The Mundane and Nostalgia
Poetry Portfolio
OH NATURE
Oh
Nature
Ever so green
On waters and winds
Teeming green, nuts and acorn
On waters and winds may you cross
Behold upon mountains white and blue
Many trees that look red, orange and brown
Eyes closed, sleep and dream under moonlight,
Listen to birds as they sing, a symphony of chirping.
You are on this road, lest not forget the love I have for you
May you cross another year, under red, orange and brown.
Avidly dance on fields of grain, wander by the trees and lakes
Their wisdom bestow you, asking nothing in return, but love.
Nature,
We truly
owe you
more than
we can name
Images taken by Ali Akpinar
LIFE
Stranded on top of a great mountain, surrounded by waters.
The winds tearing about you.
Finding yourself… trapped…helpless…and alone.
You gaze upon the rising sun,
but it brings no warmth.
Whispers…. Whispers of a chorus,
A chorus but replaced with silence.
You are then interrupted,
by seagulls in the distance.
They call to you,
Yet you cannot see.
The rising sun blinds you,
but still no warmth.
A sharp breeze stuns you.
The rocky ground you stand on,
now slippery, and glacial.
You are all alone…
Ever wonder how it feels like?
Well, let me tell you.
…It is like,
having the energy of youth, but then being stripped of it.
Knowing you are weak and oh-so fragile.
To forget all that you were in a heartbeat…
A call and an echo.
An echo that drifts from soul to soul
The eye of the storm
A call…
THE CALL
OF LIFE
THAT IS…
Do not think… thoughts are distractions.
Let us just be silent, and feel
Feel life for what it is.
Before all goes silent…
The mountain collapses, I fall and thus it is now warm.
Images taken by Ali Akpinar
HOLD ME, ISTANBUL
Before me stood the Bosphorus,
where a great many Sultanas watched the tides.
They gazed upon the sea,
as it reflected the great azure skies.
A palace carved from the whitest marble,
home to the Sultan’s dearest confidants.
Galleys upon galleys pay heed.
A single word from Seraglio is hearkened by all.
A young concubine appeared on the terrace,
Adorned with a yellow silk dress.
On her hand a light oud, and firm was her grasp.
Through her craft, surged many melodies.
On one hand she held,
a cup of crimson sherbet.
Cordial and chilled,
next to a glittering silver carafe.
The concubine was joyous,
Her brows, a bow.
Her sight, an arrow.
Pearl-ish was her smile.
She was not born here,
yet now she was of here.
Perhaps in the future,
it shall be her destiny to rule.
Hold me lest I fall, oh Istanbul.
Save me from my loneliness, oh Istanbul.
Images taken by Ali Akpinar
THE USUAL
The usual baker,
the smiling fisherman,
the shouting greengrocer,
the haggling merchant,
His freshly baked circular simit bread.
His freshly caught, wiggling bluefish.
His ripe ruby-like tomatoes.
His imitation Persian silk.
I am me, just older.
And my home,
older but different.
But perhaps,
that is for the best.
The street I grew up in,
no longer nice and dandy.
Less green, and more concrete.
Nothing like what home used to be.
Home is still the same.
The soft, welcoming pillows,
the same wobbly chair,
the same desk and warm tea.
My father, sitting on his usual seat.
He is the same, just older, wrinkly.
My mother, still smiles at me with the same warmth.
She too is the same, if not older.
Wooden walls of my house,
they look more dry,
some parts peeled.
Yet still the same, nonetheless.
The sliding door,
feels heavier than years ago.
My bed sheets still smell… of lavender…
For that I thank mother.
The tired baker,
the old fisherman,
the hoarse greengrocer,
the submissive merchant,
His half-burnt, coarse circular simit bread.
His empty fishing net.
His partly decayed, darkened tomatoes.
His shredded, battered silk.
Images and videos taken by Ali Akpinar
THE LONGING
Remnants of an old life,
my hands clutched the empty.
The skies clouded, as a response,
the wind and the mist both mocked me.
I remember, two eyes.
Two clear blue skies,
those were your eyes
and “I” made them rain...
Perhaps you wanted a plea,
not a half-hearted apology.
My words were livid,
as a winter breeze.
Your gaze, a crimson field of tulips!
Your smile, brighter than every morning!
Your touch, warmer than my mother’s tea!
…and your words, far too veracious.
I thought I was in love with my past,
turns out I was scared of loneliness.
Yet it was my own doing.
Thus I bear the consequences.
Image by Pip Filippo Yakov
Image by Pip Filippo Yakov
My memory wanes,
like waves swashing ever so lightly.
Hidden things awaken,
not to relieve me, but to haunt me.
I wake up,
my bed sheets are grey.
The stain from the hot chocolate, 15 years ago,
still there, unwavering.
Where is the lawnmower’s sound, from years ago?
The soft scent of tulips in our garden,
replaced by…
same lady walks in, to hand me the usual.
I wake up,
my bed sheets are brown, or were they grey?
A strange stain, hard to know what caused it.
Needs to be washed.
Outside is so quiet.
The garden is so empty,
I am forgetting again, something about flowers?
…can’t recall…
A lady walks in, I know her somehow.
But how?
She wears green, or was it blue? Grey?
She smiles and hands me pills.
My bed sheets are… can’t remember…
Did we have a garden?
Is this my home?
A stranger walks in, calls me ‘mother’
I am sorry I can’t remember…
Nothing at all…
THOUGHTS AND MEMORY
Images and videos taken by Ali Akpinar
Raindrops
Thousand little droplets.
Endangering the little spiderling,
so adamant to climb.
​
The rain shows no mercy.
It comes and goes,
​
And yet...
It is also fresh and sweet.
Like a mother's touch.
There is no hopelessness under the rain.
​
And you! Little spiderling, how very brittle.
I hold out my hand,
to cover your nimble self.
Against all odds, you continue to climb.