from: ı. ş.
title: mirror 3
form: text; e-mail letter and poem
FIELD OF FOG
A native woman smelling incense
It’s a shame there are a handful of babies on the purple street.
The night is eclipsed by the nearest meteor; well, it’s love!
My hands shake in the empty space of a chair;
The magic is on the red nose of a clown.
... Looking at the sky through one’s legs
Greeting the day like waving a passenger goodbye.
What are won by losing them, and pride.
One looks around, keeps silent and stands; because
The fog is the punishment of tranquility.
Climbing uphill like seeing the light through the holes of a cocoon
Did you forget the day I looked at that puppeteer for hours and slept?
Taking a look at you, like a dog who stole a bone and then bury it in the ground, like a leopard going crazy.
The sound of autumn is up in dust and smoke
You are sweat dripping from my groins,
a madman playing hide-and-seek,
but there is neither ‘it’, nor ‘you’re out’, nobody hiding
You ask what the time is? There is no time either.
It is the poplar trees that hold their necks up and that ensure you to see suddenly the blue which you forgot.
My femininity is ‘Reflection of Swans’ (Dali) on the water smelling mercury,
My name is the tooth grinding of a chipmunk,
My name is warm water leaking into you from cobble stones,
My name is the inconceivable waiting of the night-light for you,
My name is a calloused foot,
My name is hunger for you,
Hunger for the weak monster that you sent at a few paces
Hunger for your desertion, your disappearance, your cold dungeons which can’t be climbed back to back,
My name is a stalled woman,
My name is a lie, loneliness perhaps, or the state of being without you
Do we split the time into two halves, or
Does it screw us at our most sensitive parts. What you think?
Hey, mirror-maker! You showed the people themselves in a hall of mirrors within mirrors;
But it is you who is in the eyes of those people.