clarahsu – Page 29

The Cutting Of Animals

Early in the morning the courtyard of our hotel in Urfa was filled with men. They sat in white plastic chairs that were arranged along the side of the walls, waiting quietly. When the women came in in their finery they brought a flurry of excitement, ushering two young boys in princely costumes (white suits with golden embroidery, crowns, capes and scepters). Dore and I witnessed all this while having yogurt, cucumber, tomato and bread in the breakfast room. We watched the congregation slowly moved downstairs into a large room, which the night before we had music and dance with the local musicians. It seemed very early to have another party, but this was the last day of Kurban Bayrami, a religious holiday commemorating Abraham’s intention of sacrificing his only son to God. The gathering might have something to do with it.

The sounds of drumming, singing and women ululating seeped into our room as we prepared to leave. Just as we were checking out of the hotel the congregation emerged from the room. A woman threw something like a fire cracker into the air and it exploded into a shower of colored paper petals. The young boys walked out. To my puzzlement, they were wearing long semi-translucent tunics over their jackets, but their pants were gone.

“What was the celebration?” Dore asked the receptionist. He did not speak English but went promptly to his laptop and typed something in Turkish. Using Google translation, we realized it was a circumcision ceremony.

“How old are the boys?” We asked.

“Eight and twelve.” The receptionist said.

The boys were ushered into manhood fully conscious. I thought about it a lot.

Photo by Dore Steinberg

Walking Down The Heart

Loaded with sugar, Istiklal, the wide boulevard that leads to Taksim (the heart) swells to its fullest in the evening. Invisible currents push backs and feet and the crowd is a river that runs in all directions. Eddying into drums and baglama and a didjeridu, street music pulsates with the brightly lit shops selling everything from electronics, baklavas to the latest fashion. Here are Burger king, Gap and Starbucks. Here, Pizza Hut butts head with the Turkish equivilant ‘pide’. Here, women in high heels and stylish clothes do the cat walk that rivals New York and Paris. Only the Greek embassy in the middle of the boulevard is stoicly barricaded, refusing to participate in its liveliness.

At Taksim the crowd is drained into and poured out of the metro and buses. Always, there is a political demonstration of some sort. On May Day, one can get an extra dose of tear gas. But I’m here in November, meeting my friend Peter at the tram station. He finds me, a little breathless after a half hour struggle upstream. We dive back into Istiklal to find that little hole in the wall in one of its capillaries, where a quiet evening of dinner is promised.

Midyat Joy

The town of Midyat is dead. All businesses are closed after 7:30 in the evening except shops selling baklavas and cakes, and certain dreary looking grocery shops with miserable looking vegetables. Few people walk on the streets. One lone kebap stand at a street corner has two customers. The man rolls up bits of grilled meat in a piece of bread and the boy takes off down an alley. We follow him and come upon an internet cafe.

That’s what we need—Email. Facebook. Google–life’s necessities.

Inside the smoke-filled room, men and boys sit in small cubicles barking at each other, drinking tea, playing video games. A large sign on the wall with red letters and a big cross over a cigarette. No smoking…something something 1000 lira fine, something something…5000 lira fine. Oh the joy of breaking the law that nobody believes in!

This is the hub in a conservative Turkish town. This is nightlife for the youths, to connect with the rest of the world.

I sit down in a cubicle and start typing.

Urfa

Urfa, located in south-eastern Turkey, smells of grilled lamb. It is in the air. Men fanning endless chacoal grills on the streets and placing skewers of cubed meat, liver and heart on the fire. I taste sheep in my lentil soup, rice, and the selections of entree at the locantas. I taste sheep in my saliva.

Dore and I watched the owner of an eatery cut up a carcass as we waited for our lunch. His skilled hand massages a long spine, exposing unwanted tendons and cutting them off.

At an open air eatery, four young Kurds who shared my table insisted on paying for my kebap sandwich. I had nothing to give back in return and decided to write a poem for them. One of the men, Abdul Kadir, read my poem out loud: …the world is a small place/when the heart is big. An older man who worked at the eatery smiled and nodded his head. Poets are welcome in Urfa.

Still, I’m A Donkey

A billboard in Sultanahmet: I carrying books since years, but could not stop to be a donkey.

There are just too much out there. As I peck away I’m in awe of how little I know. And yes, the donkey is a good reminder of my ignorance.

My outlook is to take in something here and there and never mind if the learning is incoherent. Experiencing a little is better than not experiencing at all. A patchwork quilt is afterall, a quilt, no matter how fractured it seems.

The business people in Sultanahmet speak multiple languages, enough to lure a customer from any part of the world into their establishment.

“It is how I learn about life, and so will my children.” My ever philosophical friend Murat said to me. His son, Cemal, spoke no English when he started working at Murat’s shop. For four years he ran up and down the cobblestone street chasing cats, pouring tea, watching and listening to his father interacting with customers. This time when I see him, Cemal is speaking adequet English from continuous tourist exposure.

“The world comes through my street. I don’t have to go anywhere.” Murat sprints from where we are sitting back to the shop when he notices some customers approaching.

I turn back to another page of my book.

Photo by Joe Pyrek

Night Guardians

With a turn of fate we left Istanbul to find ourselves back in her arms before the end of the day. With all the mishaps the message is clear: We’re not to be in Antakya as planned. Who can say if this is a good or bad thing. Stranded or not, I have come to believe in fate and not to scorn it.

Six dogs the size of German Shepherds appeared as we made our way back to our hotel. Two walked beside me. Two in the back and one in front. One hopped along a little way in the back. When I crossed the cobblestone street slowly with my luggage they waited patiently for me. As I walked, my right hand nearly touched a nose. It gave a soft growl and backed up a little.

With my entourage we arrived at our hotel. The dogs sat down in attention until the hotel’s night manager opened the door.

“Thank you.” I turned to them. They watched us go in before they wagged their tails and took off.

“Many dogs in Istanbul.” The manager said.

Many night guardians in the city of mosques.

photo credit: wideawakeinwonderland.com/tag/istanbul-marathon/

The Mole

Sitting next to the wall of Topkapi Palace, my friend Murat served Turkish coffee after a delicious meal of Adana kebap. I observed the crumbling wood pile in front of me and remembered the single inhabit in that house.´

‘What happened to the man who used to live here?’ I asked Murat.

‘He is living inside the palace now.’

‘How?’

‘Well, this structure was falling apart. He found a hole in the palace wall that was big enough for him and moved there. I give him food. We all give him things. He is fine there. Doesn’t need much.’

‘What about the authority? The police? ‘

‘He is not normal, you see, but he is not hurting anyone. I had wanted to help him get money from the government but he didn’t want it. He saves the government lots of money. No one minds him staying in the hole.’

That was the story. I patted one of the cats sitting next to me—a baby, one and a half months old.

‘The other day I put seven cats in my car and drove them to the fish market.’ Said Murat. ‘They get run over by cars around here. But at the fish market they have food and I don’t have to worry about them.’

Murat puffed his cigarette heavily. They cannot smoke inside their businesses anymore. It’s against the law.

Istanbul in November

Istanbul with its first rain, wet and glistening. The cooler weather has driven most tourists away and with them, the hustlers too. Walking up the tramtrack in Sultanahmet, I came upon an old friend (owner of a restaurant). He was the first person to greet me when I arrived for the first time in 2004. He didn’t call out to me in Chinese, like he did to all Asian tourists, but gave me a big warm smile. In the past seven years he had been to jail, built four restaurants, a bed and breakfast inn, and now, his ‘final’ project is to own a three-star hotel.

‘After this I will retire.’

An unlikely story. People here work. That’s what they do.

I ate at his new restaurant. He had to go to see his father in the hospital. His nephew took over the administration. He is training him to be his successor.

A glass of Turkish tea. Two cubes of sugar stirred to dissolve with a silver spoon.

Into The Universe

At the Poetry Salon last night some of us read poems with Halloween theme. It was also Ezra Pound’s birthday. Al Averbach recited a short poem by Pound. Then Steve Mackin read John Keats, whose birthday was today. For poets, we look out into the universe to find these masters. They are our guiding lights. A visual poem came to me and this is what I “saw”:

* keats * * * *joyce * *

* * stein * * * * * basho **

* * * * * * duncan * * parker * *

crane ** * * * * li po* ****

*mcclure * *cummings * Apollinaire

* * * * browning * * *

* *** * * ** smart* *pound * * *

* ** *eliot* * * *** * *yeats ** *

* * * * * ** * *** ** * *

h a n d h o l d i n g h a n d

The Poetry Hotel

The Poetry Hotel is getting solicitation mail to open bank accounts, apply for credit cards, buy liability and all sorts of insurance, linen service, hotel equipment and several times, even phone reservation for stay! They don’t know this is a hotel of the imagination, conceived by the ever imaginative Carlos Ramirez one summer evening in 2004 as we (Dan Brady, Carlos and I) passed by the Marriott on Market Street. Dan and I heartily endorsed the idea and whommm, the hotel was built!

Or maybe these solicitation mail do know that this is not a “real” hotel but imagine that it could be real at some point, and they want to make sure they are the first ones to get the business.

Doing business also requires imagination.

Imagine paying for a night at the hotel with a poem…

The Poetry Hotel

At the Civic Center Bart Station
Carlos, Dan and I had a vision
to take possession of the Mission Street Marriott
after we win the lottery.

We will renovate the building
knock everything down to its bones.
With imagination, joy, and persistence
we give birth to the Poetry Hotel.

When you enter the Poetry Hotel,
observe the grand reception hall.
Poets check in with a poem
check out with a new chapbook.

The ground floor is reserved for first drafts
the second floor is for revision.
From the third to the twentieth floor
there are chutes and ladders built especially
for the out of bound writers.

All the rooms have the essential
desk, chair and bed,
an unlimited supply of paper, and
ink gel pens to write.

There are numerous libraries
each named after a poet.
Collection of works are readily available
for reference, research and read.

As for dining, the Poetry Café
serves daily a scrumptious buffet.
Muffins, puddings and all sorts of pies,
thick soups, black coffee, exotic teas
to nurture the poetic belly.

Every evening there is a gathering
new and old poems are read.
Cakes and champagne are served afterwards
to celebrate the creation of words.

This enterprise is run so successfully
it is franchised throughout the world.
All the poets in this planet
come home to the Poetry Hotel.

Carlos, Dan and I blinked
as we stepped into the train.
It was filled with sleepy people
who wanted to get home quick.

Days of work and nights of toil
weaken our eyes and hearts
But tonight we lay the cornerstone
for the Poetry Hotel.