Listen to the poem
Eminönü jumps up
the staircase
of its vowels
in a hurry
out
from the Golden Horn.
It's
not a place to dawdle
waving
one's hands
effetely
over
the slender minarets
trying
to uncork the sky:
here
all is cars and boats
and
bustle.
Some
days the wind
comes
gushing
straight
out of Russia
and
here
turns
fifteen different
corners
all at once,
scattering
the footsteps
of
the people
all
around the compass dial
so
everybody
walks
in everybody else's way.
The
Arabesk music
lunges
out
with all its gaudy beaded threads
from shops and stalls
and
winds itself
around
your ankles
dervishly.
The
ferry boats reverse direction
as
they come in to berth
carving
wide curves out of
the
heavy water,
shrugging
off hefty waves
onto
the tiny balik ekmek boats
sending
them swaying,
wildly
cooking
their
mackerel
first
thirty degrees to starboard
and
then thirty degrees to port.
Only
the simit seller
stands
aloof
the
sesame on his
hoops
of bread
opening
a secret door
away
from all this toil
and
bubbling hubbub.
I
buy a ticket to the other side.
I
drop my token into the slot.
The
turnstile creaks.
I
stumble into
a
maze of people.
We
shuffle forward dimly,
trying
to grow our shoulders out
to
keep a special space
to
place our feet and
to
protect our pockets, packets
and
all our various, separate kinds of
loneliness.
And
when the boat
comes
in,
blotting
the light before us,
the
thick ropes thwack
against
the capstans,
the
gate groans open
and
suddenly we all grow hooves
and
turn into cattle
plunging
to a ford.
We
jostle up the gangplanks,
some
vault the sides,
all
have a place in mind
they
want to be the first
to
reach:
mine
always
in
the stern
just
outside on the deck.
We
sit and stare,
the
wind from Russia
still
whistling sourly
in
our mouths.
And
then the boat
heaves
out from land
and
babies who were screaming
glide,
rocking, into sleep
and
mothers rest their tired heads at last.
Peace
gently envelops all.
Two
lovers stand kissing
in
a private storm
against
the rail,
next
to a woman
whose
head is
covered
by a modest
scarf,
but no one
eyes
in judgement.
All
are companions now .
Our
crossing is
the
only thing there is.
No
longer are our minds aground,
together
on our vessel we've slipped free
of
the markings of the clock
so
that we float as well.
A
man casts bread out
to
the gulls
which
ride upon
the
stream of seconds
we
shed in our wake.
I
never know which way to
look -
the domes of Europe,
or
the hills of Asia,
the
waters through the
tulip
glass of tea a
waiter
hands my neighbour
or
at the shimmering sea of faces all around.
But
when we come in close
to
Üsküdar
I
look out for my favourite sight:
upon
the water's edge,
Great
Sinan's tiny mosque,
so
delicate
perhaps
it isn't really there,
but
just a painting made
with
wisps of white upon the air
Voices
and noise from land
congeal
about us now
and
drag us in until
we
bump against the edge of Asia.
my
fellow passengers arise.
Now
they have destinations
weighing
on their brows
and
other people they must be.
Sometimes
I am the last
to
disembark.
I
linger on the deck and
watch
the sea.
I
think that in these waters once
a
wizard
dropped
his ring
and
when friends
wonder
at this city,
for
being two cities
where
Europe and Asia
gaze
into each other's eyes
and
at each other's lighted windows
longingly,
I
think that still more marvellous
is
that there is another city yet
upon
the boats
which
spend the days
going
from side to side,
from
gaze to gaze,
where
everybody seems content
bound
by the spell of that lost magic ring.
Phillip Hill 2007
(This poem is included in my book The Observation Car which is available at http://www.lulu.com/content/2588218)
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