Blesok no. 100, September, 2015

Two Starry Poems for Igor

Gökçenur Ç.

Stars Spring from the Ground If They Didn’t Tie Igor’s Jaws Before Burying Him

    Bottles were over.
    Poems were over.
    We had already told each other
    our first loves,
    girls we made love
    for the first time.
    I said, it’s up to you
    tell me how you started
    or writing.

    Same story, he said,
    one evening I left home,
    I walked to the fields
    not to the work.
    It was summer,
    stars were unloading
    the creation of space
    to the night.
    A scarlet poppy was
    like a bullet wound
    on the dark green shirt of
    Skopje fields.
    I laid down on the warm grasses,
    next to the poppy.
    I stared at the night.
    For the first time I saw the stars
    not as the null subject of loneliness
    but the scribble of the space.
    I must have oozed out
    and stars poured
    in my open mouth.
    Next day, at the sun set
    stars started to talk:
    There is a gale in the mountains
    come with us Igor,
    we will chase the night again,
    we are all made of past
    you will not weep for long Igor,
    write what you want
    the way you want it.

    Stars verses were howling
    in my head
    like a rainless sea.
    I started to drink
    I was afraid.
    When I drink
    stars were getting
    even more boisterous
    but at least I could manage
    not to consider them
    and stars were always
    oozing out before me.
    I went to bed.
    Igor wrote
    Seagulls Above Rooftops:
    this evening:
    seagulls above rooftops,
    opened walls, balconies,
    and that song again, out of nowhere.

    I never told him how I started writing,
     there’s no justice in the sky.
    in the nights above Istanbul. and at all.

There Are Some Stars in The Sky Only Both of Us Can See

I wish a sudden wind wakes
    not for the mills turn
    not for compasses,
    not for my chance,
    not for Igor returns
    A wind wakes
    from the letter that I opened
    from the darkness that I eloped
    A wind, from the half open drawer in which
    socks without a pair rotten,
    a wind, from the pages of the book
    that I forgot I have written
    A wind
    which thinks
    morning mist
    is the soul of the horses
    A wind
    consecutively writing letters to the rain
    about virtual webs
    A wind, that wakes and says
    there are some stars in the sky
    only both of us can see

    They are exactly seven pieces if we do count Igor too
    A wind, which
    irons my seven buttoned shirts
    cooks me seven spiced soups,
    covers me
    when I kick the blanket,
    sharpens the razor seven times
    shining in the bathroom.
    I wish a sudden wind wakes
    not for the mills turn,
    but may the mills turn,
    birds over my head turn,
    words running away from me,
    return and turn out again
    with my command
    I could accept easier
    some things never return.

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