Emre
@Heathcliff_
Şu anda okuduğu kitap
The Reality of World from Traumatized Poet's Perspective
The world is rotten to the core and soon all will be war. My nation has wreaked unspeakable havoc, and it will happen again and again. Other nations, other dictators, will take the place of those who have the whip hand now. They will have their moment and soon war will become all that we know, a constant state, until everything is razed. I am certain that man will not make it to the twenty first century, and it's an unpardonable crime that he will surely take women with him.
Her çiçeğin bir mevsimi, her kitabın bir zamanı vardır. Haziranın tadını yeni hikâyelerle çıkarın.
Überschwemmungstod
And now the animals are braying in the burning stable
and scorched birds plummet from the sky.
You no longer stoop to lift the gasping fish,
stranded, beached on the gravel bank,
nor falter s a foam tide brings bubbling blood,
and shrieking shapes cross the ruined sun.
You are lost in the lie of your life now.
Perhaps you were only ever a rumour of a person-
a few good lines, scratched across the page like fresh scars.
A butterfly trapped in a childhood jam jar.
You are: wet kindling, green smoke, a dead jellyfish;
your mother's son and your father's daughter, all fiction.
So say farewell, then, in these dying days of April,
a thin string of hollow words your worthless legacy
as you drop the final mask and make your mark on the map
sealed beneath rotting boards, a self, all out at sea.
Amalfi, 1939
White gulls swoop with sirens in their gullets,
their shadows shapes passing over sunken mountain ranges.
Cliffs like cremation curtains drape over lapping waters
and a clear sky catches the hot cough of sleeping Vesuvius.
A distant empty tanker sallies forth for Saudi oil
as breeze patterns play across a surface of shattered jade
and nebulous forms shapeshift in the sea's flooded cellar.
Centreless, lacking skeletons, as broad as mastodons,
they rise from the deep to skim the spring-warmed shallows,
held in a moment by the flashbulb of the unblinking sun,
glimpsed like Ahab's quarry before sinking to mythology,
sunken ghosts stalking the overhangs of the torrid mind.
And down at the harbour wall gannets gather
to peck at the eye of a brilliant gulping turbot.
And Europe holds her breath.
The Honeyspinner
You breath arrives across
the pillow, a savannah breeze.
Your mouth has produced
no tumbleweeds
While you were sleeping.
And while you were sleeping.
The ravenous wolves have been
cast from the kingdom of cruelty
and outside the first sweet drops
of morning rain fall
like a drunk violinist on the steps
of the marble cenotaph.
She feels a love for little things
That very few can feel beside
And still the grass eternal springs
Where castles stood and grandeur died.