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from Primitive Pianos

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

Comments

Simon Howard said…
Synesthesia :-). Really like this, Marcus: "earstrobe".
postpran said…
cool thanks Simon :-) Yeah still thinking on it myself . . . ah language . . . .
"... and a green olive takes me boldly to your arms."

wonderful poems. obviously your poetry is marinating in the turkish soil of eda.
affectionately,
murat
postpran said…
thanks Murat . . . . yes they are marinating indeed :-)

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