Oh… Emirgan

the moon is lose
stroking the back of the mountain/troubled
the phosphorescence missed its light
the sea-gulls/don’t exist
angry steamship spoilt
ripping the blue atlas/jealous
I’m imitating for the day
how many times my eyes kissed with ardent desire,
both shores of Bogaz
I’m under the plane tree
so many times I have dreamt of
at the proper consistency of the black-sea
my tea is steep
I’m making love to its glass
the waiter is angry at tables
dirty wind touched his eyes
murmuring and sweeping the ashes
I’ve picked on my cigarette
with my grudging lighter
I’m burning one after another
to your kindness, old plane tree, which I lean my back
mourning old tap offended
hiding things from the history
with its pale marbles
on its grey mossy roof
words are pending
I’m thinking of its mystery
can’t solve
and that…I want the old Emirgan.

Poem by: Atilla Elüstün 29/4/2004 - Emirgan/İstanbul
Translation by: Günsel Djemal - London