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Murat Nemet-Nejat

A stalk outbursts in miniature a city,

A stalk outbursts in miniature a city,
Down this stalk, round these streets, I press for you,
The world curbing circles, leaf by leaf, around you,
All thoughts of gold, the guilded coins,
And the right to press these coins,
The Euphrates,
And its sister river merging,
Dark circles in my eyes,
Trees of Babylon sapping,
The Sea of Marmara,
And the monsters in that water,
The sea crabs,
The land crabs, the sand crabs, the louse crabs,
Circling love crabs, the hermits, stoned barnacles,
Begonias, irises, castanets, all make towards you.
 

Dying In a Turkish Bath

Did you ever attend a public bath?
I did.
The candle near me blew out,
And I became blind.
The blue of the dome disappeared.
 
They relit a candle on the navel stone.
The marble was wiped clean.
I saw some of my face in it.
It was bad something awful,
And I became blind.
I didn't expect quite this from my face.
 
Did you ever sob
While covered in soap?
 

Trucks carry melons;

Trucks carry melons;
I think always of her;
Trucks carry melons;
I think always of her;
 
When the world changes,
Different water, different weather, different soil;
When the world changes,
Different water, different weather, different soil;
 
This city is different, I see;
Everybody fooled me;
This city is different, I see;
Everybody fooled me;
 
Trucks carry melons;
I think always of her;
Trucks carry melons;
I think always of her;
 
Murat Nemet-Nejat
 

Whereas a glass of water was enough to wet your hair

Whereas a glass of water was enough to wet your hair,
A slice of bread, two olives to fill our stomachs
If I kissed you once, the second felt itself neglected,
If I kissed you twice, the third bent its neck in sadness...
 

At the courtyard of the Blue Mosque, a secret ritual. The muezzin is turning

At the courtyard of the Blue Mosque, a secret ritual. The muezzin is turning
the pages of the sultan's private book woven with naked slaves, whipping
time to shreds.
 
In a division of labor, bushy commanders and dreamy slaves join, tearing to
pieces during the riotous orgies, the pages of the Koran, revealing their
reveries.
 
A mistiness after the rain, hammered with pain.
 
He dreams a crooked spell, a diagonal, so so paradise.
 
Found out, the commander's tunic is ripped off, his gold epaulets are
ripped off. His slaves escape giggling.
 
Now, a bag man, accosting and being teased by foundlings.
 

I who am a master in the art of complaining

I who am a master in the art of complaining,
I feed with my life these falcons of sadness,
You whose alchemy, gnarled, I grasp and lose in the crowd,
Your thin waist
Drumming from here, from there,
In your lands where once joyful banquets reigned
Now big beaks of lonely hours are circling,
Now, please, once again, begin to undress
From your mouth,
Loose, once again, all your beasts upon me,
Once again, come rising from your ruins,
Come to me, once again, and disperse me.
 

They sheared the cloud, the cloud now is clear;

They sheared the cloud, the cloud now is clear;
My blood spills on the ground, the cloud is modest,
Blushes
And disappears.
 
A man's face shadows
In my hand;
I see it and squeeze it,
Drinking stars
From the urinal.
 
In a testy mood
The same mood that
Tore me apart.
 
His face is almost gone,
My desolation is pure,
The water is flat,
My pain is on.
 

I can't bring myself

I can't bring myself;
When I can not resist her quinces and pomegranates
I bend my head
And walk away.
Nothing that wolves or birds can know.
 
Only I know
What bitch of a beauty I loved
She has a mouth but no tongue -
The Fortress of Diyarbakir...
 
II.
 
The fertile plants bloom,
Blood red.
It snows on the other side.
The Black Mountain rocks
The Zozan rocks...
Look, my whiskers are frozen,
And I am cold
And the ice has grown longer and longer
And I'm thinking of you, as though you were spring,
Of you, as though you were Diyarbakir,
To what, to what isn't it superior
The taste of thinking of you...
 

My black mulberry, my forked darky, my Gypsy,

My black mulberry, my forked darky, my Gypsy,
My grain of pomegranate, my grain of light, my only one;
I am a tree, my limbs, a proch hanging with grapes,
I am a hive, you are my honey, my bitter honey,
My sin, my ague.
 
Tongue of the coral, theeth of the coral, thighs of oyster,
I gave you a life, my wife,
My black mulberry, my forked darky, my Gypsy,
What more will you be to me, my odd one, queer one,
My smiling quince, my weeping pomegranate,
My baby, my stallion, my wife.
 

Houri's Rose

I'm crying exactly in the middle of the rose
As I die every evening in the middle of the street
Not knowing my front from my back in the dark
As I sense, I sense the receding of your eyes
Which prop me up.
 
I hold back your hands, kiss them in the night
Your hands are white, again white, again white,
I'm afraid that your hands are so white
That a caboose in the station somewhat
I'm late at the station sometime
 
Palming the rose I'm rubbing it on my face
Which Houri dropped in the street,
My arms are broken, my wings,
In a red, catastrophic music,
At the other end of the reed
A brand new, gold toothed shyster.
 

Sivut