you
rising
from bed
naked
to get a drink
of water
for my parched
mouth
from loving you
the night
long
Month: June 2015
till midnight
the cheers
till midnight
as players
chase a ball
around a field
under lights
What Is Left by Hüseyin Yurttaş
What is left
of the streets I thundered through like a raging wind
of my youthful steps whose echoes are imprinted on the walls
what is left
in the ravishing summers where docile shadows swayed
the light that flowed through me like a legend
which darkness is it now pursing in the cascade of the years
the lightning flashing distantly on my horizons
what does it now want to reveal of the beyond
which unanswerable questions in this endless inquiry
are reiterated unceasingly in the desolation of my life
in this blinding flood that may never end
yes, in truth, what is left
of my youthful steps whose echoes are imprinted on the walls
translated by Suat Karantay
In Memory of Nazım Hikmet Ran II
Another lovely translation of a Nazım Hikmet poem on the blog Forgotten Hopes with a video attachment featuring the poem being read in Turkish.
How beautiful it is to remember you:
among death knells and news of victory,
in prison
and over the age of forty…
How beautiful it is to remember you:
your hand, forgotten on a piece of blue fabric
and in your hair
the graceful softness of my beloved Istanbul soil…
Like a second human inside me
the happiness of loving you…
the smell of the geranium leaf left on your finger tips
A sunny comfort
and the call of flesh:
divided by crimson lines
a warm, dense darkness…
How beautiful it is to remember you,
To write about you,
To lie back in prison thinking about you;
Words you uttered on a certain day and a certain place,
Not themselves
but the world in those words…
How beautiful it is to remember you:
I should carve something wooden for you again
a drawer
a ring,
and I should weave fine silk about three…
View original post 67 more words
again from Son of the Morning Star: Custer and the Little Bighorn by Evan S. Connell: on what was a good Indian
Montana Congressman James Cavanaugh spoke for most Americans of that period: “I have never seen in my life a good Indian. . .except when I have seen a dead Indian.”
General Sheridan boiled it down. After listening to the Penateka-Comanche chief Tosawi–Silver Brooch–allude to himself as a good Indian, Little Phil observed: “The only good Indians I ever saw were dead.” And the collective American unconscious gradually reduced Sheridan’s remark to that celebrated epigram: The only good Indian is a dead Indian.
morning rain, Maltepe, June 8, 2015
cool rain
washes the streets
of the city
stroll
bareheaded
to market
let it wash
me
from The Tale of Tales by Nazım Hikmet
Here we are at the edge of the water
the sycamore and I, the cat and the sun with all that we are.
The water is cool
the sycamore magnificent
I am writing poetry
the cat dozing.
The sun is warm–
how wonderful to be alive.
The water casts light back on us
the sycamore and me, the cat and the sun and all that we are.
translated by Jean Carpenter Efe
John F. Kennedy on poetry, arrogance and the misuse of power
When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man’s concerns, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses, for art establishes the basic human truths which must serve as the touchstone of our judgment.
Readings Recorded: Robert Okaji at Malvern Books in Austin TX
Links to Robert Okaji’s reading courtesy of Jeff Schwaner.
If only Len had stopped by on his way from Turkey to pick me up in his private jet, I might have made it out to this reading in Austin a few days ago. Luckily, the poet was recorded sharing his work with a responsive crowd. There are too many great lines and great poems squeezed into fifteen minutes for me to quote, but there is talk of snail sex, love darts, spreadsheets, rain forest bridges, wind, trust, love, and the moon. Thanks to all the folks at Malvern Books who I will never meet for recording the reading and posting it here. Robert’s own website, O at the Edges, is also well worth traveling to. Enjoy!
this gray morning: 5:20am, June 7th, in Maltepe
this morning
gray morning
mist
over the sea
bird chatter
light breeze
cooling me
half naked
on the balcony
shot of whiskey
to this morning
this gray morning
waiting
yes, waiting
hope here
in my heart
Leonard Durso 