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Ceyhun Mahi Jan 2017
Hayal rüya diyarı hep saçar,
Ateş olur ki buz ve buz ateş.
Hayal Alemde her ne yok ne var,
Güneş olur ki ay ve ay güneş!
Lakin bu dünya hep hayır değil,
Zira ki var orada harıstan,
Zalim diken dolu gıcır değil,
Sorar gönül: o nerde gülistan?
Nazik zaman ve sert zaman döker,
Ve aynı an hayal eder devam,
Katar güzel görüş katar zalim keder,
Ve de olur onun için selam!
  Yalan söyler o pembe tozlu gül,
  Şaşırtılır zavallı her gönül.
Meter: Me fâ i lün / Me fâ i lün / Fe ul
Ceyhun Mahi Sep 2017
Merhaba ey parlak şehir!
Bu vakitte yalnız meydan,
Görünmüyor ki bir insan,
Sokaklar kurumuş nehir.

Yalnız deniz yeli gelir,
Kuşlar geçer zaman zaman,
Millet kafede mi bu an?
Bu şehir ve Mevlam bilir.

Ne o aşıkları gördüm,
Nede ışıkları gördüm,
Bir serin boşluk sadece.

Lakin bu ortam rahattı,
Erkendi şehrin saati,
Bu da bazen kardır gece.
Greetings o gleaming city!
At this time the square's lonely,
Because I see no person,
The streets are dried rivers.

Only a sea breeze does come,
Birds pass by from time to time,
Are the crowds at the cafes?
Only the city and God knows that.

I haven't seen the lovers,
Neither have I seen the lights,
Only a serene emptiness.

But this atmosphere was calm,
It was an early time of the city,
This is sometimes too a benefit at night.
CK Baker Jan 2017
( i )
I lucked out
on table 4 last night
window seat
baseboard heat
with intimate passages
from Ginsberg
in his purest
and most evident form

Cover-all Carl was draped
in his usual garb
turning pages
of yesterday's news
animating, culturing and bantering
on the fate of the
Greek barber
(in an accent of which
I'm not so sure)

His cronies
looked on
with a twisted conviction
with their own tales
of ingovernance and woe
did you know that Panasonic
lost 5 billion last quarter?

The evening moved
in time lapse...
with painted winds
streaming lights
and a host of
high school girls
running cold

Maleah passed
on her late shift
(checking the pile and trough)
patronized the boys
and called it a night

( ii )
The bald man
is back at it again
bickering at the till
something about
a cold free coffee
or 99 cents
or the coloured guy
behind him who got it hot
a kind Filipino
is trying to get it done
at 8 bucks per,
losing her cool
and shedding a quiet tear

Wonder what the Purewals
or Haitians or Cossacks
would have to say
about this grim public reminder,
wonder what
this sad f*ck
will do tonight...
without his
bus pass
or sling sack
or broken Turkish stems
To the girl in Izmir
I've adored you for years
I'm afraid dear
I'll never hold you near
My hopes are becoming smeared
What I wish is a dream
I could never get enough sleep
To get me there
Girl from Izmir
I live in fear

Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
Spongy semolina cake
toothsome lemon kiss
rich, orange-blossom syrup
gold-kissed and fragrant
So buttery sweet
Twenty-second Epulaeryu!
Ok, I know there are two variants of this cake, the Turkish one and the Greek one.
I've only ever had this once (the Greek one) and it was really lovely!
I'll try the Turkish one eventually!
Lyn ***
zebra Nov 2018
Oh the virgins ravenous vault
college girl ******
a seething abashment
with mixed loyalties
who belongs to no one
ferocious for annihilation
*** blast
poured out from essence
spread shanks
wet spot
hot shots
meditative and gleaming

huge hearted
she is one and many
choking on desire
far flung in Turkish bath fantasies
a singing **** tearing heaps of suns
like burns and spatters
her ***, a high pitched note
his ****, rage at bay
poised hot **** ****
gasping fire

*** criminal's

foot kissing
****** biters
Sylvia Plath was referred to as "The Smith College ******" in some biographical material. I love her poetry, like incredibly, and so by the proxy of her literature I remain very much in love with her both as a writer and as a woman, albeit a vivid fantasy. That love remains amplified by her suicide as I find myself still aching about her now, 50 years after her death. I remain continually mesmerized by the appalling dread, yet sensuality of her draped corpse hanging out of the oven. Her dead body is an ineffable poem of grace in form and shuddering despair. I always want to rescue her.... It gnaws! This poem is prompted by Sylvia Plath, a Goddess of modern language, her youthful passions, and inconsolable despair.
CK Baker Oct 2017
a slow walk up centennial
and i still can’t find the place
it's menacing cold, and muted
and the street sweeper and winter breeze
move the turkish blend and dust pack

a novice mixed duet plays
brahms on broken strings
an erhu and overcoat
veiling the blue heeler and sphinx

maggianos is settled in the center block’s
luminance and seasonal drape
it's festive warmth bringing home bedford falls;
the flavour and character and social circles

annie’s playing and the keeper's singing
(his word pool and slander
raising everyone in arms!)
the crowd chants and mayhem breaks
as crawlers and contemporaries
smash their steins

dark alleys and dripping holes
hold a grim reminder of the pierced underside
paddies flutter and forge their words
with a broad manifesto

night gardens come alive
(slowly sapping the respite)
hunched figures and ladies in lace
shuffle inside the big orange door
Steve Apr 2016
Here's a tale of an Arabian night
Smooth chocolate skin, a succulent sight
Pink soft jelly between your teeth
And scented juices underneath
Should you **** or should you bite
These are the mysteries of Turkish Delight
Bison May 2016
**** man, I wonder how a money salad with ranch tastes?
With the way we're faced
I see myself seeking shelter in the Great American Wastes
In the Heartland but I feel like I don't got no heart, man

So I just keep thinking though
Laugh at the freedom show
In the age of the digital rabbit
I'd rather break my habits, slow
So hold up now, listen close
There's a cold wind that blows
Over and over and over the world
So clear and awake and it smells like hope

But I'm living amongst the violent
Chaotic spirit energy of the silent
Tunnels of white and bladed nightlife
Drowning for lack of feeling alive
I want to feel the heat tonight
But there's no warmth in the morning
But I find joy in my cold Turkish Delight

Someone asked me if I ponder
The galaxy and how I fit in it
But I told them I lost my Samsung under
The bridge by the creek in a fit
Of ecstatic acid bliss
So I just let live and let
Live and let live.
Jay Jul 2017
I can’t count the amount of times you’ve saved me
since first class and up to seventh’
where I was lost in life
you guided my way
so meaningful

after that
when I made my hardest choices
which shaped me
you were right beside

in some cases
you were the first one I turned to
thoughts I haven’t even dared to think about by myself
with you
they became sentences
with reason

you were the hardest one to talk to
admitting to you
meant reality
and finally letting go

green summer grass
wandering around
all options are open
that’s how it feels with you

when I broke down
winter snow

sitting in your bed
took away the feeling of

I don’t know how
soft warm pillows
comforting and isolating
it felt just like that

the world gained brightness
and color
once more

now I can see your sorrow
and I want to surround you with blankets
life won’t disappear from you
I promise
it’s okay to rest your head

and sometimes
life doesn’t take us where we’d hoped
but we'll figure it out
we always have

green fence and
water wars
old diarys collecting
our land by the
turkish delight and a pleasant invite to
the kids party
your summer resort
and mine
throwing snowballs at kids
making videos
and songs
just dropping by
doing nothing

eighteen years
still counting

you are
and will always be
my good friend

he squinted at my driver's licence.

"It's pronounced CLANOD!"
I said with extreme exasperation.

"Y'are not from these here parts
. . .are ya fella?"
he drawled dryly

squinting closer firstly at me then
back again to my !D.

"I'm of Welsh/Turkish extraction
but I was born on Venus!"

I explained as if to
a little kid.

"Ha ha...haha!" he snorted
a tiny trickle of snot

yo-yoing up and down
his hairy left nostril.

"Ha ha...if you were to
spell yer name backwards
it would spell:

Donall Dempsey!"

I was not amused.

"Ya know...that crazy hairy
Irish earthling poet dude!"

"I'm not him!"
I fumed.

"Alright...alright...keep yer
antenas on...geeeez!"

He handed me back
my Id ID.

Tipped his hat.
Wiped his nose across his sleeve.

"Welcome to Mars.
You drive carefully now!"

I stepped on the rocket boosters.

Left him eating my stardust.

"****** customs!"
I yelled to myself.

"Huh...Donall Dempsey
Without any intro I would tell a class to take a blank piece of paper and exactly and neatly write their name in the very middle of the page. Then I would go around to look at them and go "!" They would look at me in great surmise. "I meant...backwards!" So painfully as if it were a hard maths question they would backward themselves and ask me how to pronounce themselves. And then with their new "selves" I would get them to invent who they "now" were. They went at this with great gusto and characters born purely form pure sound would be created right in front of me> They're "I" had changed into a hee hee hee "HE" and suddenly there were all these different people running around in their minds. They even drew these new "thems" and the playground resounded to the new sounding Nairbs and Yrams who had sloughed off their usual monikers to be born anew as an inventive character.

I would never not do what I would tell the kids to I became this LLANOD YESPMED who had problems with a border guard somewhere in the 25th century.
Bob B Oct 2018
At the Saudi Arabian Consulate,
In Istanbul, Turkey, I hear
Something dreadful happened, although
Details are as yet unclear.

Saudi born Jamal Khashoggi,
Journalist for the Washington Post,
Entered the consulate knowing that
It might not be a welcoming host.

An Apple Watch might seem useless.
Khashoggi's Watch, nevertheless,
Recorded his brutal beating and ******,
According to the Turkish press.

But was it an Apple Watch, or had
Turkish authorities bugged the room?
Whatever the case, people are certain
That that’s where Khashoggi met his doom.

We know he entered the building whole.
We're waiting to hear more news releases,
For many fear that the journalist,
Exited the building in pieces.

When asked if he'd condemn the Saudis
If they had committed the ghastly deed,
Trump at first appeared reluctant
To criticize them or intercede.

The Saudis pay billions of dollars
For weapons, he said, to the USA.
And what's-his-name wasn't even
An American citizen anyway.

Later, Trump admitted that
We need a thorough investigation.
But sanctions involving money? No,
That would severely hurt our nation.

Meanwhile, the Saudis **** innocent
Yemenis with the weapons they buy,
And rectitude falls by the wayside
As bank accounts multiply.

-by Bob B (10-13-18)
Evan Stephens May 26
Sword lilies
play in the noon.
The spending sun
is a yellow wild.
We drink champagne
for the hell of it,
because and

I carry you
with twining
laughter to
the bedroom.
The sloping thigh
of night, under
a palm moon.

You nestle into the
crook of my arm,
movies play out in
green breath foam.
We drink
paper planes.

We drink gin, too.
The squares of London
skirt your legs
as we dream
with lavender.

You annihilate
with your merest
gesture as we turn
Turkish vinyl.

Cursive stars are
scrawled with
new romance.

We drink champagne
for the hell of it,

because and because.
I don't always
know when
I'm being loved -
my early years
come back
to bite. You
make this
easier - my
second guesses
die on the vine.

All that's left
for me to
wonder is
what to tell
you when I'm
feeling a tinge
of melancholy.
Do I report
from "the Century"
to tell you about
how I'm two
bottles of
Dark Horse
down, celebrating
the wild Derby
where the winner
was nixed?

Or do I
sea curl
& salted air
that speak your
name dune
to dune in the
wild grass night
while the wind
eats my cigarette
and flicks sand
into my hair?  

Neither -
instead I blush
toward the
as we talk -  
I listen to
your voice
and smile
into the little
broken shells
that pave
the walk.

I sigh,
go inside,
have a little
Turkish lesson -
"water and milk"
but soon I'll learn
how to tell you
you're my dove
& lover both
& maybe that
is enough.
Lucas Jul 20
disengaged by the rays
of austin texas;
a florid divorce
of what's happening
and what's coming.

i move to houston,
i move to wichita,
i move to the 30a.

ohio, i come
to stand as a temporal wave
of crashing integration.

i move to cambridge,
i move to al-rayyan.
i move as the light from within.
i move in allusion to god,
to music and maker,
vibration and the lord as lovely.

here to, i move;
as mockery, as anti-luddite
smoothering myself
in turkish coffee
and colored death rings.
i move,
confounded in magik
and beatific static.
here to, here to,
here to,
her love, her license to covet.

i move as the present becomes me,
el ****** loco sueno presiding
and sueding and satiating
saturations of the same shade
of different moons.

i move, as mrs. mother young touch
would like me to.
forgetting about something
previously in flummoxed forethought,
now in hammer nail tow and current.

conscription of bead
and head cover,
down leland, i move.
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
Around* the time
Both eyes

So fixated double-book
  Marked inside the
      *     *    
She spread her layers
Like the Bitter beauty
So truly ribbons curly
Like the beast changed
her fruit
Please come home soon

Trying to sugarcoat stars
My date with the moon wars
Silk thread My sweet Lord

Remembering the taste
A forever not forgotten
the beat wrong words may
get you both in heat

A glass of wine I love thee
Share the good eats
And pray "Mighty God" life is hard
So misleading silk heart of words
What was truly said
over again to repeat
The best silver playful
wings of white's
like a shrine all mine

The smile when your
the heart is the aching
Love didn't feel right
Those confessions
to play out the
innocent love dose night

He summons her on
Queen Antionette
Killing me softly

French silk pastry I love thee
Not to pry covering up the

Layers he could smell
She's settling in
Like the splendor picnic
grass of fruit
What a big mouth
He has the perfect foot

It's her the Owl toot
The hard labor of words
Overlaid  like under
the weather maid
Finely crafted silk leather
Florence Italy boots

To fought out in every dip
of his fruit
Vegetables the envy
of the green planet of Kale
She was so jaded
Layering Silk Thine
It's time to be mated
The many layers of his smile
Shadowed over the windows
strangers enchanted by what they saw

Like Tomato vine silk
thine running away from love
There was note pulling them back
The longer you wait for
a double feature smack

Meeting the dark hawks
Nothing could stop her
When he talks wind blows
Magical silk tongue
drips overflow

Silk weave on his
white crisp shirt
His tears met my blouse
talk can be cheap but not
from your spouse

The bed looks like
the heart of science
The heart of silk birds
communicate to
the brain of buzzing bees
Missed the timeless
on your knees

Whats more death do us part
Something took a beating
Eternal return to me meeting

I silk Thine or rose thorn for me
What about the day

You were born the sign
and meanings
The brain overworked
our hearts
Two newlywed blue worker collar

Like a citation scholarly
Turned into a citation court
order of traffic

Layering all his missteps
play up her lips
Easy for most play along
toe to toe ring
He's the Hub that bubbly wish
"English Yardley" sing
Style of writing waved
her in the tub

Whispering words
all layered like
a dark promise
She had a Blackout

Mercilessly another sip
Divine silk  Turkish coffee
All in the weave of
dark clouds
on his sleeve

Mom the dressmaker such a
miracle worker
Cleaning up secrets the tears so
many delicate sides of years

Mail order bride stargazer
  heart stopped when
he dressed her
Layering on Silk Thine
Mr. and Mrs. Valentine
Physiological mechanism
My silk of words theory
His beard heart stubble

What truly appeals
Meditation the truth heals
Sumptuous layered
shortcake more
time too short

Her wavy hair in
his heart of palms
Swinging from the trees
Making such a ruckus

Her nerve ending
like a sad song story
Robin Birds bring
on the Morning Glory

Every September
Silk stir of wine
To see the thine
*Precious Silk Rose
you had me

Watching the world
of poems light
Why "God"
Saying how come tonight
Or not tonight please make it
"Holy Night"

He loves the way
you look how you turn
your head
On the side
of his glide

Your sleeping in
his bed he
looks at you with
layers of sweetness
Layering our heart on the line but nothing is going right we need to realize what we got its not the best wine or the rose or making money from your modeling pose it is how the layers stay with your words think clearly be lively love him and yourself like silk thine like every day is lovers heart like Valentine
annh Jun 22
It was going to be the trip of a lifetime. Sydney, Cairo, Constantinople, maybe even Jerusalem if there was time and breath left in us. We came from the far-flung reaches of the earth to the bustling capitals of the Middle East. Just me, my good mates -  Blue, Grim and his cousin Frank - our chaperone Sergeant Major O’Donnell, and 1,500 other lads of the 1st Australian Light Horse Brigade.

Frank copped it at Gallipoli, never even set foot on the beach. I left him screaming on the metal deck of the landing craft awash with ***** and blood as he watched his innards unfurl. ****** oath, they stunk! Like ten-day-old snags left out in the Adelaide sun. His Mum always said she’d have his guts for garters if he enlisted underage. I reckon she’d never use that expression again. She was a nice lady too, that Mrs Gibson.

Tell me, fair dinkum, what do 18-year-old, daring-do dreamers from Parramatta know of the chain of high command, a war of geopolitical strategy and stiff upper lips. The bewhiskered gentlemen who manoeuvre their pieces in imperial map rooms will live to fight another day, and yet hold their fallen troops accountable for the unpredictable tides of history.

Grim took Frank’s death hard. From that day on his war was one explosive suicide mission. In the end, he walked into a spray of Turkish gunpowder at Chunuk Bair. The Distinguished Conduct Medal he earned that day sits on my mantelpiece beside a photo of the four of us at Giza. His sister Molly, my dear sweet Molly, turned out to be the love of my life. Funny how that happens - the threads that hold us together, the ties that bind brothers, the strangers who become our saviours.

The sergeant major succumbed to typhoid fever in Palestine and that left Blue and me. We sit and remember. We laugh at the horror during the day and shiver in our beds at night. We wage war with ourselves, our choices, our victories and defeats. We marvel at the world and the territorial ambition of nations, shake our heads at the repetition of dumb history, and raise our wavering fists to those same men in their ivory towers. It’s in all the newspapers that the Vietnam conflict is this generation’s Dardanelles Campaign. ‘A vain and protracted engagement fought in a topographically hostile arena with disproportionate loss of life’ is what I read. Yet wonder of wonders, a Yank - Blue knows his name...but I forget...Neville Someone - walked on the moon last month. Do y’reckon we helped to make that happen? Four cobbers from New South Wales, who had a knack with horseflesh and a taste for kangaroo feathers, on an adventure which spanned more lifetimes than I could ever have imagined.
The 1st Australian Light Horse Brigade was a mounted infantry brigade of the First Australian Imperial Force, which served in the Middle Eastern theatre of World War I. During the Gallipoli offensive, the brigade served in the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC). After being withdrawn to Egypt, they took part in the Sinai and Palestine Campaign until their disbandment after the end of the war in 1919. [Wikipedia]

Cobbers - friends
Fair dinkum - true, no *******
Kangaroo feathers - the distinctive emu feather plume which adorned the slouch hats of the AIF light horsemen. So named as a practical joke by the cocky troopers themselves.
Snags - sausages
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