10 Aralık 2017 Pazar
Many are freight trains
carry dregs in bulk
Those for passengers
do not carry much in fewer wagons
The sleepers have shed their mysteries
The couchettes smell of plastic
Winter and Summer
Inside or outside
Can one tell the difference?
How can people get on and off
When there are no stations?
30 Haziran 2017 Cuma
You and I
nerves and tissue and veins
misery, Dearth, pain
The personality of the person
a CAULDRON of boiling, swirling
and REAPPEAR in a wink
To leave these attachments
To pull them out of the pot
OUT of the DIRT
dangle one's roots in the air
reach for the SUN
OR the moon
every night and day
care not if you BLINK
24 Haziran 2017 Cumartesi
16 Haziran 2017 Cuma
FOIBLES OF ROBERT COLLEGE, CLASS OF ’67
Foibles of college life, remembered at odd times, are but anecdotes from previous reincarnations. They carry no compassion, empathy, envy, grief, greed or hate, not even humour for those who have moved forward to perception of new energies, new climates and especially new mysteries.
If and when you find the occasion to talk of those foibles, and try to reminisce with those you believe to have shared those days, months, years, you may discover new memories, not your own, new perceptions of old events or non-events or even total amnesia, having bleached out certain memories or the means to access the peculiar nooks and crannies of the mind.
Alumni mass get-togethers of most and sundry provide good occasions to deliver and suffer jolts, find new myths, mysteries and doubts, and also certainties; allowing us to realise once more, and with force, our differences from each other and from ourselves, then and now.
We have lived during many ages of mankind and will continue to do so, hopefully sharing our times and lives with each other even when we cannot see ourselves or each other even in mirrors.
Written for my Robert College Class of '67 50th Graduation Anniversary booklet
23 Mayıs 2017 Salı
This poem belongs to my travel blog, otherchelebistravels.blogspot.com.tr,
but travellers who frequent that blog may actually be offended by it; whereas the intellectual readers of this blog will only be moved by the depth of emotion and sadness.
THE SOLIPSIST'S TRAVELS
T’is a world of mirrors,
Not one of horrors.
When you with yourself travel,
None of that “ where shall we dine? drivel.
You see mostly aspects of you.
And, every time the mirror shows a smiling you,
You say, “Why, thank you!”
“How do you do?”
What a surprise it is when the aspect is not you,
But a strange illusion, always called ‘Who?’
Which keeps creeping up on you,
In museums, on the mountains, the beaches and the blue.
It appears in lobbies,
And tiny cubbies.
Even on the front seats of taxi cabbies,
And transmits thoughts of things like rabies.
Still…., I like traveling with myself,
My one and only existential self.
And when they, the illusions ask:
“How do you enjoy the sun and the bask?”
I say, “You’re so right! When you are a crowd, t’is no mean task.”