a change in melody, a shift of rhythm happened and I consistently look out for the tunes which are not exhausted, in one way or another.

but here is a song which goes in every moment and place, which, I find, never loses its novelty. 


There was a boy...
A very strange enchanted boy.
They say he wandered very far, very far
Over land and sea,
A little shy and sad of eye
But very wise was he.

And then one day,
A magic day, he passed my way.
And while we spoke of many things,
Fools and kings,
This he said to me,
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn
Is just to love and be loved in return."

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn
Is just to love and be loved in return."

Nature Boy

It was the light
and it was the air
the miraculous

and while I write
it is already there,
writing is always about ending
'cause it is about naming
it came and passes through me
to an infinity

it is the time the melody changes
the bottom of the deep blue ocean
reverberates
it is tangible,
a deluge of divine response
I tune in

Sketches for A Personal Chronicle

In a world where time does not obey a universal (solar) order but rather passes according to things, a personal chronicle would have to devise a unique system for recording instances. In this way, an anniversary, for instance, would not be an annual recurrence, but would be celebrated (or commemorated) every single moment the event is recollected to the mind of the proprietor of the chronicle. However, since recording the time of the first occurence is the purpose of keeping a chronicle, it would be appropriate to write down the associations which would serve to the recollection. The following are some suggestions for a future chronicler of a private chronicle:

• it was full moon 40º to the horizon, mid-summer, french balcony, dark green wall
• just before I had this feeling of a punch on my stomach due to which I was unable to eat, and I starved
• when I realized I was a butterfly fish and that I was not in the water
• on the broken pavement where the sidewalk ends against the park
• the world hushed and I gave ear to a shared silence

and on recording durations:

• until the dogs barked
• when the sky reddened
• as long as a cat's sleep
• seventy eight heartbeats in ... tempo
• until the breeze which electrocuted every single hair on my skin left my body

optics

The camera introduces us to unconscious optics as does the psychoanalysis to unconscious impulses.

Walter Benjamin

The Angel

I dreamt a dream!

What can it mean?

And that I was a maiden Queen

Guarded by an Angel mild:

Witless woe was ne'er beguiled!

And I wept both night and day,

And he wiped my tears away;

And I wept both day and night,

And hid from him my heart's delight.

So he took his wings, and fled;

Then the morn blushed rosy red.

I dried my tears, and armed my fears

With ten thousand shields and spears.

Soon my Angel came again;

I was armed, he came in vain;

For the time of youth was fled,

And grey hairs were on my head.

William Blake, from Songs of Experience

the lost village

once upon a time, there was a village across the ocean on a hill, bending towards the other horn of the bull, before the earth was round like it is now. the village was called the Hollowland because every one in this village was born with a birthmark on the belly. The shape and the color of the mark was not at all similar in everyone, but once looked closely, it was not very hard to notice that the natal scar was in fact a hollow, inversed inside the body.

after the Flood, as can be imagined, the people of the village has dispersed through all directions on the planet, as they were few in numbers, they settled with others, raised families and hid their unique marks reminding them their homeland now submerged under the dark blue ocean. then winter came, and then the spring, and summer and then winter again. many winters passed, seasons followed one another and so the generations. the grandchildren of hollowpeople has lost their trace in their memories of a long forgotten village bending towards the edge of the earth. but once in a while, the hollow grows bigger, grips the body from within, burns the flesh like a concave volcano, leaving behind no visible scars, only the birthmark which looks like a dark mole.

soru

erguvanlar açtı mı?
sığırcıklar göçtü mü?
martı yavrusu kendini
çatıdan aşağıya bıraktı mı?

blue

castle made of words

I build a castle
made of words
pieces of sentences
delicately put on one another
it grows high
and high
thick brickets of sounds
with no holes or windows
to look out
from my castle made of words.

I have every reason to be mad
to be angry
to be whatever I am not
to be somehow solid
to be what I need not be

every one of us
will drown in our own loneliness
in our castles made of ice cubes.