From: "Salil Tripathi" <salil61-AT-hotmail.com> Subject: Fwd: BOUNCE postcolonial-AT-localhost: Post limit exceeded Date: Fri, 19 Oct 2001 04:53:48 +0000 >dear anna (and dear adil) > >this one bounced back, thanks to the merciless and humorless guillotine of >the poco listserv. but i've tracked down one poem of alev's. alev, i take >it this is the real thing? i'd be happy to repost this tomorrow, unless one >of you does this before i do....... i'm sure there will be other responses >i'd have to deal with tomorrow as well, and the listserv will be as >merciless..... > >cheers > >salil >--------- > > >Alev Adil > >A Turkish Poet in Exile > >(for Mehmet Yasin) > >part one > > > >Sunday fuels the silence > >that this new language imposes. > >The buses hardly come > >and when they do > >I have no idea of their destination > >but sail them anyway > >as a leaf a hostile wind. > >Even the ghosts are unfriendly: > >the song of speech > >transposed to quite another key. > >Call it selfishness but this crowded place > >becomes merely my soliloquy. > >London, Paris, Berlin, > >Istanbul, Izmir, Ercan, > >sometimes it's all I can do > >to list the airports of my trajectory. > >My favourite book, > >my other sock > >always left behind in another country. > >Sometimes it seems to be because > >of the courage of convictions, > >or maybe merely chance, > >malice or aimless vindictiveness. > >(I have not spoken all day.) > >All lies: not Art, not Love, > >not Truth. Only money > >could vanquish these steely beginnings > >of Europe's exile winters. > >Perhaps I never had what I lost. > >My poems aren't even > >vivid, weathered leaves. > >nobody catches them > >and makes a wish. > >I shed them still, or worse, > >swaddle myself in them > >like a tramp, > >old news keeps me warm. > >The thing is to keep > >to keep remembering > >remembering in order > >in order to exist. > > > >part two > > > >Tonight's interpreter is paper thin > >but given volume by my mother tongue. > >Despite the warmth of meaning > >years of misuse have worn holes > >in her comprehension. > >After the reading our dialogue > >flutters, cannot fly > >the yeasty confines of the pub. > >My words have not travelled, > >left behind at some golden moment > >hindsight calls innocence. > >So I shout > >poems shredding their skins > >but not quite baring > >their bone white onion hearts. > >My interpreter's threadbare language > >shimmers, a seductive moth eaten dress. > >Whilst she is at the bar > >a man with honey for eyes > >floating in his raw face > >leans over me > >and the incomprehensibility of his words > >is no protection from the halitosis > >of an international sentimentality. > >He knows it all he says, > >"Two lovers, > >don't do it. > >Are you Jews?" > >"He thinks we're arguing" > >my translator tells me, > >"that you're breaking my heart." > >"Are we Jews?" she interprets. > >"Am I a Jew now?" I wonder. > >Have I wandered enough > >or are there centuries to go? > >In a matter of months there is no place to call > >home except my memory. > >We're not, we're not > >We're not. > >(And no cock to crow for Saint Peter.) > >"We're not." she reiterates angrily. > > > > > _________________________________________________________________ Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp --- from list postcolonial-AT-lists.village.virginia.edu ---
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