The Mississippi call

Beside the flowing Mississippi
The sounds of cricket
The warm sunlight
My sweaty red T-shirt
The gentle soothing wind
My dirty white shoes
The “zhikzhik zhikzhik” sound of the rail truck
The hooshing sound from the passing cars
Above the bridge
The dock with empty white boats
The two speedboats
One with a girl and one with a boy
The girl jumping on the other boat and their speedy departure
The green leaves
This not so clean footpath
This big pyramidlike modern architecture on one side
And this old unmanaged bushes on the other side
The memory with my screaming with my mom in the morning
The feeling of unfulfillment in my gut
The despair and the long breathing in my heart
My unresolved love with my ex
This messy bushes reminding me the desire to live
But the constant struggle with the fear of being not enough
The simultaneous desire to live and decease
The desire to leave the ego behind
The desire to fly away from the horrors in my mind
And the cheroky Indian girl from last night
And her naked body with a pair of glasses in her shy eyes
The lonely left out bird
And the black lamppost
And the lady collecting whatsoever from the river
All the mess
And this walking
And this losing
And this desire to be loved.

#poem
#travel

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Immortal

I gave them the gun,

And they dropped me dead.

My eyes were wide and open

To see the void of affection in their face.

The short interval between

The triggering and the bullet reaching my heart

Cut all the ties and kill everything vague;

Between that very moment

And all that is rest.

 

I wonder how easy it is to be swept away

from the brightness to the jungle of nothingness.

Time is a puzzle that I still can’t solve.

It comes, it swerves, it slides;

It twists and then it vanishes

From my inside and out.

 

I remember those wild nights

That made me brave;

Just when the bullet was touching me

To drop me dead.

I realized only then my fate,

But I’ll live forever

In the air and in the ears

I can bet.

 

 

Picture source: Immortal Knight by Rassouli from http://www.avatarfinearts.com/Rassouli-Gallery/Surrealism-Art/Symbolic-Surrealist-painting-of-Knights-on-Horse.html

Drink me

As if that obviousness wasn’t enough!

From far, it still looked like a shadow,

Some doubts thus still lingered,

On your lips there’s no answer yet.

Couldn’t those moments be bit more expressive?

If those clouds wouldn’t hide anything!

What more there to be naked?

It can’t be more both calm and restless and therefore inviting.

Let’s not let it be dry,

‘Coz you can always catch and stop time.

Or you can choose to fly like a butterfly often with no intention.

To lose can’t be a sin.

We’d rather embrace and sweat with our yearnings.

This mystery and you, here I breathe,

A little inception in the now is what I only long for.

The deep urge of this urgency can be welcomed.

Then take a shower in the drops of uneasiness.

And curl me inside with your legs.

More incidents will not precipitate more love.

It’s impossible to find discontinuity with an open eye.

And I won’t stop drinking you.

 

Image source: Google images.

On Living – A poem shared by a friend

A poem by Nazim Hikmet from turkey shared by a Turkish friend. And I said to my friend “I like how it gives me a sense of purpose and the meaning in living and the desire to live more seriously.” So, feeling to share..

About the poet Nazim Hikmet

Nazim Hikmet was born on January 15, 1902 in Salonika, Ottoman Empire (now Thessaloníki, Greece), where his father served in the Foreign Service. He was exposed to poetry at an early age through his artist mother and poet grandfather, and had his first poems published when he was seventeen.

Raised in Istanbul, Hikmet left Allied-occupied Turkey after the First World War and ended up in Moscow, where he attended the university and met writers and artists from all over the world. After the Turkish Independence in 1924 he returned to Turkey, but was soon arrested for working on a leftist magazine. He managed to escape to Russia, where he continued to write plays and poems.

And the poem:

On Living
Nazim Hikmet, 1902 – 1963
I

Living is no laughing matter:
you must live with great seriousness
like a squirrel, for example—
I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,
I mean living must be your whole occupation.
Living is no laughing matter:
you must take it seriously,
so much so and to such a degree
that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,
your back to the wall,
or else in a laboratory
in your white coat and safety glasses,
you can die for people—
even for people whose faces you’ve never seen,
even though you know living
is the most real, the most beautiful thing.
I mean, you must take living so seriously
that even at seventy, for example, you’ll plant olive trees—
and not for your children, either,
but because although you fear death you don’t believe it,
because living, I mean, weighs heavier.
II

Let’s say we’re seriously ill, need surgery—
which is to say we might not get up
from the white table.
Even though it’s impossible not to feel sad
about going a little too soon,
we’ll still laugh at the jokes being told,
we’ll look out the window to see if it’s raining,
or still wait anxiously
for the latest newscast. . .
Let’s say we’re at the front—
for something worth fighting for, say.
There, in the first offensive, on that very day,
we might fall on our face, dead.
We’ll know this with a curious anger,
but we’ll still worry ourselves to death
about the outcome of the war, which could last years.
Let’s say we’re in prison
and close to fifty,
and we have eighteen more years, say,
before the iron doors will open.
We’ll still live with the outside,
with its people and animals, struggle and wind—
I mean with the outside beyond the walls.
I mean, however and wherever we are,
we must live as if we will never die.
III

This earth will grow cold,
a star among stars
and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet—
I mean this, our great earth.
This earth will grow cold one day,
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
in pitch-black space . . .
You must grieve for this right now
—you have to feel this sorrow now—
for the world must be loved this much
if you’re going to say “I lived”. . .

Road to somewhere

Then when it was dark beneath the clouds,
I waited; waited for the moon to be visible.
The unavailable me thus misses the interpretation –
That the mere reflection of light doesn’t really matter.
If it’s all-encompassing and over-arching,
If there’s truly no end of those seemingly finite curves,
What to wait for!

 

Within the reach of the firm grip love lies.
But that’s another free fall towards the infinity.
If you want to be cloaked by your desire’s blanket,
The cold winter will never stop.

 

Then when it was bright and glowing,
I was running through the corridors with your hands in mine.
But there were no ways to abstract from the particulars.
All the general notions can blend into  meaninglessness.
But the vanishing nothingness melds into your lips,
As the passion can never be absent or cease to exist.
So then a romantic interlude.

 

Random romance

This is what appeared in the cloud:

In my clouds of thoughts.

Extreme prettiness and somewhat ravishing you looked

When I glanced at you only once.

A certain kind of blissful pride  was there

In the corner of your lips.

And a blend of firm determination and sweet innocence

In your deep blue eyes.

I love to take snapshots..

Snapshot of real beautiful moments;

Like what I glimpsed when you were before my eyes.

It’s mind-blowing that you uncovered my poetic me

In this early morning.

The wide sunny sky outside wasn’t enough to push me..

It took you and your busy beautiful face that drove me..

I’m stranger to you.. but whatever,

It feels good to me to write some lines for you

And something also for you to read and giggle.

 

She In the Coffee shop

There she was ruminating, pondering..
That coffee shop corner now luminous and bright
With her pulchritude and elegance;
Two inquisitive eyes running through those pages..

Desiring to dare exploring the curves of her mind?
Whether it’s flying away from snowy numbness outside,
Charming could be a journey as conscious as possible..
With her effervescent smile sparkling around.

Perfect match are those painting and books behind her
Her blond hair seems like an intersection of dream and reality
As expressive she is with her waving hands when she speaks
And her touching of her nose, lips & ears when she listens.

A living embodiment of vitality she was..
Now she left and is lost in the crowds.

 

— A poem inspired by a girl in a coffee shop.

“Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.” — Leonard Cohen