Sensing organs
What
my heart would feel remains a mystery
or
what my ears may hear at dawn...
The
whistling of a locomotive, as it leaves the station,
travels
towards us and once again
we
tremble, smitten by love.
My
dog has died. Who will be guarding my home?
This
train I missed. When will a next one come?
And
what if love is scattered - how are we to piece it back together?
We
are such wells, brimming with water,
only
by song.
Stepping outside
It’s
cool and quiet
as
on a peaceful sea.
Darkness
is hanging out its purple cloak
on
poplars’ ends.
With
my scorched soles
I
feel the rocks, the grass
barely
showing and I head out –
no
roundabouts and no illusions –
towards
the butterfly sunset
in
my childhood.
Regret
I
finally wiped off my nails.
I
had them done with branches, on forest green.
You
did not get to see them and it makes me think
of
what you are going to wear today:
your
brother’s tee-shirt or the shirt I gave you?
Every
day seems lost to us…
We
build walls for ourselves, by heaping up fluttering wings,
to
keep out the beasts and the light.
The bird-less skies reflect
our profile in green and black.
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The cover of the magazine where the above poems were published, in Turkish.
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