The Mundane and Nostalgia
Poetry Portfolio
OH NATURE
Oh
Nature
Ever so green
On waters and winds
Teeming green, nuts and acorn
On waters and winds may you cross
Behold upon mountains white and blue
Many trees that look red, orange and brown
Eyes closed, sleep and dream under moonlight,
Listen to birds as they sing, a symphony of chirping.
You are on this road, lest not forget the love I have for you
May you cross another year, under red, orange and brown.
Avidly dance on fields of grain, wander by the trees and lakes
Their wisdom bestow you, asking nothing in return, but love.
Nature,
We truly
owe you
more than
we can name
Images taken by Ali Akpinar
LIFE
Stranded on top of a great mountain, surrounded by waters.
The winds tearing about you.
Finding yourself… trapped…helpless…and alone.
You gaze upon the rising sun,
but it brings no warmth.
Whispers…. Whispers of a chorus,
A chorus but replaced with silence.
You are then interrupted,
by seagulls in the distance.
They call to you,
Yet you cannot see.
The rising sun blinds you,
but still no warmth.
A sharp breeze stuns you.
The rocky ground you stand on,
now slippery, and glacial.
You are all alone…
Ever wonder how it feels like?
Well, let me tell you.
…It is like,
having the energy of youth, but then being stripped of it.
Knowing you are weak and oh-so fragile.
To forget all that you were in a heartbeat…
A call and an echo.
An echo that drifts from soul to soul
The eye of the storm
A call…
THE CALL
OF LIFE
THAT IS…
Do not think… thoughts are distractions.
Let us just be silent, and feel
Feel life for what it is.
Before all goes silent…
The mountain collapses, I fall and thus it is now warm.
Images taken by Ali Akpinar
HOLD ME, ISTANBUL
Before me stood the Bosphorus,
where a great many Sultanas watched the tides.
They gazed upon the sea,
as it reflected the great azure skies.
A palace carved from the whitest marble,
home to the Sultan’s dearest confidants.
Galleys upon galleys pay heed.
A single word from Seraglio is hearkened by all.
A young concubine appeared on the terrace,
Adorned with a yellow silk dress.
On her hand a light oud, and firm was her grasp.
Through her craft, surged many melodies.
On one hand she held,
a cup of crimson sherbet.
Cordial and chilled,
next to a glittering silver carafe.
The concubine was joyous,
Her brows, a bow.
Her sight, an arrow.
Pearl-ish was her smile.
She was not born here,
yet now she was of here.
Perhaps in the future,
it shall be her destiny to rule.
Hold me lest I fall, oh Istanbul.
Save me from my loneliness, oh Istanbul.
Images taken by Ali Akpinar
THE USUAL
The usual baker,
the smiling fisherman,
the shouting greengrocer,
the haggling merchant,
His freshly baked circular simit bread.
His freshly caught, wiggling bluefish.
His ripe ruby-like tomatoes.
His imitation Persian silk.
I am me, just older.
And my home,
older but different.
But perhaps,
that is for the best.
The street I grew up in,
no longer nice and dandy.
Less green, and more concrete.
Nothing like what home used to be.
Home is still the same.
The soft, welcoming pillows,
the same wobbly chair,
the same desk and warm tea.
My father, sitting on his usual seat.
He is the same, just older, wrinkly.
My mother, still smiles at me with the same warmth.
She too is the same, if not older.
Wooden walls of my house,
they look more dry,
some parts peeled.
Yet still the same, nonetheless.
The sliding door,
feels heavier than years ago.
My bed sheets still smell… of lavender…
For that I thank mother.
The tired baker,
the old fisherman,
the hoarse greengrocer,
the submissive merchant,
His half-burnt, coarse circular simit bread.
His empty fishing net.
His partly decayed, darkened tomatoes.
His shredded, battered silk.
Images and videos taken by Ali Akpinar
THE LONGING
Remnants of an old life,
my hands clutched the empty.
The skies clouded, as a response,
the wind and the mist both mocked me.
I remember, two eyes.
Two clear blue skies,
those were your eyes
and “I” made them rain...
Perhaps you wanted a plea,
not a half-hearted apology.
My words were livid,
as a winter breeze.
Your gaze, a crimson field of tulips!
Your smile, brighter than every morning!
Your touch, warmer than my mother’s tea!
…and your words, far too veracious.
I thought I was in love with my past,
turns out I was scared of loneliness.
Yet it was my own doing.
Thus I bear the consequences.
Image by Pip Filippo Yakov
Image by Pip Filippo Yakov
My memory wanes,
like waves swashing ever so lightly.
Hidden things awaken,
not to relieve me, but to haunt me.
I wake up,
my bed sheets are grey.
The stain from the hot chocolate, 15 years ago,
still there, unwavering.
Where is the lawnmower’s sound, from years ago?
The soft scent of tulips in our garden,
replaced by…
same lady walks in, to hand me the usual.
I wake up,
my bed sheets are brown, or were they grey?
A strange stain, hard to know what caused it.
Needs to be washed.
Outside is so quiet.
The garden is so empty,
I am forgetting again, something about flowers?
…can’t recall…
A lady walks in, I know her somehow.
But how?
She wears green, or was it blue? Grey?
She smiles and hands me pills.
My bed sheets are… can’t remember…
Did we have a garden?
Is this my home?
A stranger walks in, calls me ‘mother’
I am sorry I can’t remember…
Nothing at all…
THOUGHTS AND MEMORY
Images and videos taken by Ali Akpinar
Thousand little droplets.
Endangering the little spiderling,
so adamant to climb.
​
The rain shows no mercy.
It comes and goes,
​
And yet...
It is also fresh and sweet.
Like a mother's touch.
There is no hopelessness under the rain.
​
And you! Little spiderling, how very brittle.
I hold out my hand,
to cover your nimble self.
Against all odds, you continue to climb.
RAINDROPS
RABBIT BLOOD
Rabbit Blood,
In my cup freshly brewed tea
I can smell the herbs, even the earth
Three leaves from three trees
It is now “rabbit blood”
A tulip shaped tea glass
Literally “slim waisted”
In it neither orange, nor dark red
For it is now rabbit blood
At the very bottom, dark leaves and residue.
Barely visible, yet visible nonetheless.
A finesse display of brewing.
Two copper pots
The top warms, bottom boils
In it there is rabbit blood
Crimson like ruby
Hold the rim, save your fingertips
Still crimson in color,
Go ahead and drink it
Should you drink it? I would
TURKISH KITCHEN
Feel the wood, feel the coarse. Two puddings, no more no less,
Around you, Gullac and sutlac they are called nonetheless,
Red, green, dark various spices. Thick they must be, showered with nuts,
A feast is at hand, let us dive in! They are both whiter than the sweet snow.
Every Turkish feast starts with soup. Turkish coffee has a taste, a lingering taste,
Garnished with garlic, lemon, or tomatoes. it cannot be made with haste.
Some even put okra, but I am not that bold. One sip, two sip, three sip.
A great starter, serve it hot but not too hot. Once, twice, and then thrice!
Time for some borek!
Puff pastry, but squared very firmly
With cheese, meat, or parsley
Warm and oh so filling.
Moving on to healthy options!
We like to stuff our veggies.
Sometimes with rice, sometimes with onions!
Stuffed cabbage and eggplants, very popular.
Our main courses are our marvel,
Yet in my eyes, our deserts are what makes our pride!
With lots of flour, honey, nuts and butter!
This goes for those with sweet tooth!
Baklava! Our syrup soaked cakes
What a taste for goodness sakes!
These too, are square in shape.
And much sweeter than any grape!
Square, soft and powdery.
Entrenched in Bosphorus!
Such a delight,
Go ahead and try some Turkish delight!
THE LAMPS OF GRAND BAZAAR
As you wander in the Grand Bazaar,
thousands of radiant lanterns.
Held up high, by flimsy chains.
“Mosaic lamps” they are called.
Courtesy of Turkish glass craftmanship.
Made with great finesse, each carries a maker’s craft.
And hang them up high, we do.
As a grand display, whether be orient or not.
Even the softest light they emit,
enough to beckon any stranger.
Embrace the great luminescence,
as they welcome you a thousand times.
Do not be mistaken by their name, however.
These do not emit a bright light.
Yet they refuse to grow dim.
It is what burns so bright.
It honestly feels so right.
Use them as your own light.
Watch as they shine in delight.
STROLING
Birds, wind and rain.
Chirp, woosh, and drip.
No umbrella, or hood.
Just hear, see and feel…
I keep on walking…
A metal soda can,
with a dent on its surface.
Who could have kicked, or stepped on it?
Someone angry, or someone bored?
I walk past by…
Two scissors, one sharp the other one blunt.
The sharp one in good shape, but the blunt one rusty.
Should it not be the other way around?
Who does it belong to?
A student, an artist, a barber, maybe a designer…
I walk past by…
Unfortunate hanging laundry under the rain.
Still clean,
but very wet.
Will the harsh wind knock them off?
Not my concern…
I walk past by…
And under the rain I keep on walking.
THE HUMMINGBIRD
The window that overlooks the garden,
Not the most dandy garden, but still peaceful.
Every morning it is the same hummingbird,
Visiting its favorite Penstemon.
For 1.5 years it never missed it, must be something dear to the bird.
A light ruby neck, followed by a black dot for its head.
It is frail and yet, grabs the little branch ever so firmly.
Bewitched by the crimson Penstemon.
As a faithful love story.