"turk" poems
(I Could Not Knot a Knot.)
My tale is one of tortuous frustration,
when two ropes caused me aggravation,
and my every effort resulted in a situation
that left me in a state of angry indignation!
Oh, what a knotty problem I had got,
when I found I could not knot a needed knot!
Though needing help on how to knot a knot,
no one I knew, knew how to knot my needed knot!
I had two short ropes - which I’d a need to knot,
and which I’d knot together with a special knot,
but it never worked, for the knot did not knot,
and my knot came undone! I felt such a clot!
Firstly, I took the ropes, which I twisted tight
together, but still the end result, was not right,
for when I tugged, the knot, not only fell apart,
but showed no sign of a knot! Making a fresh start,
I took one rope, and placed it firmly under
the other. This was so easy, I did wonder
if my actions should have been reversed,
for it too fell apart! Oh, how I cursed!
Seems tying knots is not for faint hearts,
for any knot, that’s not knotted, soon parts
when it’s put to the test! That I’m not a knot
expert, you can tell. Truly, my forte is not
that of being very good at tying knots,
for I do not understand what knots
need, to keep them from falling apart!
Tying a knot right, right from the start,
is important, and that’s why my knot
was not reliable, but why I did not
understand. Yes, I’ve tied many knots.
but they’re knots known as Granny Knots.
Other knots are what folks call a Slip Knot.
Then there’s the Turk’s Head - a special knot,
as is the Cat’s Paw, Clove Hitch,and Bowline.
Truth to tell, - none of these resembles mine!
Then there’s a Timber Hitch, which is a knot
that truly puzzles me, and not an easy knot to knot!
There’s many other knots, that need the greatest skill,
such as the Hangman’s Knot - a knot that’s made to ****
Whilst the sheepshank? That’s a tricky one to see!
So many knots, but they’re not knots for me.
Methinks of all the knots, the one true knot for me,
is the “Lover’s Knot”, which I have tied successfully!
Rhymer. April 24th, 2018
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
Brother Iran
by Michael R. Burch
Brother Iran, I feel your pain.
I feel it as when the Turk fled Spain.
As the Jew fled, too, that constricting span,
I feel your pain, Brother Iran.
Brother Iran, I know you are noble!
I too fear Hiroshima and Chernobyl.
But though my heart shudders, I have a plan,
and I know you are noble, Brother Iran.
Brother Iran, I salute your Poets!
your Mathematicians!, all your great Wits!
O, come join the earth’s great Caravan.
We’ll include your Poets, Brother Iran.
Brother Iran, I love your Verse!
Come take my hand now, let’s rehearse
the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.
For I love your Verse, Brother Iran.
Bother Iran, civilization’s Flower!
How high flew your towers in man’s early hours!
Let us build them yet higher, for that’s my plan,
civilization’s first flower, Brother Iran.
Published by MahMag (translated into Farsi by Mahnaz Badihian), Other Voices International, Thanal Online (India), Deviant Art, Portal Vapasin (Farsi). Keywords/Tags: Iran, Iranian, Farsi, Persia, Persian, brotherhood, culture, civilization, poetry, literature, poets, mathematicians, philosophers
Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 3:06 AM UTC
Shall I get drunk or cut myself a piece of cake,
a pasty Syrian with a few words of English
or the Turk who says she is a princess--she dances
apparently by levitation? Or Marcelle, Parisienne
always preoccupied with her dull dead lover:
she has all the photographs and his letters
tied in a bundle and stamped Decede in mauve ink.
All this takes place in a stink of jasmin.
But there are the streets dedicated to sleep
stenches and the sour smells, the sour cries
do not disturb their application to slumber
all day, scattered on the pavement like rags
afflicted with fatalism and hashish. The women
offering their children brown-paper *******
dry and twisted, elongated like the skull,
Holbein's signature. But his stained white town
is something in accordance with mundane conventions-
Marcelle drops her Gallic airs and tragedy
suddenly shrieks in Arabic about the fare
with the cabman, links herself so
with the somnambulists and legless beggars:
it is all one, all as you have heard.
But by a day's travelling you reach a new world
the vegetation is of iron
dead tanks, gun barrels split like celery
the metal brambles have no flowers or berries
and there are all sorts of manure, you can imagine
the dead themselves, their boots, clothes and possessions
clinging to the ground, a man with no head
has a packet of chocolate and a souvenir of Tripoli.
2.9k
If that Shirazi Turk would succeed in winning my heart
I'll give up Samarkand and Bukhara, solely for her Indian mole
Serve remained wine, Saki, cause you can't find in the paradise
Such a place as Ruknabad stream and Musall's gardens
Oh! these gypsies who are sweet and set the city to chaos
They drained heart from patience, as Turks take the pillages
My sweetheart's beauty doesn't need my imperfect love
How a beautiful face is in need of paint and powder and mole?
Talk about minstrels and wine, don't seek universe's secret
That is that, no one solved and will solve this enigma by logic
I knew beforehand from ever-improving charm that Joseph possessed
That love finally would bring Zulaikha out of her innocence
You talked to me badly, God forgive you, you said it well
Bitter answer is proper for that red-colored sugar-sweet lips
My soul, listen to advice, for blissful youths like more
That wise old's advises more than their own sweet lives
Hafez! you told Ghazals and pierced pearls, come sing fine
For your harmony in your poetry, Heaven weds Soraya!
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 12:10 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
To Mercy Pity Peace and Love.
All pray in their distress:
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.
For Mercy Pity Peace and Love,
Is God our Father dear:
And Mercy Pity Peace and Love,
Is Man his child and care.
For Mercy has a human heart
Pity, a human face:
And Love, the human form divine,
And Peace, the human dress.
Then every man of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine
Love Mercy Pity Peace,
And all must love the human form.
In heathen, Turk or jew,
Where Mercy, Love and Pity dwell,
There God is dwelling too.
2.6k
THE Colonel went out sailing,
He spoke with Turk and Jew,
With Christian and with Infidel,
For all tongues he knew.
"O what's a wifeless man?' said he,
And he came sailing home.
He rose the latch and went upstairS
And found an empty room.
The Colonel went out sailing.
"I kept her much in the country
And she was much alone,
And though she may be there,' he said,
"She may be in the town.
She may be all alone there,
For who can say?' he said.
"I think that I shall find her
In a young man's bed.'
The Colonel went out sailing.
III
The Colonel met a pedlar,
Agreed their clothes to swop,
And bought the grandest jewelry
In a Galway shop,
Instead of thread and needle
put jewelry in the pack,
Bound a thong about his hand,
Hitched it on his back.
The Colonel wcnt out sailing.
The Colonel knocked on the rich man's door,
"I am sorry,' said the maid,
"My mistress cannot see these things,
But she is still abed,
And never have I looked upon
Jewelry so grand.'
"Take all to your mistress,'
And he laid them on her hand.
The Colonel went out sailing.
And he went in and she went on
And both climbed up the stair,
And O he was a clever man,
For he his slippers wore.
And when they came to the top stair
He ran on ahead,
His wife he found and the rich man
In the comfort of a bed.
The Colonel went out sailing.
The Judge at the Assize Court,
When he heard that story told,
Awarded him for damages
Three kegs of gold.
The Colonel said to Tom his man,
"Harness an *** and cart,
Carry the gold about the town,
Throw it in every patt.'
The Colonel went out sailing.
VII
And there at all street-corners
A man with a pistol stood,
And the rich man had paid them well
To shoot the Colonel dead;
But they threw down their pistols
And all men heard them swear
That they could never shoot a man
Did all that for the poor.
The Colonel went out sailing.
VIII
"And did you keep no gold, Tom?
You had three kegs,' said he.
"I never thought of that, Sir.'
"Then want before you die.'
And want he did; for my own grand-dad
Saw the story's end,
And Tom make out a living
From the seaweed on the strand.
The Colonel went out sailing.
2.2k
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
Facebook is a social network,
Where you find people with no work.
Knowledge and education only by hard work,
Thus will own you a company at Turk.
Facebook wastes your precious time,
Which you would taste in your future as lime.
You never open your English, Maths and Science book,
But you frequently access facebook.
You always say;
That you write the essay,
As a team work,
At the social network.
There’s no one to take any measure,
So you log on to facebook at your leisure,
And find some pleasure,
But not a treasure.
It’s bitter;
To write a letter;
Asking for shelter
So find your own track to glitter.
You aren’t a creature,
You need a bright future.
Listen to lecture,
And make up your own architecture.
Which is better?
You being the black hatter,
By going around the world which would never matter;
Or make the world come to your setter!!!
It’s up to you to select the correct surge,
That would emerge.
It is your future;
So get into the right juncture.
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
A Load of brushes and baskets and cradles and chairs
Labours along the street in the rain:
With it a man, a woman, a pony with whiteybrown hairs.—
The man foots in front of the horse with a shambling sway
At a slower tread than a funeral train,
While to a dirge-like tune he chants his wares,
Swinging a Turk’s-head brush (in a drum-major’s way
When the bandsmen march and play).
A yard from the back of the man is the whiteybrown pony’s nose:
He mirrors his master in every item of pace and pose:
He stops when the man stops, without being told,
And seems to be eased by a pause; too plainly he’s old,
Indeed, not strength enough shows
To steer the disjointed waggon straight,
Which wriggles left and right in a rambling line,
Deflected thus by its own warp and weight,
And pushing the pony with it in each incline.
The woman walks on the pavement verge,
Parallel to the man:
She wears an apron white and wide in span,
And carries a like Turk’s-head, but more in nursing-wise:
Now and then she joins in his dirge,
But as if her thoughts were on distant things,
The rain clams her apron till it clings.—
So, step by step, they move with their merchandize,
And nobody buys.
1.7k
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 spent my nights
on the sharpest edges,
imbibed supernatural fixes
to break ice,
make things seem better,
feel all nice.
On Kashmiri-tempo,
I looked for a cowgirl
in the sand with every day
one of intense celebration.
Bad to the bone was
the motto of logical songs.
Dust in the wind
& free birds never lied,
I cried in the cane break,
zig zagged through ghostland,
lived in
the twilight zone,
a young Turk
in love with radar,
alone on
Heaven's stairway.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
Five times a day upon his coloured mat
he bends himself. The nurses come and go,
spectres in a slow procession that’s
caught in a loop, where only
the names change (ours too are abandoned for
the new ones we receive upon on arrival:
‘faking it’ or ‘non-cooperative’ or ‘terminal’ or
‘crash survival’).
It’s not their fault they eye him curiously.
They know he’s just a Turk. They’re different. He
gives not a sod
but prostrate on the disinfected floor
he offers, counting beads to keep the score,
his soul to God.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 4:18 PM UTC
Father Mckenzie
Turk’s Head teased my shadow
free last evening along the arroyo
our separation minute yet
edging toward the clement lip
accruing like the thunder eggs
I keep in a jar by the door
God long since departed, drifted
away on the high desert wind
that drew us here long ago
rifled pages of the Book Of Common Prayer.
A sodden breeze from home last night
a tang of salt, a churchyard hush
low plaint of cello’s lurking around
these adobe walls for a way inside
my callow words returned to claim
their hollow sound and mouth
all that was left unsaid
an old man darning socks
in the night when nobody’s there
crossing the room to leave
the door ajar to old sermons
bible black sky pierced with diamonds.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 8:43 AM UTC
*but i'm a true reflection of a ****** up world, it's hard to push the button repeatedly using only one example... after a while it just becomes a case of eccentricity... but what's scaring you, is that this eccentricity doesn't really speak - no flamboyance to rest and feel comfortable on, like a sofa... well, indeed, an iron maiden, to my gusto.*
as one neurologist said to me,
'if someone says you're
mentally ill, then they are mentally ill.'
or as i say, sometimes you
wouldn't believe what's happening
in england, all that boasting
and jesting concerning the
magna carta: oldest democracy,
free world... a load of decapitated
cockroaches with leeches *******
on the wound - psychiatric
darwinism, you name it, a *******
**** hole of failed multiculturalism,
a bunch of former colonial subjects
assimilated and integrated,
tongues forgotten, mothers of
linguistic d.n.a. strapped to the caterpillars
of tanks, ground into bony shrapnel;
oh yeah, and asian jokes about cabbages -
tell that to the turk making his kebab,
while i tell him... how about adding
sauerkraut instead? because, i mean,
you're using pickled chillies already.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 2:40 PM UTC
"So, gentlemen," begins the chair
"Our star property is developing.
She's past the stage of 'Girl Next Door' charm,
and we need to know
how to sell her new album.
Suggestions?" A silence.
"I know," says one, "she's very keen
on stage and theatre.
Perhaps a Shakespearean theme?"
There are murmurs,
but little enthusiasm.
Another pipes up.
"I understand she has an interest in ecology.
Could we be thinking nature? Conservation?"
"I think not," says the chair, "though the subtexts
in her songs are clear. No,
we're missing something obvious.
There HAS to be a way."
Chins are rubbed,
heads scratched. Ideas rejected thick and fast -
Literature? No.
Politics? No.
One points out her skill as a painter,
but it is felt that art can be rather subjective.
At last, one young turk
slowly pushes his chair back,
the light of inspiration on his keen young face.
All eyes turn to him in anticipation
as he slowly stands,
spreading smile and spreading hands.
"I've GOT it!" he cries.
"Why don't we market her as a galloping *****
The board room collapses
in ecstatic applause,
and the young man seals his fate
as the label's next creative director.
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 6:59 AM UTC
*it's a dead, obviously, working from per se, i only used prae to be near per, i could have used foris, or even ante, but given the dictionary and the necrosis of the Latin tongue per se as in: per - by rather than in - and se - himself rather than itself, you can imagine the complications of coining a phrase for the antidote of in-itself, i.e. outside-itself.*
revision of Enya: **** away **** away,
against the wind against the wind;
mash up... brrrrapt big up big up east end
Loud Don... bonkers bunch...
now that is random,
i wanted to make a serious point,
and i will (insert snigger)... eventually.
what i wanted to communicate was the revenge of
von Kleist against Kant...
Kant is the enemy of poetry we're led to believe,
i can imagine, only Heidegger took Holderlin seriously
and lectured on his poetry,
von Kleist committed suicide out of despair
having read Kant's critique...
but what i want to do:
to take each poetic technique out of poetry, and
then use each technique to describe it's origin...
so for example metaphor... given that poetry is
ensō (one smooth stroke) - ever watched the t.v.
series Wolf Hall? it's about the dealings of Thomas
Cromwell, all matters of intrigue, Henry the VIII,
and Anne Boleyn... so the metaphor describing
poetry... at the end of Wolf Hall
Anne Boleyn is about to be decapitated, because
she ****** like Catherine the Great (although i'm
sure the myth about the horse by polish / lithuanian
conspirators isn't true... or applicable to Anne)
and that offended the king...
so on the scaffold, there's the swordsman (using a sword
was a clean affair, axes were brutal, imagine hacking
at stump of wood, or like Longinus Podbipięta,
who with a Teutonic sword cut three Turk
heads in one go, so Longinus Podbipięta vouched
to a lady his chastity that he'd bed her if he also
cut three Ottoman heads in one go ref. Sienkiewicz
with fire and sword - the sword
that cut ****** Mary's head was, blunt)...
so there's this scene in Wolf Hall, ah man, the swordsman
is classy, Thomas Cromwell asks him, 'will it be a clean
death?', 'only if she doesn't move',
so on the scaffold, he takes his shoes off, speaks into her right
ear as if she's expecting the swing to come from there
and then with great stealth moves in the other
direction and cuts her head off from the left...
so i guess poetry is a metaphor of that, an ensō,
an evolution from haiku: one smooth stroke and you're done:
nothing airy fairy, like you need to sigh...
no... you need to drop the anchor:
poetry prae se, as described by metaphor.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
Precariously balanced on the back half of a metal chair,
Tipping somewhere between stability and pain,
Sat the man.
Olive skin, thick black hair,
Eyes the color of the finest hazlenuts money could buy.
From the first glance, one could tell that he had known suffering,
Poverty, despair.
His hungry eyes, weathered hands, and beaten shoes could tell no lies,
Though he was half-shrouded by the sweet smoke which he breathed.
Yet he seemed so relaxed and content,
Prepared to take whatever might be hurled at him next.
He asked me if I would like a puff.
"It make you to relax, miss."
The words rolled off of his tongue like a Jewish cantor's song.
"No, but thank you."
His hazelnut eyes glistened in the impending dusk,
Bare hands wringing themselves.
Was he nervous?
He began to fidget with his collared work shirt,
Shorts sleeves thin from wear,
As if he were afraid to say anything else.
"Well, I best be going now. It was a pleasure talking to you, sir."
I stood up and continued to walk back down the street.
I thought of the exotic man,
The way he looked and what he wore.
I thought, "Why would he wear that in December?"
I did not need to ask myself.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 9:15 PM UTC
This is for those blind drunk old factory workers,
staring at their burly-early days gone by.
With a twist and shift of sand dry Old Holborn smoke
dragging the last drip drop slither of moisture from their crinkly-cut
red river mouth, whisky worn noses.
Stood basking in the try-so-hard sunlight of a watery greasy fork scented morning,
lent,
one denim arm,
against the fake sandstone slant of yet another high rise, glass front pub-restrau-cafe,
a catastrophic glimpse at the character death of the Northern English inner city.
The sweat snort stagger home of the old factory worker,
working 'like a turk',
to breath,
see,
walk,
and remain continent all at once,
and at all times forever more.
Lukewarm and stale when both down and in,
and up and out.
99pence per pint, 99pees per day.
The terrific scream of a living liver,
drowning its decay in discount Lonsdale but-but-but-it's just one more bitter.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 7:54 AM UTC
gökhan is turkish
it means: ruler of heaven
first time i met you:
september 3rd 1993
first day at school
we looked at each other
we wanted to sit together
we became friends
how sturdy you were
people always thought you
were much older
but me?
i had a babyface
hated my babyface
wanted to look older due to my
fatherless childhood
always wanted to be my own dad
wouldn't work though
so gökhan became my daddy
father figure and protector
i looked up to you my man
ruler of heaven
six years later you died of cancer
i rushed to the hospital
countryside germany
when entering your room
aware of your death
i saw your stiff body
and you were smiling
i will never forget that
gökhan
an african-turk growing
up in germany 1990s
called gökhan tatchouop
lost the battle against cancer
sixteen years old
and he really died with a smile
because he was a good man
who did the right thing
as i get older year by year
i could be gökhan's dad by now
you're with me
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 4:50 AM UTC
This
Is
Ragnarok
The violent end of worlds you’re pagan ancestors feared
Watch as the strikes from Thor steal your comrades from you
No Valkyries to guide you
No Valhalla to welcome you
Ankle deep in mud and rats and **** you load your rifle begging the God you believe in that you won’t have to **** another man
How did you find yourself here?
An Englishman fighting Germans in France
Because a Serbian killed an Austrian in Bosnia
Or an Italian, 43 years after your country was unified
Or a Serbian, longing to free your countrymen from Austro-Hungarian oppression
Or maybe your a Russian, a Frenchman, a Turk
Hear the whistle blow
Now is your time to storm from the trenches into razor wire and the the hail of bullets
You will likely be slaughtered
Like the 40,000 French soldier during one week of the war
This is a tragedy
But this is also a holy experience
Like for T E Lawrence
Fighting for a cause he never thought he would believe in
Or Ernst Jünger
Surviving bullet after bullet
Endless bombardments
This is the heroes journey
Do not let your children’s children take away from your sacrifice
When they say you died for nothing
You believed in your nation and you believed in yourself
Do not let them take that away from you
You who returned home and were ignored if not simply forgotten
Who returned home missing limbs, missing homes, missing loved ones
You who were traumatized shell shocked
Who could not return home
Who returned to what was supposed to be home
But life went on without you
So you found those who fought with you
From your bonds you formed brotherhoods
Formed paramilitaries
But that all comes later
Right now you look death in the eyes and can’t help but laugh
Laugh to keep yourself from crying
Laugh because you have never felt more alive than in this moment and never will again
And in this moment you can’t help but cry out
AVANTI
ARDITI
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 10:14 PM UTC
Under the beating tickled sun
The shackles sting as they twinkle
No heart beat is near that I can hear
Only one more moment I can bear
At the hour of one's finest moment
Where all time stops for Him
And the birds stop chirping, dogs cease barking
The one trips over His own two feet
Either the greeting cards are colored wrong
Or I am in another song
Either my smile has grown down and crooked
Or I am naked and looking spooky
Fish me a riddle from the greatest lake you can find
Where they shiver either when they say their warm
Whistle through the thick green brush
Where bugs lay quiet for to speak don't mean much
Could it be that we were never meant to see?
Blind and fame both seem to be the same thing
Swiveling chairs make the sitters hair stand on end
So don't worry darling were bout' round the bend
A year passes through a ring made of pure steel
And I'm pricking myself to see if I can still feel
Fiery foreman's pound their pencils to pieces
And each daughter will soon scold their French nieces
Ill from the sight of a love that didn't want to work
Now I feel like a dusty road bound turk
Feet are twisted as the sisters pray fast away
The blur of this world is an unsolvable swirl
Nightly knights clad in robes of purple gold
Bounce around by orders that they are told
Now the times seem to be all the same
And to deny it would bring a guilt elusive and lame
Memories mourn their masters for now they've nowhere to go
Mothers whine and cry after their children who only say "so...?"
Fathers lay staring at a ceiling that isn't even theirs
And I'm all outta' money, can you spot on this fare?
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 26, 2011 at 8:40 AM UTC
without this saint-pope, it took a saint-pope to undermine communism, it wasn't coca cola... if it weren't for him i'd be happily living a life of manual labour in my homeland; but no, oh no... his crucifix was always to be the basis of mathematical abstraction / calculation, with the Y axis-divide extending greater than the St. Andrew's axis-divide; forgave the turk in a prison, and only in prison, and with his forgiveness the turk was not allowed Cain's leash of being able to freely roam... what sort of forgiveness is that?!
a saint-pope
a pope who was made saint
gave my argument entry
to topple all predecessors,
a pope-made-saint
gave me entry,
not a clever german pope emeritus,
but a puppet of suffering
slobbering on a throne of opulence,
a saint-pope gave me entry
to topple each and every saint
of this particular saint's predecessor,
while st. paul's cathedral was struck
by lightning (the last, remnant nail
to a crucifix that turned into a coffin),
i'll rise against the sons of thunder
and hot air and argument
with the sons of lightning:
quick-eyed and disengaged from
argument, self-righteous to a ****
*make popes saints and we'll all be ******* pheasants,
sorry, theological peasants, which means?
**** the peacocks, eat them like dodos!
the only beauty is suffering! virus eager host gluttons!
bloated stomachs and internal bleeding,
hence the word animosity.*
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
It was always there
The conflict
If it wasn't at the Kurdish border
It was within the heart of Ankara
Spreading rapidly through the country.
They named the airport
After Atatürk, First Turk.
Bet you would turn in your grave
I still remember your portrait vividly
There was reason and natural authoroty
In the depths of your brown eyes.
We fell asleep under your watchfull gaze
now that's a handsome man
She marked herself as
"safe in Istanbul"
The tension rose within me
And I knew that if anything
Ever happened to you
I'd never get over it
I gritted my teeth and typed
"Why don't you just come home now"
On paper, you are home
But in our hearts
Your home is here
Come home
come home
come back
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 1:19 AM UTC
I met a busboy and once he really ***** twill
of this winding expressway
with a bourgeois vex in this supper quest
why a Turk described them admirably
a shrew whirled in a shrill of the night
still could skirt his papa's pants
in a romance of tennis
to further kind with a match
only with a foul drama again
and put it in court
Aug 30, 2019
Aug 30, 2019 at 10:13 AM UTC