"constantinople" poems
i've moved past my belief
in the Christian trinity...
for me...
the meditation stands
on the pivot of
the following translation
the hexagon,
start of david -
which translates
as the Holy Ghost -
which denotes
a congregation...
the pentagon?
of the befitting analogy
to the five senses...
the "son of man" -
or simply...
the myopia of man
having to excavate
the sixth sense
using telescopes,
microscopes, the like...
and, finally?
on a hand of five extensions,
there are four...
the square...
Y H
⠁⠑ read clockwise
like English traffic
H W on a roundabout.
which? denotes the father...
if the Hebrews "think" they
can hide their vowels?
the Latin answer is...
to interpolate Braille into
their language...
and Emperor Nero would have
appreciated it...
whether with, or without
the Byzantine propaganda machinery
of the nevus testamentum...
and it wasn't a propagandist
piece?
how much longer did the eastern
Empire, outlive the Western
empire, when the onslaught
by the Ottoman's reached
Constantinople?!
the Greek were craving
a cultural revival!
they believed the Romans
to have origins in Troy!
they plaid the weakest cultural
card of Judaism,
revamping it into Christianity...
hell... that's what i believe...
and i'm not about to meet
a Jehovah's Witness propagandist,
or some aged Pakistani
citing the Quran on a park
bench...
or some Scientologist
on Oxford St. with his wacky
machine...
or some pseudo Hare Krishna
monk with a book about
some guru, pushing it like
marijuana...
to change my mind on what
i'm digesting!
plus?
⠽ ⠓
Æ ( read anti-clockwise)
⠓ ⠺
fits in perfectly into the Adam
and Eve narrative -
as with all mythology -
given the extent of time...
nuance, metaphor...
abbreviation...
ars poetica!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
The whole city is full of it – in the squares,
The coffee shops, the ‘blogs, the op-ed pieces
The emails, the news sites, the grocery stores
They are all busy arguing -
If you ask someone to give you change
He says the President is the Begotten One
If you inquire about the price of a croissant
You are told by way of reply that he is not
That the Supreme Court is greater, and that
The President is inferior; if you ask
“Is my cup of Blue Mountain ready?”
The barista answers that Congress is nothing
In the squares, the coffee shops, the ‘blogs,
The op-ed pieces – the whole city is full of it
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
Valiant galley set sail
adrift through the Dardanelles.
Her masts, backs straight,
composed as Venetian dames
in familiar basse danse.
Sunset floats amongst the sea mist
silhouetting the capital's skyline.
The holy dome of the Αγία Σοφία
eclipses the light.
The Lady makes port,
at the City on the Seven Hills.
Gentle entrance to the beating heart
of the bustling district.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
I entered my poem "last night I dreamed" in the Tallenge poetry competition for May 2014, which it won, it's now in the annual competition so I'd really appreciate your support by voting for it at - bit.ly/1pJ0N3z
You can find the poem down the line in my list of poems, but I'll paste it here again so you can check it out to see if it's worth a vote.
Last Night I dreamt
Of the Hagia Sophia.
Looking across
mighty Bosphorous.
In Istanbul, in Byzantium,
in Constantinople.
A prize of ages...........
In all her many's
real and imagined glory.
Man's desire,
God's gift.
Stone's testament
To my species' faith,
In eternity.
Though this Hagia,
My Sophia,
was one of my dreams
In a dream-city/state.
In a dream Macedon/Thrace,
Modern and ancient
Asian/Europe, European-Asia,
Turk and Greek
Jew and Russian
Balkan stars fall upon her'
Coloured light's
and bright vid-screens.
Amid stone and earth
Glass and concrete,
Granite and amythst
Huge, jewel-covered,
ancient beyond measure....
Not just Constantine's church,
though mighty church it was..
Or Mehmet's prize;
though great Mosque it became
Nor Theodosius's rock
Though he still fights for her
Somewhere in the past.
And no dry museum either,
Though museum she is..........
In reality.
Just an ancient place,
Euxine harbour
Cross-road of man and water,
Land and Gods
Magic and reality
Chozen by Hellas
Built and owned
by Christ's children
Subjects of St. Paul's
Holy empire.
Orthodox and sacred
To Greek and Rus.
No Latin hymns
We're sung in her walls.
Then won by Turk
In wars fierce and long -
So now Muhammed's shrine
Ottoman and Pasha
Jewel of a new kingdom
Built upon built
Myriad upon myriad
Pagan, Muslim, Jew, and Christian
And the Gods of Hellas
who dwell there still
Watch and wonder
at it all
But in my dream
She was made -
in the shape of a grassy mound
Many faceted, growing still
Amid structures, attached to her
spans and arches
Ancient wonder
Modern glory
Flowing and rising
Worshipped by all who
dwelt near her.
Grassed covered
Monument strewn
Stretching up to the dark -
Starry Sky
Arches
Domes
Butress'
Spires
Crosses
Cresents
Heart's desire
White rocks paved
And eternal grasses
Dewed by Hellene Gods
Whose light it saved
Last night I dreamed
Of the Hagia Sophia.......
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
Signs point in different directions
Art>
<Science
History^
Oddities¿
Art:
Every memory of every sunrise
Every beautiful melody
Here.
And so many images of her.
Some sweet
Some candid
Some sad.
How can we revel in the joyful
Without knowing it's opposite?
Every delicate poem
Every lyric yelled
Every painting
Every sculpture
And in all of them,
Her.
Science:
Models of molecules
Diagrams of data
Sketches
(Where are the equations?)
Math is forbidden in this museum.
Lectures
Theories
All gathering dust.
History:
Names.
The greatest of men and women
Julius Caesar
Constantine
Marc Anthony
Cleopatra
Rosa Parks
Elinor Roosevelt
Patton
Churchill
Kennedy
MLK
Maps and charts
Famous cities of old
Sparta
Alexandria
The halls of Montezuma
Constantinople
Babylon
Oddities:
Phantom Kangaroos
Homemade Bazooka
"That made the news?"
And Bubblegum the Baluga
The Raven Empress
Flaming mattress
Sharks with lasers
Pandas with Tasers
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
Amidst the hordes, such mighty wroth:
my bloodline doth elate.
Posterity hath, though, borne aloft
my banner as the Great.
Springing forth my namesake there,
outhewn from Hellas’ opal,
that city which was brought to bear:
her name Constantinople.
For years to pass there was beholden
Thy glory all so clear.
The Great City’s holy site, golden:
there stood Hagia Sophia.
Therein however I bade Thee
to grant portent or sign.
Thou didst forsooth bequeath to me
one sacred and divine.
I stand upon the ever-brink,
Rome’s beauty lies thereunder.
Thy truth through me starteth to sink,
it striketh me like thunder.
The sun blindeth my weary eyes
as I gaze over yonder;
whereupon thou revealest me:
In this sign, you will conquer.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 2:41 PM UTC
Last Night I dreamt
Of the Hagia Sophia.
Looking across
mighty Bosphorous.
In Istanbul, in Byzantium,
in Constantinople.
A prize of ages...........
In all her many's
real and imagined glory.
Man's desire,
God's gift.
Stone's testament
To my species' faith,
In eternity.
Though this Hagia,
My Sophia,
was one of my dreams
In a dream-city/state.
In a dream Macedon/Thrace,
Modern and ancient
Asian/Europe, European-Asia,
Turk and Greek
Jew and Russian
Balkan stars fall upon her'
Coloured light's
and bright vid-screens.
Amid stone and earth
Glass and concrete,
Granite and amythst
Huge, jewel-covered,
ancient beyond measure....
Not just Constantine's church,
though mighty church it was..
Or Mehmet's prize;
though great Mosque it became
Nor Theodosius's rock
Though he still fights for her
Somewhere in the past.
And no dry museum either,
Though museum she is..........
In reality.
Just an ancient place,
Euxine harbour
Cross-road of man and water,
Land and Gods
Magic and reality
Chozen by Hellas
Built and owned
by Christ's children
Subjects of St. Paul's
Holy empire.
Orthodox and sacred
To Greek and Rus.
No Latin hymns
We're sung in her walls.
Then won by Turk
In wars fierce and long -
So now Muhammed's shrine
Ottoman and Pasha
Jewel of a new kingdom
Built upon built
Myriad upon myriad
Pagan, Muslim, Jew, and Christian
And the Gods of Hellas
who dwell there still
Watch and wonder
at it all
But in my dream
She was made -
in the shape of a grassy mound
Many faceted, growing still
Amid structures, attached to her
spans and arches
Ancient wonder
Modern glory
Flowing and rising
Worshipped by all who
dwelt near her.
Grassed covered
Monument strewn
Stretching up to the dark -
Starry Sky
Arches
Domes
Butress'
Spires
Crosses
Cresents
Heart's desire
White rocks paved
And eternal grasses
Dewed by Hellene Gods
Whose light it saved
Last night I dreamed
Of the Hagia Sophia.......
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
Everybody knows of Istanbul in Turkey,
This poem will only lay some light on it,
Through the history & mankind's irony.
Istanbul was settled as a Greek colonial city,
'Twas named Byzantium after a Greek king,
And the Old Greek king's name was Byzas.
The Romans under Constantine won over it,
Now it was their turn to rename the city,
After the emperor as Constantinople.
The great Turks captured it in 1453 AD lastly,
The fabulous fortress was renamed yet again,
The present name Istanbul descended in 1923.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 2:15 AM UTC
I shall conquer you with honeyed words
and occupy the wonders within your walls
without the use of my unmighty hands;
I shall conquer you a hundred years.
Many are the wonders built by men,
such majestic beauty unimaginable
but I voted you as the most wondrous.
Now, I shall conquer you a hundred years.
Rome defied dozens of the odds,
the barbarians defying what they've defied
burying them deep, yet and still,
I still desire to conquer you a hundred years.
Standing in the half of East and West
the center of trade and glowing in wonders.
You are the Constantinople to my Turk
and she remained conquered for a hundred years.
I will besiege your frail heart
and be part of my growing dominion,
cultivating to be the best of you.
For that I shall conquer you a hundred years.
We belligerents may be of diverse faiths
my skin scorched brown from the natures of war.
yet that shall not hinder my besieging.
Now, shall I conquer you a hundred years?
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 7:19 AM UTC
I want to fold up Constantinople
And tuck it in the crease of my pocket
With a rock and a harlequin opal,
Nestled against your map of Nantucket —
A keepsake framed by a tired locket.
Sunlight pours past panes like gold tapestries,
Blue-sky-checkmates belonging to Vermeer
And his Woman with a Balance — trophies:
A man crowned a chivalrous cavalier,
A gentleman of this tremendous sphere
Misunderstood by societal norms,
And expectations set by precedent.
All while a bird coos cucurucu, warmed
By yellow light, freed from discontented
Murmurs with song. I want to read segments
Of the map on the curved back of your hand,
Knuckle-mounds like the knees of a woman
You once said you loved between shorthanded
Compliments and the words of Walt Whitman —
Blanketed by a bible and a man.
Maybe our web-tangled thoughts coexist
With the sky, place our feet firm on the ground.
Or maybe they’re a window that insists
On temptations, the mind, rewritten sounds,
Coming alive, and wanting to be found.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
Proem
After Sir Thomas recovered the Spear of Destiny and returned it to the Pope at the Vatican in Rome, he remained there for several months serving His Excellency, attending meetings, and recovering from several minor injuries sustained while recapturing the Spear that pierced the side of Jesus the Messiah. Sir Thomas could have stayed as a guest of the pope in one of their lush suites, but he chose the bare walls of a guest bedroom at the local Knights Templar castle. The pope then called upon him for his next assignment: Leave Rome immediately, by boat, again, back to Constantinople. “Head off a Scot by the name of Sir Robert Bruce, whom our intel indicates has a map and is currently on his way in search for the Holy Grail. Sir Robert is a stubborn ally. You will help Sir Robert, but convince him that the chalice of Jesus belongs here in Rome.”
Prior to shoving off the west coast of Italy, a few miles from Rome, Sir Thomas wrote the following message, and placed it in a bottle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My dear sweet wife and babe within her womb
The five long years since I had lost you both
I prayed for inner peace despite my joy
Your both in heaven; worship Thee Most High
Because your love exceeds all life itself
My lips will glorify you ever more
I praise you for the rest; my living days
Your name I lift on high with my bare hands
Was on my bed that I remember you
I think of you the watches of the night
The shadow of your wings I cling my soul
The depths of which my sword shall honor thee
I yearn affections taste where two come one
The seed by faith that yields abundant life
Endures celestial kingdom's perfect place
It brings this missive to its endless oath:
To bless, release my restless heart that bleeds
Commit my swords allegiance to the Lord
To you Dagung the earth is smaller still
For every inch be searched to see your face
You disappeared, not dead but still alive
I feel the transom temper my resolve
For in this ship another search begins
The Holy Grail; Dagung I'll find you both
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Postscript
I toss the bottle through the wind to stormy sea
Inside the missive of a knight in love with thee
__________________________________________
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
I'm a juxtaposition, a correlation of the perverse dark and a beautiful light. I am your mark of gigantic endeavours, the tremble of the lip when you feel my tremor. I am not quite what i want you to think i am, i am a beautiful beacon of shining light, i will guide you through the storms with my gentle words and kisses. I will rip you apart, my wounds harsh, my tongue lethal, i will barrage your intimate space with your own miserable defeat. I am Constantinople, you are the pinnacle. You are nowhere to be found, yet hang in every essence of me. I am what you know you think you are, yet are too scared to find out. I am everything but a time when you thought i was....write me down and read me, i am your red pen in your correctional facility, i lost the meaning and didn't find it in you.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
transcending
this cocoon of flesh
all the trappings of walkway icons
gilded
like the ****** Marys of Constantinople
without the divinity of virtue
where is zen
in this jungle
of glass and steel
time in a bottle leaking out
with a faulty seal.
when will the turn of the wheel
bring happiness
instead of the wet blanket
of sorrow
following a path
down by the River of Tears
watching the Lily Maid drift by
wondering
where is my dress and veil
in the cards of the gypsy
will I ever reach
Shangra La
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 7:42 PM UTC
Calais was a small disappointment,
And Ams-too-damn good to be true,
So while the red orb is yet to set,
I'll clear out my debt,
And try to forget,
And gather fresh hope on the morrow new.
Vesoul, that was my destination:
I gave up Quebec and Madrid!
Gladly forsaking old
Constantinople, for
Paris awaited my trip.
But I can't make a living in Bangkok,
With poncy jazzmen such as these.
The coffers of kings are busted and broke,
And my heart craves more
Than ashes and smoke,
So tour Guatemal', if you please.
Goodbye to pretty Latakia,
I turn from your shore with such sorrow.
Your flowery air I long to breathe,
Instead of standing alone in the street;
I want to return in a golden-fringed dream...
And gather fresh hope on the morrow.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
The Strid, at ground level, seems
A calm stream. A peaceful bath.
None foresee being swept into
My roaring depths, trapped under current and crag
I want to merit photographs, but
I am midday with overcast skies
The light isn’t quite right, the
Scenery you see seems trashed
I picture myself behind the wheel of
The steel frame of a 1967 Chevy Impala. Black and
Worn down from its time in domesticity
Its escapee driving fast, kicking up dust, so
He can never look back
Praying the engine doesn’t clunk or thrash
My heart is the library of Alexandria
Endless tomes taken from open trade
Open to few, elites within not knowing they’re kindling
An empire of knowledge gone to waste in
A night of passion and fire
My mind lives in Constantinople
Unbroken walls build in fear of failure
I am the fire in that city, uncontrolled
I consume myself from within, and
My walls crumble
Prized relics of pride swiftly settle
Kicking up dust at the bottom of the river
The bosun yells “man overboard!”
Too late; they’re trapped
Under current and crag.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
The Sea-Road to Constantinople
For Tod on his Birthday
A coastal lugger wallows in the waves
Almost adrift in its poor steerageway
Slow-yawing northeast from the blue Aegean
Into the soft-murmuring Marmara.
Athens is in the past, and soon, ahead,
Constantinople’s walls will catch the dawn.
Our sticks, our packs, a space upon the deck
A book of verse, a cup, a spoon, a bowl,
Some prayers the priest was pleased to copy out
For us poor pilgrims who with weary feet
Were pleased to board a northbound boat at last
And rest through sunlit days with pipes alight
And words and prayers afloat among the sails,
Among the gulls that circle ‘round the mast.
All travelers pray for their hearts’ desires
To wait for them ashore at journey’s end;
For us, ours is to serve the Emperor -
A little further, there beyond the stars.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
"I have seen the night torn into thin darkling strips and woven into shapes too bleak for dreams."
For some unknown reason
This sentence speaks worlds
To me
Deep within my "soul"
You could call it
I feel it
Like a distant memory
Something long forgotten
But still itching to come up
For air
To be thought of again
Like we have scaled
The walls of Thermopylae
Or Constantinople
Through the darkness
Taking no prisoners
But lives instead
We have fought in battles
That would make today's wars
Pale at the bloodshed
Perhaps this is why
I feel so peaceful now
At ease with most things
I did my killing
Served my time
Saw enough bodies
Perhaps this is also why
I know exactly what to do
In almost all situations that
Hold violence
So let's put this to rest
Perhaps these are demons
But not memories
Past lives perhaps?
Or just my imagination.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
i find it bewildering that the greeks,
know as the byzantines are known for no name,
but a date: 1453 (the sacking of Constantinople),
while greeks per se, are known for the philosophers
and the mythology prior... thus the timelessness of
the latter... and the insignificance of the former;
the latter have been simply bleached,
a milder ethnic cleansing to erase their pre-history
with a non-history that history is said to
have taken place, even though it has;
one greek i met at university
said the pride of greece was Constantinople
rather than Athens...
how unified Greece and Turkey now seem
when having to ***** the Syrians
and wonder why the plagiarism of Trojans
(that's Rome) seems to be caught unaware
to what further ascription of furthered
plagiarism is necessary to keep a vitality.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 9:46 PM UTC
Scripturient means violently word obsessed.
How can someone obsessed with words
Not be violent, but not the way you think?
I am scripturient. The molecules that compose
My very blood are the same bits of iron from
A dynasty of stars that lived and died and
Shone their light and faded...some of them exploded.
Exploding stars-violence engineered in my DNA.
But that is everyone. Man. Woman. Whatever.
Violently word obsessed is in my mind.
In the (fictional?) rise and fall of universes.
All the ends and beginnings. Man vs. man.
Man vs. nature. Man vs. God. Man vs. self.
Make and unmake. Heal and then break.
History will dryly report the fall of the Roman Empire,
I will tell you of the last emperor who watched
The world he'd known crumble into ashes.
History will tell you of the Greek Fire used
In the defense of Constantinople.
I will tell you of the fire's reflection in the sea
And the distortions made in the reflection
As men dive into the salt water to escape the flame.
History will tell you what people have done;
I will tell you who they are. The truth is, if
I'm going to be honest, then my words will likely
Be violent. It's not just wars; it's the people who
Shatter each other every day, whether unintentionally
Or for sport. It is the little lie or the denied truth.
Our own minds often torture us. I am word obsessed.
I am scripturient. I came across the word as meaning
"Word obsessed," but then I learned that it meant
"Violently word obsessed." I denied it for a while,
But, if you want to tell the truth of humanity,
You must be violent. Bits of raging stardust
Who can never seem to be at peace. That's us.
Man vs man. Man vs. nature. Man vs. God. Man vs. self.
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
(Geraldine was walking on the deck while waiting nervously for Fredrick. Frederick appeared suddenly while speaking quickly and gesturing.)
''I've waited for you all day long to come up with fuel.''
''I went to buy charcoal, water and outdoor lamp oil.
At a crossroad, I saw a stage driver being so cruel
To whip his horses to run faster; the oil spilled on the soil.
He drove a stagecoach; my horse was frightened by the sound
And my trolley overturned. I had to come back to buy
Again three barrels of oil.'' ''That oil spilled on the ground, ''
Said Geraldine, ''the money has gone, and this is not a lie! ''
I don't ask you to tell me where you really spent the money
It makes no sense to ask you for the truth. Is she beautiful?
Did you have a good time? To wash laundry in public, honey,
You may bring her here. This way, you can be dutiful.''
''I love you, '' screamed Frederick, '' so, you think you're funny.''
''Well, I may be funny although I'm never stupid.''
He held her, ''I sold some jewels. Take the money.
I could lie to you, but you're the one. I'm down with Cupid.''
''Do you remember that man having a ring with a skull? ''
''You've met him in Constantinople, '' ''I've met him here, too.
He was in that stagecoach liking this way his horses to cull.''
He laughed saying, ''I'm a captain in search for my crew.''
''Frederick, I want to return home at Khadjibey.
Do you remember when we've met in the port and you
Gave me an emerald cut gold ring shining at the ray? ''
''I've asked you to marry me, '' ''I love you; you know it's true.''
''Then why do you want to turn back home? '' ''You know I'm scared.''
'' This is our chance. If we turn back in that unknown trading port
For slave markets, I will not survive; I'm not prepared
To ask the sanjak bey some protection and support.
I am Italian and I saw so many things.
I saw the terrible fate of those becoming galley-slaves,
Women enslaved being sexually abused, in sufferings,
But someone living in Khadjibey is a 'plough and a scythe.' ''
'' Is this artwork painted by Paolo de Matteis or not? ''
Asked Francesca coming to them. ''What are you doing here? ''
''We really like to admire that splendid island a lot.''
''Shall we offer them a string instruments' concert, Chiara dear? ''
(To be continued…)
Poem by Marieta Maglas
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
Chiara, Arturo's wife, approached them together with
Lucca and Francesca, the other Italian pair
Saying, ''Was Quare's invention real? I thought it was a myth.''
'' His barometer measures the pressure of the air.''
Chiara was wearing a red gown, with lace trimming the low,
A green velvet mantel, which was lined with some ermine,
Square neckline and sleeves, which were gathered at the elbow.
She spoke well Italian, Spanish, and German.
Italians wanted to disembark at Syracuse.
Bella and Miguel traveled to Barcelona home.
To find a new home, Naimah and his son had an excuse.
Out of their Turkey's limit, through the storms, they would roam.
Tia, Athan, Megan, and Karsten would disembark
At Selanik, an Ottoman province, where Ahmed
The Third was reigning while his war was a fire in the dark.
They were Greeks being born during the reign of Mehmed.
Marco and Rosa, Cruz and Pedra, Pedro and Carla
Were Portuguese pairs coming home from America.
They had bought from the Pueblo Indians some ollas.
They gave one to the Russian pair, Ivan, and Erica.
Ivan said, ''Tell me something about these Indians.''
Carla said, ''Their belief means dualism; they eat corn.
Some became Catholic due to the Spanish civilians.
They think they emerged from underwater to be born.''
Carla wore a black cap, having a veil, and a green gown
Patterned with acorns and flowers, and her sleeves were caught
With jeweled clasps on lace at the elbow; her eyes were brown.
''The water is fresh in the ollas, I like them a lot.''
She asked Ivan’’ Now, where do you go? ’’ ‘’We left the war.’’
''Ahmed and Peter the First! '' replied Cruz, '' tell me something,
How could you reach Constantinople after coming from far? ''
''I do trade with them, but this war destroyed everything.''
''Did you lose everything you had? '' Marco asked Ivan.
''To make business in Turkey, I sold all my Russian goods.''
Erica tried this conversation to enliven,
''In Portugal, we'll search for a job in cities and hoods.''
Marco wore a banyan with a patterned lining; his cuffs
Were embroidered in gold; his justacorps and stockings
Over his breeches were red like Rosa's shoes and muffs.
All of them wore periwigs and talked a lot while walking.
( To be continued...)
Poem by Marieta Maglas
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
On an overcrowded street,
where bright and darkness never meet,
where voices barter to be heard
from faces hidden behind veil or beard.
Aromas, perfumes, pungent smells,
wafting forth from wishing wells,
coffee roosters wake up the souls,
Bazaars of ochre in sun drenched bowls.
Minarets with nibs of lead
scribe crescent moons on skies near red,
Seraglio Point, which marks the Horn,
where Marmara is Bosphorus born.
The sky blue mosque mocks Mecca's name
but leaves no doubt to which bears fame.
Constantinople or Istanbul,
no place, no name, can be so full.
On one goes, by cheek, by jowl,
eclipsed by fading light in cowl.
No talk of morn, no night yet come,
no curfew called, nor quiet but hum.
Of dreams Aladdin's, of wicks, of lamps,
of sesame, pariahs, tramps.
Of sounds from far off citadels,
of glamour, clamour, peal knell-toll bells.
No sleep, no sheep, no counting herds,
no mudlark talk, no listening nerds.
Romans, Greeks, have gone and come,
left names on stones; Byzantium.
Where west joins east, nigh one the least,
by bridge shake hands, an eyeful feast.
The spawn of dawn, once far, now here,
a call to all, to kneel in prayer.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC