A Different Kind of Poetry

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.