Istigkeit—wasn’t that the word Meister Eckhart liked to use? “Is-ness.” The Being of Platonic philosophy—except that Plato seems to have made the enormous, the grotesque mistake of separating Being from becoming and identifying it with the mathematical abstraction of the Idea. He could never, poor fellow, have seen a bunch of flowers shining with their own inner light and all but quivering under the pressure of the significance with which they were charged; could never have perceived that what rose and iris and carnation so intensely signified was nothing more, and nothing less, than what they were—a transience that was yet eternal life, a perpetual perishing that was at the same time pure Being, a bundle of minute, unique particulars in which, by some unspeakable and yet self-evident paradox, was to be seen the divine source of all existence.
— Aldous Huxley, “The Doors of Perception”
somewhere between the auricle and quark
sounds the kettle:
sneering or cervical mercy
a simmering airstream
in the other unit reveals
triangled and sliced
Plato dead and
God in the ether
my jaw a found object
two dozen mansions in my sex’s sky
unclasping the myth of extra-virgin
strained the mirror
concentrating rays upon the
dark Semitic eyes and
cumulus clouds in squid ink
for a lid
later identifying with the clock tower
light and content with the state of
Wheels of Ugarit poetry drum in my mind, and I slush in them, feeling massaged by cuneiform constancies, dreaming myself assigned to the task of sorting my son’s remains from the belly of the bird, or my own remains, and the gods’ remains up in the belly of some higher Zoroastrian bird, my eyes, full of the same nuts as Ugarit, dilated with wine, dunked off Byblos, enchanted by elements.
Down the street an exhalation:
Hennessy and votives,
a dozen white stems.
Scanning the arroyo:
Light cut in basalt
I would die of your dome
for vegetables at breakfast —
this side of the conflict zone.
Zebra arches bound into a colonnade —
Kurmanji eyes at nine o’clock,
entoptic kilim splayed.
Where the flinty steppe geometry
runs dry, but unicorn and ayran
stanch the urge of lines
to bloom to boteh:
The lamp hangs determined
and stark above my smugglers’ tea.
Heart too ready to be drowned
in volcanic rock
and Aryan eyes.
and midnight Armenian steeples
are your neck
in Song of Songs.
Martyrs glint out from
moustache on the gallery.
For coffee and a thousand suns,
Street alive with sumac and the veneration of
a little dark girl,
millions gone missing in the Syrian register,
blood runs warm to me in the mountains.
Just a multidimensional machine expanding and contracting, nothing personal.
The Arabic*-Spanish** patois spoken behind the counters of convenience stores and cafés. Like medieval Andalusia, but seedier. Or Brooklyn.
*Yemeni, if a convenience store; Palestinian, if a café.
*Mexican, Salvadoran, Nicaraguan, Guatemalan…
Hard to believe it’s been 2 years since I left for Turkey. I’m still collecting my thoughts. A lot has changed since — back in 2014, Turkey was hardly notorious. These days, its reputation precedes itself. Its arcane politics and regional predicament have become common knowledge, and I’ve even stopped recommending that friends visit.
I came right at the inflection point. My first memories of Turkey include busing across the southeast and hopping, breakneck, between its warm and ethnically mixed cities — kiwi juice in seedy Gaziantep, tea and Kurdish folk songs in Diyarbakir’s basalt, and ice cream under Sinjar martyr posters in Van. You could tell that Turkish Kurdistan was the calmest and freest it’d been in decades, but with ISIS advancing on the Syrian Kurds in Kobane, a hint of alarm hung in the air.
Days after I moved into my furnished room in Tarlabasi, a Kurdish (and increasingly Syrian) ghetto in downtown Istanbul, that hint bloomed into full capsaicin mayhem. For about 5 days, I took in the city, came home early every evening, settled in, got stoned, and blogged. I played out worst-case scenarios and imagined disappearing into some Balkan refuge.
That season, the worst neither came for Kobane — spared from ISIS by Uncle Sam’s heartstrings and firepower — nor Istanbul, where a few dozen died in clashes with police that haven’t been repeated since (with the odd exception of the failed coup). But for southeastern cities like Diyarbakir, Mardin, Nusaybin, and Van, there was no turning back. As of this writing, Turkey’s newest phase of struggle with the PKK — a tragedy of bad regional miasmas and avoidable decisions — has claimed the lives of thousands. Entire neighborhoods, including the basalt-enclosed old city of Diyarbakir, have been pummeled beyond recognition.
Tea and poetry in Hasanpasha Khan? Forget about it.
And if you thought I was writing again to set up a travelogue or critical essay about some countries I dabbled in, sorry to disappoint.
But: I have been working over some of the poems I wrote while on the road in Turkey (and beyond), and thought now would be a good time to share. You can find them, properly geotagged, on this Google map. More to come.