angels on the street
I heard one of their voices
soaring through the alleyway
singing a hymn
in a language that doesn't exist
in words no human had
ever spoken
dressed in white
hair of flames
walking through the darkened
lamplit streets
angel drifters thru the nite
walking through the park
I came across an open field
surrounded by a few trees
and in the field I saw four small girls
carrying huge branches
taller than they were
as if giant feathers
or eagles wings
white and brown
waving back and forth
and the girls were in long dresses
with their hair down
moving in unison
half running
half dancing
and chanting words I could not hear
as if taking part in
a tribal dance
a sacred rite
and I was almost overcome
by the beauty
and the grandeur
so I moved closer
until I could hear their chant:
War war war
Prepare for war!
Kill kill kill
Prepare for war!
War war war!
Prepare for war . . .
in a mirror
for the first time
I see my
Turkish face
my mustache
thick and broad
my beard
gone
in a mirror
for the first time
I see my
Asian face
only a dark
thin mustache left
when I come outside
I see a family:
the man and woman
don't recognize me
the two children
smile at me
their faces filled
with light
in a mirror
for the first time
I see my own
original face
at a party
I tell the poet laureate
that poetry is a tunnel
in Istanbul
the tunel
connects the old city
to the new one
through a long-ago built passage from Golata
to the Blue Mosque
Golata: where my ancestors
opened up a candy store
started a new life
gave themselves a new name
I have gone underground
through many tunnels
from darkness into even deeper
darkness in my search
for light
leaving my old city
journeying underwater
beneath the earth
looking for
a new one
poetry is
a descent into dark crevices
into narrow corridors
until you reach a place
where you can no longer find your way
back where you can no longer see
the dark behind you and can not yet see
the light ahead
and in that glowing darkness
you find something to carry with you
out into the light
though your journey seems endless
finally
you enter the new city
mouth open
eyes wide
with a new name
the men with shaved heads
and white robes
the wife in orange
and saffron
the body wrapped
in white sheets
flowers heaped
in a cortege
then the procession
to the fire
on the other side
of the river
monkeys climb
the walls
women sell trinkets
to tourists
people buy peanuts
and popcorn from vendors
as we rise to leave
a man stares at me and says:
"We are all the same--
we live and we die"
life so close to death
the smoke rises behind us
as we walk back into town
Pashupathinath, Kathmandu