asking “Will you play with me?”
Perhaps the greatest poverty of the modern human is not timelessness, but inattention. We see everything, yet we truly look at nothing. We hear everything, yet we listen to no one. When you enter a café, you see people sitting at the same table, not looking at each other but at their phones. On public transport, everyone has earbuds in and a screen in front of their eyes. At home, families sit together in the same room, living in separate worlds. Even at dinner, one person watches the news, another writes messages, and a third scrolls through reels. We sit at the same table, yet we are not truly present together.
Today, when a child is given a tablet, they fall silent—but they learn the screen before they learn how to speak. A young person sends an emoji instead of expressing their feelings. An adult says “I’m busy” instead of explaining their exhaustion. A friend withdraws rather than saying they are hurt. A lover follows a story instead of saying “I miss you.” Thus everyone is living something, yet no one is truly living. Perhaps that is why we no longer find time to think. Yet what transforms a person is not speed, but the courage to pause.
I do not believe that if Özdemir Asaf were alive today, he would blame technology. For the issue has never been the tools themselves. The issue has always been how well we protect ourselves while using them. He might not fear artificial intelligence, but he would fear the human loss of their own voice. In an age when a text can be written in seconds, he would write about the person who cannot express a feeling with sincerity. He would write about the person who beautifies a photo with filters yet cannot recognize themselves in the mirror.
I believe he would look into the human heart.
To those who feel alone in a crowd…
To those who lack the courage to send a message…
To those who smile constantly yet are exhausted inside…
To those who try to make themselves visible but drift further from themselves…
To those struggling with rent, financial pressure, exam stress, unemployment, and anxiety about the future…
To those who fight daily against the rising cost of living while feeling compelled to “look good”…
To those squeezed into the metro on the way to work, and who, when returning home at night, desire only silence…
To young people who graduate from university and search for jobs, attaching a different hope to every posting…
To those startled by news of an earthquake, sighing at news of a price hike, and falling silent before images of a fire…
Perhaps he would remind us to slow down again.
To watch the steam rise from a cup of tea…
To listen to the rain without rushing…
To turn the pages of a book and smell them…
To sit in silence while looking into the eyes of someone we love…
To truly listen to a friend…
To never delay an apology…
To understand the value of a thank you…
Because some feelings still have no internet.
Some sentences can only be spoken face to face.
Some loves cannot fit on any screen.
And in all this speed, the human being still needs to be understood.
Perhaps the most beautiful poem to be written today is a day lived a little more slowly.
