17 April 2010

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

4 comments:

Simon Howard said...

Synesthesia :-). Really like this, Marcus: "earstrobe".

postpran said...

cool thanks Simon :-) Yeah still thinking on it myself . . . ah language . . . .

Murat Nemet-Nejat said...

"... 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 :-)