I am
jealous of Cohen
he’s 78,
he’s famous, he’s rich, he’s good, he says
“Come on
baby,
give me a
kiss
stop
writing everything down.”
I am 18, on
the other hand
and still
say
“Come on
Kut,
write
something happy, write something light, write something good.”
But
nowadays my life outdoes me
when it
comes to poetry
my days are
becoming one by one
kind poets
of kind poems, I envy them:
the days
are almost getting longer
and the nights no more pretend to be heart
attacks—
the bed
lets me sleep all through the dark
and lets me go when it’s time -for a change-
the
Bosphorus ferries wait for me
empty bus seats wait for me
the cabs
without the cigarette stink
the cab drivers without the philosophy and the
politics
oh what bliss
the winter
the winter properly foreshadows the spring
the
sweatshirts are here
(though with a cigarette stink)
the letter
is on its way
I am on my way
these
brownies
baked for me?
oh my, oh my, oh my
and all I
say (in Chinese) is “Qing wen, wo bu shuo zhong wen.”
but that too will change soon.
I am still
jealous of Cohen
as things
aren’t too good in the poetry department as you see
but you
know what
it doesn’t
really matter
that much
when my
life is making
such fine poetry
of itself
like this.
