SENTINEL POETRY (ONLINE) #31, JUNE 2005. ISSN 1479-425X

KUBILAY AKMAN

 

THE BALAD OF HOBO

 

My drifter feet are frightened

                         by the eternal souls of  nymphomaniac streets

 

pulsation in the pubic seed of the town

                         trembling as the lost shadows

                                              mirrors, bleeding halos

 

I confuse, confuse, again and again

                         who was the first

 

tell me thirsty streets and avenues,

                          even squares with gibbets of my unborn children

 

unborn as well as unlived, unloved, undirtied, untired

my sons, my daughters... gallows is their present you

 

tell me, through your thirsty lips

 who

     was

         the first... I confuse as a figure artist,

                                                           always

 

confuse never confess

 

listen to voice of hungry dogs, listen the songs of birds you never saw

                                                measure is a game for our age

 

measure is the great pleasure of them

                                                  although

                                                         you never accustomed it

 

a cage

       covers your life

 

like a specter

        your age is your main prison

 

you have forgotten all the ways to escape

        feel the frenetic screams of the town in your dreams

 

however

       whatever you feel, whatever you taste

       are companies of  your lost corridors running away from you

                                                                                  in the horizons

 

lie to you, all of them, even the pulsation

even prostitution of scared sparrows with narrow-minded squirrels

 

try to forget

try to begin again to the same convolution

 

restart

    rethink

        reconsider

 

redecay, rewaste, redisappoint,

 

and

   although I do not remember

 

I will rebury you again and again

   my periodic ancient style punishment

                 in this postmodern chaos

 

nothing I have,

        except you,

               I should love you

                             For this reason, if only!*

 

 * The last quatrain is a quotation from Cemal Sureyya (1931-1990) the contemporary Turkish poet.

 

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