I retreat to the sweatshop
that is the poem:
First I form an expression
a face of the wife and the children waiting back home
a face of sweat and filth and coal dust and missing teeth
so that what’s inside, the sound of the chains that do not break
will remain unheard by the foreman
will remain unknown to the world
beyond the torques and the steam and the assembly line
-which is uninterested anyways- to which I deny
being a slave, to which I declare this:
All that you consume ferociously, all your gadgets and toys,
all are my sweat within the poem
and they will all return to that primeval form when
I’m thirsty and I deem it time, be prepared.
I live in the sweatshop
that is the poem:
It all roars, the air itself rolls and creaks
It all moves, it all turns, churns oozes bursts
(Day shift at the sweatshop an onslaught,
Night shift at the sweatshop an onslaught, too;)
An orchestrated betrayal from within, the world betrays you:
it has stolen from you what is within
and what is even deeper within
it has stolen from you what is within
the Earth Mother’s womb for you, and it feasts
on everything that has ever been yours so that you will
live within the poem
die within the poem.
I die in the sweatshop
that is the poem.
They undress me in a capitalist sternness
for the poem needs the clothes back,
they rub the grease off my body with a cheap sponge
and a disinterest cheaper still
both of which stain more than they clean
and they throw me outside on the industrial waste piles
piles upon piles all burning within:
Fools, they never checked my pulse once they employed me
it stops only now, after being thrown off
there was so much more they could still drain from my veins within the sweatshop
that is the poem. But not anymore.
I’ve never felt
more dead.
And then I depart the sweatshop
that is the poem
in nothing but my own skin wrapped tight around the bones
and when the sickly skin rots and the bones go to the rabid dogs who die and rot soon, too,
what a fool the poem is:
for every single letter of it I laboured over
it gives another piece of me back to Mother Earth,
that lascivious bitch, she’ll make me all sorts of things:
plane trees, strawberries, mountains, a cold stream, China, a herd of elephants
I enter the sweatshop that is the poem
a blear-eyed slave claimed to be a worker
I exit the sweatshop that is the poem
the world itself.
28 Şubat 2012 Salı
11 Şubat 2012 Cumartesi
A Poem Is A Monastery
I retreat to the monastery
that is the poem:
First I form an expression
a face of calm tolerance
a face of condescending humility
a soundproof face so what’s inside, the cataclysm within the monk
will remain unheard by the world
of woes and victories, to which I am
as neutral and cool and moist
as a monastery wall
with my face of words
printed on water
printed on paper.
I live in the monastery
that is the poem:
It is silent in here, it is still
(The writing of a poem
an onslaught, the decision to leave it all behind and join the monastery
an onslaught too, but;)
in here the battles are all over
in here we just walk around on the battlefield
and collect our dead
and collect the dead of our enemies
and we feast on all these, so we can
live within the poem,
and die within the poem.
I die in the monastery
that is the poem:
They undress me in voluptuous silence
They rub all over my body; oil
and ointments, they wash me with their delicate hands,
they gaze upon all the places
they know they really shouldn’t,
they gather wood for me, a forest for me, for me only,
lay me on the softly on the pile
and when it is time burn me
with the fire burning within them,
fools, they never checked my pulse—
it starts only now, though, burning within the monastery
that is the poem.
I have never felt
more alive.
And then I depart the monastery
that is the poem
in an urn
and when the urn is broken
what a fool the poem is:
for every single letter of it which I wrote
it gives another handful of me to another wind
when it is out of me, it adds to me
until it runs out of letters, which it never does.
I enter the monastery that is the poem
a monk with twenty-eight teeth
I exit the monastery that is the poem
the world itself.
that is the poem:
First I form an expression
a face of calm tolerance
a face of condescending humility
a soundproof face so what’s inside, the cataclysm within the monk
will remain unheard by the world
of woes and victories, to which I am
as neutral and cool and moist
as a monastery wall
with my face of words
printed on water
printed on paper.
I live in the monastery
that is the poem:
It is silent in here, it is still
(The writing of a poem
an onslaught, the decision to leave it all behind and join the monastery
an onslaught too, but;)
in here the battles are all over
in here we just walk around on the battlefield
and collect our dead
and collect the dead of our enemies
and we feast on all these, so we can
live within the poem,
and die within the poem.
I die in the monastery
that is the poem:
They undress me in voluptuous silence
They rub all over my body; oil
and ointments, they wash me with their delicate hands,
they gaze upon all the places
they know they really shouldn’t,
they gather wood for me, a forest for me, for me only,
lay me on the softly on the pile
and when it is time burn me
with the fire burning within them,
fools, they never checked my pulse—
it starts only now, though, burning within the monastery
that is the poem.
I have never felt
more alive.
And then I depart the monastery
that is the poem
in an urn
and when the urn is broken
what a fool the poem is:
for every single letter of it which I wrote
it gives another handful of me to another wind
when it is out of me, it adds to me
until it runs out of letters, which it never does.
I enter the monastery that is the poem
a monk with twenty-eight teeth
I exit the monastery that is the poem
the world itself.
1 Şubat 2012 Çarşamba
Uncoil
As you walk the streets of Boston, you uncoil. You slowly raise your head, you open your eyes, eyes that are no longer venomshot. You take out your forked tongue and smell with it the oceanic cold, the coming rain and layers and layers of your own skin that you left hanging in branches and embraces. You start unfolding because the knowledge that you are fresh and new overthrows the worries and the fears with a certainty like that of the venom in your teeth.
As you uncoil, you accept your reintroduction into the food chain. You realize you are not one of those unfortunate men starving to death in Africa. You are grateful; and you manage not to fake feeling guilty because you are not starving to death.
You know why you are going through this, too: Because your own body alone cannot warm you. Lying upon layers of your own cold does not give you the warmth you are looking for. The cold of New England might. The electric heater in the living room won’t. You defy the fact that your blood was supposed to be cold—you want your blood to be warm, you want your blood to burn.
Of course, you have certain weaknesses. Years of lying on tier over tier of yourself made your own smell your favourite aroma, the feel of your own skin the only one you are truly familiar with and desire and ever want to desire. You reckon you are utterly safe in your current skin and you are unwilling to crawl out of it. But you are curious. You want to smell the entire world with your tongue. You want to smell waterfalls, volcanoes, men and women of all cultures and wounds and scars. You want to slither over all kinds of places, welcoming with all your body the different feelings of all the different textures, Stone, sand, wood, skin, skin, skin. You want to leave traces of yourself all around, pieces of your own skin on top of others’.
As you remember the cheer those that so mercifully call you their friend gave for you after learning you have indeed been Cleopatra’s lover, known her bosom and kissed her breasts with your teeth, you desire more. Desiring more has been your way of showing gratitude. You know if you could live your entire life within Cleopatra or in the temple of learning in which they so graciously gave you a place and a shape, you would. Knowing that you can’t, you uncoil. You desire more, so you open your body to the world. You untangle your memories and you dreams as you untangle your bodies. You draw comparisons.
Your mother will only dream of Venice until you make her dream come true or convince her to do that for herself. Your father cannot fake a British accent. None of the companions whom you left behind, or who left you behind, it’s complicated, has ever desired the Woman of Willendorf. You are not the first one to set foot on this new world in your kin, as the memory of your paternal grandfather, a military man of submarines who now waits in the subterranean silence for the Day of Resurrection reminds you. Nevertheless, you are the first to conquer it. Neither will you ever wait for a day of the resurrection—you realize you are probably the first person in your kin who will not do so. The first disbeliever. Maybe one they you will tempt Eve to eat the fruit of the tree, too. You must stop feeling good over such trivial facts, but you don’t, because you know you should not. The ghosts won’t handle you and uncoil you; but they can’t stop you once you prove your supremacy.
As you walk the streets of Boston, you uncoil. You know you’ll have left the man of your life in this time zone and shatter your own in a few hours; but you can return. Your head slowly touches the ground, your entire cold body moves and unravels its length. You have no idea how large you are, how far your body could potentially extend, how far you can go before the spike that was nailed through the tip of your body to pin you to the ground prevents you from going any further. You think you feel your agony drives the spike up, you think you can defeat it and force it out through your flesh, you think it’s worth it, you think you are not too distant relatives with lizards and can actually make the tip of your body –which you think might count for a tail- fall off. Or you’ll do something else—you will find a way.
You know you are led to believe you were cursed from birth and you are immovable and you should seek the comfort in your own body and in the spike; but none of it matters now. Taste and smell the New England cold. Drive your belly through the streets of Boston. Desire more. Extend, reach out, dream of the thousand jetlags that you hope to have. Uncoil.
As you uncoil, you accept your reintroduction into the food chain. You realize you are not one of those unfortunate men starving to death in Africa. You are grateful; and you manage not to fake feeling guilty because you are not starving to death.
You know why you are going through this, too: Because your own body alone cannot warm you. Lying upon layers of your own cold does not give you the warmth you are looking for. The cold of New England might. The electric heater in the living room won’t. You defy the fact that your blood was supposed to be cold—you want your blood to be warm, you want your blood to burn.
Of course, you have certain weaknesses. Years of lying on tier over tier of yourself made your own smell your favourite aroma, the feel of your own skin the only one you are truly familiar with and desire and ever want to desire. You reckon you are utterly safe in your current skin and you are unwilling to crawl out of it. But you are curious. You want to smell the entire world with your tongue. You want to smell waterfalls, volcanoes, men and women of all cultures and wounds and scars. You want to slither over all kinds of places, welcoming with all your body the different feelings of all the different textures, Stone, sand, wood, skin, skin, skin. You want to leave traces of yourself all around, pieces of your own skin on top of others’.
As you remember the cheer those that so mercifully call you their friend gave for you after learning you have indeed been Cleopatra’s lover, known her bosom and kissed her breasts with your teeth, you desire more. Desiring more has been your way of showing gratitude. You know if you could live your entire life within Cleopatra or in the temple of learning in which they so graciously gave you a place and a shape, you would. Knowing that you can’t, you uncoil. You desire more, so you open your body to the world. You untangle your memories and you dreams as you untangle your bodies. You draw comparisons.
Your mother will only dream of Venice until you make her dream come true or convince her to do that for herself. Your father cannot fake a British accent. None of the companions whom you left behind, or who left you behind, it’s complicated, has ever desired the Woman of Willendorf. You are not the first one to set foot on this new world in your kin, as the memory of your paternal grandfather, a military man of submarines who now waits in the subterranean silence for the Day of Resurrection reminds you. Nevertheless, you are the first to conquer it. Neither will you ever wait for a day of the resurrection—you realize you are probably the first person in your kin who will not do so. The first disbeliever. Maybe one they you will tempt Eve to eat the fruit of the tree, too. You must stop feeling good over such trivial facts, but you don’t, because you know you should not. The ghosts won’t handle you and uncoil you; but they can’t stop you once you prove your supremacy.
As you walk the streets of Boston, you uncoil. You know you’ll have left the man of your life in this time zone and shatter your own in a few hours; but you can return. Your head slowly touches the ground, your entire cold body moves and unravels its length. You have no idea how large you are, how far your body could potentially extend, how far you can go before the spike that was nailed through the tip of your body to pin you to the ground prevents you from going any further. You think you feel your agony drives the spike up, you think you can defeat it and force it out through your flesh, you think it’s worth it, you think you are not too distant relatives with lizards and can actually make the tip of your body –which you think might count for a tail- fall off. Or you’ll do something else—you will find a way.
You know you are led to believe you were cursed from birth and you are immovable and you should seek the comfort in your own body and in the spike; but none of it matters now. Taste and smell the New England cold. Drive your belly through the streets of Boston. Desire more. Extend, reach out, dream of the thousand jetlags that you hope to have. Uncoil.