yeşim ağaoğlu

 

a different breed

these women are of a different breed,
their hair is too much, far too much their eyelashes
their lips balloon-red
their cheeks homicide
ıts as if they fell here by mistake.
from another planet

they are a different breed, these women,
their voices an ill interpreted concerto
always a “do” where it should have been a “mi”
their nipples the nut placed on the ice cream
shameless words on their lips at all times

these women are a breed apart
like the works of a surreal artist
ın their most unlikely places are hidden their most likely things
museum of modern arts

they are a different breed, yes,
when its daytime their womanhood lies a-dying
drapes pulled shut, mirrors turned front to back
sadness multiplying in their eyes
their hands begin to grow big, then their feet
grow giant-sized in the light
on their faces wrong thorns
suddenly sprout

they are a different breed these women
they lie down to the night
ın order to be born again.
when dark descends and its night
all of them together the utmost woman
the avenues and sidewalks are theirs now
their laughter is heard
from beyond the mists
vampires nocturnal
looking for blood with their sharpest teeth.

 

crown of thorns
in memory of frida kahlo

so you too have worn the crown of thorns
ın the midst of the forest
your neck is bleeding
ı remember you in this green dress
wild flowers of all colors
ın your black hair
whose bloody hand is it you’re wearing
instead of your earring now
the night is almost here
soon the jackals will be out
and even the vultures
you, why did you wear the crown of thorns
your green dress is soaked all red now

 

terror pictures

blood dropped from the easel to her face
she scooped it up, smeared it all over herself
then gazed with lust at herself in the mirror
she was stark naked
she kissed herself in crystal mirrors
and started her song
in the name of freedom, peace and revolution
insisting on the mustache
the pipe, the cigar
she loves her husband very much
her buttery fat husband
and her painted nails
she almost dies in her bed each night
her past a movie she cant give up watching
the angel of death the black tulip at the bedside
she makes love to herself in foaming bath tubs
blood in all the pictures
pictures on all the paints
oaths, slogans ever on all lips
for the sake of freedom, peace and revolution
with her fat husband she sometimes catches up with her womanhood
or else she takes off her breasts and throws them away
the mustache long as can be and as black
living her manhood at a nurses side

then one day she draws an endless picture on life
crimson, lavish with blood
everything for life’s sake
everything for living
her coffin is covered with the red flag
doves are flitting around, with wounded wings
her husband is weeping at her side

 

is it all right if ı don’t write poems to you

ı’ve gone back to playing prophet again
the game of lovership
ı’m not a coward
ı can sink to the very bottom
and just as well pull the bow to the limit too
is it alright if ı don’t write poems to you
ı have used up all existing words long since
hey – could this be o new love may be,
a new shape ı never knew before?
ı was a private poet once
the private poet of the diminutive giant
ı saw his eyes in yours there for a moment
when we were playing at being ants
is it alright if ı don’t write poems to you

 

sleeping poet

poet sleeping
stretched out on the grass
his hat askew on his brow
poet asleep, his hands on his throat
his house and trees are sleeping too the sun making ready to leave
only images are awake now dark blue horses, winged ballerinas the
violin-bodied man, the harp playing bird woman and the pauper king.

now the poet is astride an image horse
the park as wide as can be
and as rich as it gets
the chateau splendid, the trees giant-sized his hat straight on
his brow hands on hips the poet is smiling now

paper birds

stark white birds
drowning in the sky
they’ve forgotten how to fly
paper winged birds
ı had drawn on paper then cut out
have found a way to escape to the heavens
they are birds with no beaks
no blood no veins
paper birds
drowning in the sky

 

murder in the fishbowl

hidden in his silence are noises
that will turn suicide to murder
each picture means blood
ı will be his first target
he will drown me in the fish bowl
ı’ll be lost in in the shuffle

we each viewed different movies
in different movie-houses
they were improper films
his, ended in murder
ı shuddered as he narrated ıt
crystal gleams in his eye
bats winging off from his laugh
now is the moment to flee if ı want to
soon he’ll be making love to me
touching my hottest places
with his bloodless body
stalking time with his silences
two skulls in his two eyes
metallic glitter in his teeth
no, not a knife
not a gun or an electric guillotine
ı can not run away now
my death in the fishbowl is waiting for me

 

forty keys

she has forty keys
that open forty different doors
some wood, some iron and some portals of saints’ shrines
her doors have forty different knobs
some silver some bronze some mother-of-pearl
her doors open on evil-eye-spells and sorcery
on stained glass windows and marbled-drawings
golden glints flutter at her fingertips
african violets bloom
while under the shadow of shameless miniatures on the walls
murders are done in the harem
she has forty rooms
forty courtyards all opening on wrong directions
some on jail screams some on gardens of love
mostly on her very own wrongnesses
she has a forty rung staircase
leading up each and every time
to her own sorrows and her own solitude

 

canterbury

bloody verses of poetry limbs from your eyes
poems dangle from your naked body
ı pick the poems up, apple-like
from your torso
and put my signature under them.
it keeps going on like this,
you come upon me like some sacred revelation
though its been years since we were together last
ı am sick like diabetes
my wounds will not heal
ı imagine you in canterbury still
your pen in your hand
your hump on your back
writing who knows what
you, that little child, that angel
are grown up now
you do not ask for anything anymore

 

what is good about war

ı hear there’s a civil war in your country
a military junta has mounted a revolution
in that small land of twelve million souls
we also are familiar with such goings-on
many years have passed
ı had forgotten you
only the poems you wrote were left behind
here ı am leagues and leagues away from you
ı have returned to my own country
where ı was born and grew up
ı guess it was for the best
life keeps flowing on anyway
ı saw it on the tv news
the civil war in your country
the desperation of the people
what’s good about war
my heart missed a beat
ı remembered you

 

militant birds

ı know where the birds take wing from
from your most secret most restless parts
those birds so very scarlet red
and so distant from peace
guns and cannon balls hidden under their wings
and you garbed all in black
every part of you dipped in ammunition
ı’m scared to death, on tender-hooks every minute
lest you light the fuse of one of your parts
ı know where the birds take wing from
our end is near
we shall die together
you will light the fuse of your very self

 

to write poetry

rothko on the curtains
turner on the sea
gaugin on the palm tree
viewing the women the women
the big breasted island women
matisse on the red sofa
and on the chair van gogh
putting his ears in an envelope
dripping with blood
in the bed as if painted by modigliani
a poet is writing a poem
against the whole wide world and everything
in spite of it all
writing poetry

 

 


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