non merci

• fransız oyun yazarı cyrano de bergerac'ın ünlü tiradının adıdır.
  
  and what would you have me do?
  seek for the patronage of some great man,
  and like a creeping vine on a tall tree
  crawl upward, where i cannot stand alone?
  no thank you! dedicate, as others do,
  poems to pawnbrokers? be a buffoon
  in the vile hope of teasing out a smile
  on some cold face? no thank you! eat a toad
  for breakfast every morning? make my knees
  callous, and cultivate a supple spine,-
  wear out my belly grovelling in the dust?
  no thank you! scratch the back of any swine
  that roots up gold for me? tickle the horns
  of mammon with my left hand, while my right
  too proud to know his partner’s business
  takes in the fee? no thank you! use the fire
  god gave me to burn incense all day long
  under the nose of wood and stone? no thank you!
  shall i go leaping into ladies laps
  and licking fingers?-or-to change form-
  navigating with madrigals for oars,
  my sails full of the sighs of dowagers?
  no thank you! publish verses at my own
  expense? no thank you! be the patron saint
  of a small group of leterary souls
  who dine together every tuesday? no
  i thank you! shall i labor night and day
  to build a reputation on one song,
  and never write another? shall i find
  true genius only among geniuses,
  palpitate over little paragraphs,
  and struggle to insinuate my name
  in the columns of the mercury?
  no thank you! calculate, scheme, be afraid,
  love more to make a visit than a poem,
  seek introductions, favors, influences?-
  no thank you! no, i thank you! and again
  i thank you!- but…
  
  to sing, to laugh, to dream,
  to walk in my own way and be alone,
  free, with an eye to see things as they are,
  a voice that means manhood- to cock my hat
  where i choose- at a word, a yes, a no,
  to fight- or write. to travel any road
  under the sun, under the stars, nor doubt
  if fame or fortune lie beyond the bourne-
  ever to make a line i have not heard
  in my own heart; yet, with all modesty
  to say: “my soul, be satisfied with flowers,
  with fruit, with weeds even; but gather them
  in the one garden you may call your own.”
  so, when i win some triumph, by some chance,
  render no share to caesar- in a word,
  i am too proud to be a parasite,
  and if my nature wants the germ that grows
  towering to heaven like the mountain pine,
  or like the oak, sheltering multitudes-
  i stand, not high it may be- but alone!
  
  türkçesini merak edenler için ise;
  
  (bkz: istemem eksik olsun)