some day someone will
once again write poetry
dedicate a song
their book to me and next time
I won’t let her slip away
other writing
the bar singer/musician
a lone singer
with guitar
serenades the diners
who do not listen
with Time After Time
Just The Way You Are
his voice clear
the guitar underscoring
his phrasing
in competition with
large screens
of a football match
and loud conversations
silverware tinkling
glasses clinking
he plays on
sliding effortlessly
from Singing In The Rain
to Josephine
a singer in love
with the lyrics
oblivious to indifference
he plays to entertain
himself
on making hard decisions: a tanka
it will be easy
to make some hard decisions
there is nothing here
that cannot be abandoned
there is no claim on my heart
Monday night in Izmir
there is no Irish whiskey
in the mini-bar
but I didn’t really expect there
to be
just two of those little bottles
of Chivas
which are topping off
the bottle of wine
at dinner
as I sit huddled in my coat
here on the balcony
of the hotel room
watching the water
for any ships out at sea
there was Tony Bennett singing
Boulevard of Broken Dreams
at the restaurant
followed by Andy Williams singing
Charade
“Fate seemed to pull the strings
I turned and you were gone”
and then some female singers
I couldn’t place
singing in Italian
it’s enough to confirm
my thinking
that Izmir just might be home
at least here in Turkey
and maybe
just maybe
there’s someone on
one of those ships
landing just for me
now wouldn’t that be
a kick in the head
at the Belfast and beyond on Saturday night
outside with the smokers
though I don’t smoke
but Suleyman entertains me
with his version of Turkish history
and I get to watch the groups of friends
later while alone
drinking their beer
the laughter
and the outdoor heaters
keeping the cold at bay
I kid Suleyman later
about the absence of Irish whiskey
at a bar named after
an Irish city
so drink red wine
instead
and eat the bowls of nuts
get pleasantly numb
and walk back home
buy some fruit from Ali’s partner
tangerines strawberries two pears
and climb the stairs
the cat belly up
on the floor
expecting a rub and his treats
and settle in to watch a movie
Miller’s Crossing
passing on No Country for Old Men
since I’m more or less
living that line
have some more wine
popcorn and strawberries
get drowsy
fall asleep in the chair
the cat purring in my lap
wake sometime after midnight
to write these lines
life in exile
on the other side
of the world
what hope is
it’s like walking underwater
one is tired
even before one begins
but there is this image
just out of reach
that sustains me
and though for every two
I lose one
I keep moving
like a lens
that keeps focusing
I am drawn forward
your face before me
the light in your eyes
a promise unspoken
hope realized
on Hamlet like behavior
here or there
that is the question
whether it be smarter
in the long run
to pare down
or grab the whirlwind
with both hands
and ride, ride
the cat stares in my face
wondering once again
where his bowls
will be
and the past hovers
over my shoulder
specters whispering
in my ear
a month of decisions
that will determine
the course my life
will take
as I begin to break camp
saddle up
and gaze with eyes
that embrace
the faraway look
that claims me
on Turkish coffee: a haiku
a sip today of
Turkish coffee no sugar
kick the brain alive
on January
it must be the month
January
always a bit difficult
to bear
both parents died
in this month
at the beginning
and the end
the middle being
no piece of cake
either
there were birthdays
this month
of women once important
a sort of yin and yang month
once both light and dark
now all dark
and I hold my breath
as I near the end
watching the rear view mirror
for what’s coming
from behind
while keeping my hands steady
as I move forward
one tentative step
at a time
toward the promise
of an early spring
putting ghosts to sleep
it used to be
a glass of whiskey
was all that was needed
to put ghosts to sleep
but whiskey
an old dear friend
just isn’t up to the task
anymore
and I am beyond that crutch
now I face these old ghosts
and we converse
I listen to the old laments
the missed opportunities
the things not said
a hand not held
and commiserate
for one day
I too will be an old ghost
with my own regrets to tell
to whatever poor soul
awake at night
who will listen
and then I too
will grow drowsy
and fall asleep
after unburdening my sins
like these old ghosts
these friends of mine
who slumber around me
at peace for one more day
until night falls again
and their minds get working
reliving those past transgressions
omissions
that they need to recant
once again
to me
Leonard Durso 