16th APRIL 2010
Bilkent East Campus
on the burnt hills
the light forms a cradle
a pale song is cradled
dusted eyebrows
earlobe and earstrobe
dark pupils gather light
tulip tulip alif alif alif
I think always of her
a green olive full of fire
4 responses
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Synesthesia :-). Really like this, Marcus: “earstrobe”.
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cool thanks Simon :-) Yeah still thinking on it myself . . . ah language . . . .
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“… and a green olive takes me boldly to your arms.”
wonderful poems. obviously your poetry is marinating in the turkish soil of eda.
affectionately,
muratLikeLike
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thanks Murat . . . . yes they are marinating indeed :-)
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Never Mind the Beasts 
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