Robinson, my clever Robinson
you don’t know how I envy you.
If you could only show me your island,
there I would find peace of mind.

I’ll be the ship, you be the captain.
We can unfurl the sail one morning.
The sea becomes our shadow in the sun.
The journey. And suddenly we’re at our island.

I wish you could be my interpreter,
introduce me to the fish,
to wild birds and flowers,
say to them about me: “He’s one of us.”

I know how to climb trees.
I can tell a fruit that’s ripe.
I can also manage breaking stones,
making fires, cooking food.

Robinson, understanding Robinson,
if your island hasn’t sunk yet
take me there
before the seaways close.

Rosy lips
your white hands
hold my hands, babe,
hold them a while.

In the village where I was born
no birch trees;
I pine for cool water, babe,
caress me a while.

In the village where I was born
no wheat stems,
toss your hair around, babe,
toss it around.

Where I was born
bandits prowl at night;
I hate loneliness, babe,
talk to me a while.

the village where I was born
only northern wind;
my lips are cracked, babe,
kiss them a while.

In the village where I was born
only sour faces;
I am shy and sad, babe,
make me laugh a while.

Your face like Anatolia is beautiful;
my village is beautiful too;
now you tell me about your village, babe,
tell me for a while.

Am I your only love–in the whole world–now?
Am I really the only object of your love?
If passions rage in your mind,
If love springs eternal in your heart–
Is it all meant for me? Tell me again.

Tell me right now, am I the one who inspires
All your dark thoughts, all your sadness?
Share with me what you feel, what you think.
Come, my love, pour into my heart
Whatever gives you so much pain.
Tell me again.

translated by Talat S. Halman

Each time I think of you
A gazelle jumps down, drinking
Water among the reeds.

Each evening a green olive
And a piece of sky take me
Boldly to your arms.

Each time I think of you
Roses grow at my fingers,
I give water to horses,
Loving the mountain more.

A couple of days ago I returned from Izmir where I went to decide about a job offer and in my mailbox was an envelop from my old, dear friend Ren Weschler with a sales receipt from my old bookstore, Intellectuals & Liars, for books he purchased for $11.73 (including tax) dated 3/8/80 (just 2 months before I lost the store to the recession that year and a greedy new landlord who more than doubled my rent from 75 cents a square foot to $1.60) and a postcard with the picture of a hot dog (my professed all-time favorite food) with red, white, & blue toothpaste as a condiment. And the message contained the Yiddish word verklempt, which, of course, was what I felt, shared with Ren, even now as I write this post.

LA. A foreign country, much like New York and San Francisco, in what is America, though…

One should describe you starting from your mouth
Youngster, your mouth is silk from China, conflagrations, a jet-black amber

Your mouth, a spring of ice-cold water, a general strike
A foolish sea throwing itself from one place to another

Your mouth is that kid who sells dark blue-winged birds in the Grand Bazaar
It’s a periodical titled Cornfield

These small, unpretentious rivers of ours are what your mouth is
Coming downhill a narrow street every day into a little square

Your mouth is “Time in Bursa City,” shyly roofed flea markets
Night as written in old Arabic

Kids, birds, summer times are all your that mouth is
Your mouth is a silken touch in my mind

translted by Önder Otçu

Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher
Swept off his tall hat to the Squire’s own daughter,
So let the imprisoned larks escape and fly
Singing about her head, as she rode by.

I’ve been sleeping
lately
looking for a dream
the place
familiar
my dog there
and my father
though neither knew
the other
both having lived
decades apart
my mother is cooking
I can smell her sauce
simmering
my grandmother
is kneading dough
for her cavatelli
Johnny and I
both get a piece
to roll
in our hands
before eating
my father stands
holding the dog’s leash
and before their walk
he pats my mother
on the ass
and says
that’s why
I married her
she giggles
like she always does
at that joke
and though it should be
Charlie
taking the dog out
it is my father
his white shirt sleeves
rolled up
my grandmother sings
some Neapolitan song
Harry is there
laughing
George Robert
my sister Theresa
is coming
later
with the kids
a holiday
maybe
or just Sunday dinner
at two o’clock
Uncle Mike
from New Jersey
is…

it’s like a Frank Sinatra song
a bartender named Joe
why they’re always called Joe
is beyond me
but why the bottle’s always the same
is another burning question
on what’s left of my mind
so set them up
one more for the road
and like old Deacon Blues
I’ll play a saxophone
or maybe a trumpet
killing the blues
all the way home