​

 

It doesn’t take long for an idea to be appreciated.

We were meant to give in

To the rhythm.

 

Stone laid street

Down from Galata Hill.

Inlaid vitrines

Instruments wait;

Bow strings

Handmade guitars, tail pianos

Maqam cither to reeds,

Brass works to Ramadan drums

Loop pads, Synthesizers.

This is what İstanbul raves on,

Any kind of a rhythm.

 

 

Night rises, as the hill sways me down the stone corridor.

A tramp girl, face hazed with fissures of the city;

Banging on the taborine, stooled on the corner of the façade

By the entrance to the metro station.

Marching beats into the hearth of the under-soil,

Girl ranting relentless, over civilised society.

I enrol to my faith just as the marching citizens.

 

Cramping into the metro, I reside next to a dis-contender with headphones on.

Like the metal music overflowing the headphones, I’m forced to share his discouraging take on the suppressed feelings.

​

It doesn’t take long for a mutiny to defy

Against the monotonous metro ride,

From Europe towards Asia.

A band of gypsy musicians

Combust into an arabesque classic,

Dominating everyone’s attention.

Crude, playful sorrow ejects into our veins,

Us being the unwilling passengers.

 

The symphony of the dead always holds a remembrance of serenity.

Tedious metro ride ends by the cemetery.

A well-earned rest, for the rust to fold another layer…

 

It doesn’t take long for a cry from the living.

As I wonder yonder the cemetery, a native screeches:

​

Goalll !!!

​

Hooligans with war paints,

chanting marches

decadent swears.  

 

Alas, outer barks peeled off

And I drift towards the maelstrom.

Market alleys filled with bickering mussel fryers,

intersecting human gibberish,

fishermen’s bluntness.

Narrower, I must pursue.

 

Chattering glasses of lion’s milk, persuade me towards the taverns.

Flares and glares braze through conversation by the tables,

when an ensemble of musicians, nests over customers.

Oud dictates, cither pecks and fiddle soothes

Over-sentimentality of the lions.

I, deranged by it, move on.

​

 

It doesn’t take long for the touch of the velvet.

Humming of endless sea of people scattered along the street.

Tipsy eyes, moody stares from the liberal new-agers;

I walk through the vanity parade.

Under the dim lights of The Crow,

I nestle with a blood bottle;

Heart beats of the electric vibes,

Swings me loose.

I dive, arms open.

 

Offbeat hitching

Ebony bar stretching

Stain circles

Bubbling, off beat

Hitching.

 

Shoulders wide, high from the vibe

I descend towards harbour.  

 

Knowing the dark streets,

I stagger with a doodle on my tongue.

Passing by the vagabonds of the night,

I cross paths with dubious entertainers (undesirable drunks).

Alcohol infused cries, gooey singing almost

Overlooked by displeased neighbours’ frowns,

I push on. There’s a midnight boat to catch nonetheless.  

 

It doesn’t take long for the ferry to bubble the sea.

Gentle lean from the stern, then we’re off.

Anatolia no more…

 

Few passengers on-board.  At last, calm space for reading.

I wish…

​

A teenager, lost in digitalised seconds,

Flipping moments of trailers/commercials/commentaries or whatnot

Through her phone.

Incomprehensible sounds, switching eons of bull-shit

Infesting through the indoor chambers.

Defeated, I move to the back balcony.

 

Cool breeze washes me clean, when I realise a friend sitting with the santur.

 

“Hey, brother”

 

As he passes the vibe, grey haze sweeps over to the moon-sparked sea.

With a couple boat-shakes, tuning of the santur is over

And we jingle with the brother through the ride home

While the boat glides towards the saddlebag.

Walking up the hill, melodies still wet on our lips,

We make it to the musicians’ cove.

Upstairs, friends with open hearts, welcome us.

Higher, the waves must swirl.

Incense becomes outpours.

Sparks kindle.

 

​

It doesn’t take long for a melody to be appreciated.

I was meant to give in

To the rhythm.

Myself to sound

And sound to beloveds

Are given.

A love-affair burls up;

Vocal cords shadowing tanbur’s caress,

Violin fiddling joyous whistles over

The earthly tomtom.

Santur weaves compassionate tremolos,

Amity sizzles hearts.

The blaze of the music lights

A glimpse into an ethereal rhyme.

 

As the night grows weary,

Kindle shrinks, affair’s ceased.

Sounds blown out,

Instruments

Encased.

 

 

I stroll home, accompanied by the chimes of the breezing pines.

A closing bell, a last breather

A moment of serenity

The bliss of the silence

…

..

.

 

​

​

It doesn’t take long for the morning prayer to be shouted,

From the mosque down the valley.

Dogs howl too, echoing the imam.

Rhythm flows on, once again

As the day breaks