-{mustafa ziyalan}-
-{home}{who?}-
-{marmara}
{pics}{trampoline}-
-{elvan}-{sinan}-

Manhattan'da Şiir Konuşmaları

 


-{Poetry Talks in Manhattan}-

İstanbul Noir
İstanbul Noir

Bucaksiz

-{bucaksız}-

You can read excerpts here.

 

red Hook Poems

-{red hook poems}-



The immortal son

 

It never failed:
I'd find a body, which had taken the shape of the bed
I'd start off by tying up its chin, like god, I'd slowly forget

the eyelids I rubbed shut
the knives I laid on shriveled bellies

lights I left on, the souls I waited for
the doors forever shut once I left

so dark
so dense
all the same, I forgot

yet I'm the oldest son who lowers the parents into their graves
in their shrouds wet with holy water, sprinkled with coriander

graveyard mud won't be washed off my shoes
my hands my flanks black and blue from coffin belts

a liver colored man all of a sudden
hands me a book I can't decipher

voices of parents, shafts of hate from graveyards
voices talking shop from underwater

I toss the book on a garbage heap
and lay down hoping my sleep will never end


Yakilacak Kentlerden!

-{from cities slated to burn,
essays and travel writing}-

For an essay in English from the book
go to
"Uses of Human Blood"

For photography by Murat Eyüboğlu
featured in the book go to
Murat Photography


Su Kedileri
-{water cats, stories}-



Impromptu

 

The cloud, which in the land of sleep
fills all the pillows and comforters
leaving trails of acacia seeds on the sun baked roads
sleeps- is held by cypresses and sleeps.

The color and the scent of the oranges are still on her skin.
The oranges, which she is coming through.
She is out of breath when the dogs bark in the woods
and leans on a chestnut tree on her way.

Her eyelids grow thinner and thinner and just burn
and her eyes burn to ashes radiating a blue light
blinding the day, a light blue and purple.

Where is the softness gone, the softness of the geese
she secretly kisses and caresses in the woods?


New York'un Arabi

-{nigger of new york, poems}-



Night ri
de on 21

 

There she sits, cross-legged
like a drop from the full moon
which would burst
if you would touch it with something
other than the tip of your tongue.

The bus will stop when she leaves
and remain like a skull
forgotten in the desert night.

There she is, her ankles
too fragile for these roads
her heart too big
too big for our backstabbing misery.

The breeze which sweeps
the red-hot emptiness, she is
and she leaves.



Duvarlar



Secret

 

I'm a stuffed animal when somebody's there:
the Hobbes of an eternal Calvin.

I'm a tiger when nobody's looking.


Dunle Yarin Arasinda

-{between a yesterday
and a tomorrow, poems}-


-{ziyalan@mindspring.com}-
Son!