Sinopem, or, Nostalgia

the homeland enters the main vein

her incomparable scent penetrates each body cell  

one stunning aroma after another

 

thirsting for her, beyond any measure

in hunger pangs

captive in intense longing

etched in permanence into memory

 

my childhood in many of her spaces

carefree years of my youth

the magic of my early adulthood

unrivaled, 

in the flesh and the blood,

distant memories,

reappearing as experiences 

 

one corner of homeland

distinctive delight

an all-embracing town,

in unison with the sea

unlocks the long forgotten.

There, where it stretches out

onto the cheery harbor

main street peeks into ancient-old tea gardens

and more sea hugs the salt factory:

Right there, Divan café,

as alert as ever before, eyeing the old prison of the inner bay

not bothered by its maturing bent

sated with ancient echoes from devouring local specialties

on a mouth-watering decorative plate

by my childhood eyes and arousing sighs

a huge piece of revani "befitting my sweet-tooth-fame,

topped with ice cream -vanilla beans,

delighting generation after generation after generation

eight in total, the loved ones of mine

 

 

farther away lies the artery of the town

extending the slender path to Ada, the famed island

a ribbon bouquet in an April 23^rd  parade

Çocuk Bayramı, Children’s Festival

flowing, in sync with streets so open, alleys so hidden

sweeping from each home 

a memory of mine

making one anew

 

my eyes locked on the path to Ada again

the town’s highest peak

one short look away to the left and the right

the sea struts its clear blue wealth and might, unabashed

like the beauty of the town’s women, young and old

and there,

a breath away

right before me

with its mysteries of my childhood

that spectacular home  

 

its paint an ashen hue now

wooden bricks, all worn-out

still standing high in aging humility

vies to breathe a little longer

its decades-old glances down upon the sea,

a tenderness on the soil, of a new mother’s hands

on which its roots are spread, soon to finally rest

ornate windows reaching toward the immense blue of the sky

Alas! Dear beings of mine

no longer there to warm its insides

 

on the entry steps

my mother

ever so young

ever so pretty

cheerful, too

my heart then wanders onto the captive past

a child of very young years on the faded print

her father arrives from work

through one of the colossal front windows

seated next to her mother:

a briefcase in one hand

on his head a wide-brimmed fedora

flattering to his stately height;

the child glued to his leg

a very dear soul of mine

my grandmother, however, remains in the dark

I cannot pick her out - I have never known her

in one faded photograph alone 

my mom next to her, her face, in the light

but, the baby on her lap

that must be the other dear being of mine

the one beloved soul in whom none of us could take much delight

stricken by a fatal disease

bid farewell ever so young

 

next to me

the unique scent of my mother

the warmest warmth of her heart

 

Author's Note

I hope you will find my story relevant to yours.

Reviews

[Patrick]

I can't believe no one has commented on this yet. I'm not a free verse expert to be honest but I did pick up on the rhythm, 'flowing, in sync with streets so open, alleys so hidden ' - an example of what I liked.
In additon the story is so warming and engaging. The final line one of beauty

[Thomas Fitzgerald]

Sometimes, I'm sure you'll agree, free verse is all to greating on me. However your style of telling a story, both within the wording and imagery outplays this cliche, thank heavens. The one thing that strikes me though, is the fear you seem to display with conviction. It feels like your almost on the cusp of revealing your point of view, then you hide it, with intellect of course, but hidden none the less, a well writte piece, great read.

[Coyote Poetry]

I like the description. Took me on a field trip with you in your words. I like the photo. It looked like a beautiful place. I like the complete poem. I like going on road trip by reading beautiful and powerful poetry.
Coyote

[r. f. jordan]

as were it to pick up from each home it leaves behind
a memory of mine
making one anew

this is stellar poetry, and these three lines above provide my favorite movement within the piece. there is an open flow to the verse, the meter is soft and foggy, the inner rhythm laps like the inconsistent waves upon a shore, since perfect rhythm is not natural nor all. this is transcendent language, and a pleasure to read.

[emmajoy]

WONDERFUL imagery .. and there's such a long golden stream of memories here.. making senses and experiences more and more alive as one reads. For me what rhythm there is is subtle, gentle, near hidden and because of this the prose dominates yet, remains lyrical.

This excerpt is special:
' its paint somewhat of an ashen hue now ~ its wooden bricks, all worn-out ~ yet still standing high with all its aging humility ~ vies to breathe a little longer ~ its decades-old glances down upon the sea, ~ a tenderness on the very soil, as if a new mother’s hands ~ upon which its roots are spread, soon to finally rest '

Wonderful writing, please post more.