Old Istanbul


Memories of old Istanbul
surface at the closure of winter light,
smelling of forgotten alleys
and water salesmen with horse and cart
seen through the tiny window
of a juniper lost jail, late one dusty summer.

Children playing on the dirt road
with kites and dreams of flying
not knowing the concealed city
that moved so close.

Hot summer winds moved
unbleached cotton curtains
hung before bars of painted iron,
cats slept around feet
totally receiving them.

Topics merged like images
with angles fascinating the here-ness,
matured with words that fell
with paint and songs of vast air
amongst all countries and their sullen flags.

Weed was holy in windows
early spring days when wind was
and air tempered sprite longing.
The enhanced world's blurry bubble
spoke of Thomas, Dostoyevsky and Hemingway.

The young man dared to be holy,
suppressing all old patterns
of comfort and habit,
sleeping on pure wood,
looking for him
that observed the observer,
observing...

Old memories of old Istanbul
challenges the failing focuses
with a final "see you later"
to soft voices
from an old Norwegian film
in black and white.




Poetry by Bob
Read 598 times
Written on 2006-03-14 at 00:01

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