Time Exhumation

We exhume the time,
To look for rotten forgotten treasures,
Cries the time: “Don’t!”
We go ahead.
We pull out with all our power,
Blood,
Pus,
And agony.
We regret,
Throw away the shovel,
And sit in full exhaustion and despair.
The time looks like a left naked prostitute,
Moaning.
And the sky cries instead of time’s eyes.

A Eulogy for Your Eyes

From each of your fingertips thousands of rivers flow to water the barren desert of my soul.
Seeds grow in me and each of them becomes a tree for you to sit under its shadow and watch the dance of a blue butterfly.
The butterfly changes into me.
I go up the tree over your head and hang my hair downward that you come up.
You reach for the sun,
The sun changes into a white dove and sits right on your generous shoulder.
It’s getting dark.
The white dove changes into the moon. You see your picture in the moon.
The moon is me…

Chapter 84 of my Novel, Marsala

When you smile all the particles of your face change into blossoms. And when you laugh all these blossoms start to flower in the barren desert of my mind. The sound of your laughs reminds me of the sweet sound of the sea. I say things to make you laugh, but I don’t laugh myself that I hear you well. At this very moment, my world stands still and I inhale each single moment mixed with that sound into my(lonely)self. I’m filled. And the last movement of your head backward is a slap on my pale face to wake up…

A Reflexive Ode

I became the sun, but you turned your back to me.
I became the rain, but you never planted any seed.
I became the moon, but you never wrote a poem.
I became the wind, but you never put your washed shirt out!
Sunflower,
Gardener,
Poet,
Lover!
What should I be to take you out of your shell?

Condemnation

I ran out of the door and slammed it behind me.
It was raining cats and dogs.
I swallowed my tears in my eyes.
A kid smiled at me passing the street.
I turned my head back to the other side to try to pull together my lips to smile back to him,
But a tear dropped out of my right eye.
With the other eye facing him, tearless,
I smiled back to him.
That smile chopped every piece of my soul into pieces and the blood was right falling from my eyes...

Naught

My presence,
Yours,
Is like a dry leaf’s shadow.
How useful we are.
How desperately we seek
And seek
And seek
For things that we think they are.
For values whose presence is like the doubt we have whether we watered the flowers during the past week or not.
For our shoes to wear and dart out of home to get some fresh air when the last thought in our brain reaches a dead end…
Like now that there are many white unwritten lines below
For you to read and take a deep breath. Go ahead.

Hymn to a Wall

Burn my shadow
Clean all the traces;
My footprints and fingerprints.
Then find me
In the fogs,
And try to trust
The lies of words
And wake me up
In between the lines of compulsion.

Anhedonia

I put a butterfly sticker on my thumbnail,
And drank coffee by the window,
While watching the worried cat walking on the edge of the wall.
I opened the yard’s door.
The cat ran away.
I kneeled by the small garden and dug it.
I buried all the poems I wrote for you there.
They could be rich fertilizers for my daffodils.

Anathema

She died. And I decided to bury her with my own hands in our own garden where I could always visit her.
So I planted her in the corner of the garden.
After a week I saw some sprout on her grave.
After a month some leaves,
But after a year there were fruits up there!
Whatever effort I made to pick them I couldn’t.
It was as if they were a part of the tree and stuck to it.
They were gray.
A hundred years passed.
The day I died there were lots of her around me.
Each of them was weeping many a tear and their whole intermingled sound caused me to feel a hole in my head.
I died though,
And I never saw her, saw them
Again…

Think of Me When the Butterfly Dances Around You

Somewhere in shadows we walk,
For if we walk in the dark, we feel cold
And if in warmth,
Light will blind us.
I feel your existence under my skin
Together we are free…

Chapter 50 of My Novel, Marsala

50

I don’t really know for what I’m living. I could certainly depict that all the ties which connected me to life have torn apart. What really matters in this is that I myself hate anything which connects me to life. So many things don’t have the mentioned value in the first place. And despite this knowledge I move on in vain. Last night I witnessed my birth in a pool where my mother and father and I were in, in different corners. My mother who doubted my being alive gave birth to me and I was freed in the water. I grasped the little baby while looking into my mother’s eyes with fear and confusion. She said she’s dead but I peeled the thin plastic-like cover around the baby and hung her upside down and hit slowly her back and after a cough she breathed deeply and slowly. My father told me she was dead too right after my mother. But she was alive and the only one who actually gave birth to me was me. How can you?

Chapter 50 of my unfinished novel, Marsala

Chapter 66 of My Novel, Marsala

66

Recently, I see everyday a white butterfly. I enjoy watching them at that captured-in-my-eyes special quicker-than-ever moment. Yes! Enjoy the moment, cling to beauties and joys. But the issue still stands: Living.


Chapter 66 of my unfinished novel, Marsala

Burlesque

My head is stuck
Into life, into me.
And my feet are swinging in the air.
If you touch them,
My neck will break
If not,
I’ll be smothered.
I’m supposed to choose now.
This is what I should live.

Glossolalia

This overrated me, is left in the arms of the storm...