Marmara memories

[heslopian]

Version 1.1 corrected and copy edited with the the help of our semi-Scottish master critic Tom tectak. Cheers to you with Guinesses and Kilkennys. And because you do not drink beer, with a glass of single malts from the islands to Eire.


I. With our cocks aiming at the black murmuring waves of the Marmara
as we peed staggering on the Galata Bridge,
I was wondering if the Dutch bloke next to me was a crook.
Somebody should have taken a photo
to quick-freeze that moment of cozy euphoria. Good verse. Pleasantly vulgar and easy-going.

II. After midnight electricity had died and the town laid asleep and the cobble stones grew under my shoes. I waved a cab, showed my little hotel calling card to the cab driver and we chugged on over.
He to me: You are German, me to him: yes, I am, he to me: oh fine, I need a job, me to him: oh fine to know, he to me: I want to invite you to my house, me nodding. It was not a house but in the midst of Eminönü an acherontic dungeon. His friend was sitting on the table and we got into a bottle of raki and soothed our gorges by eating a bowl of hıyar salatası, cucumber salad. The three of us by then a drunken still life in a late August night with our tongues dancing over matters not mattering. It is true, that then I blacked out falling over what they insisted upon calling a table and the taksi şoförü driving me home-sweet-home back to my hotel, where I crushed into slumber and when I woke up , my purse of course was not there and I stumbled into the lobby and lit a cigarette and there he was, my cab driver, with my purse and my money and I çok teşekkürler ederim-ed him*. He said, I give you a buzz once you are back to Almanya(acı vatan : Deutschland bittere Heimat). We hugged and I strolled to the town down and then to the Galata bridge, making fotos all the time but lost my camera afterwards and only noticed that fact when otobüsing through the light green plains of Turkey heading for Ankara with three hours drinkless and jumping into another cab bringing me to my new hotel, kara koyunlu , black ram.

I'm sorry, but this second section is really, really horribly structured, if one can even say that it is structured. It's just a block of text lazily dumped onto the screen with no thought or care for how it reads. There's nothing really wrong with the words themselves. On the contrary, they convey an interestingly surreal, even Kafka-esque, narrative, with bizarre dialogue and strange events, but couldn't you have put a sliver of effort into their presentation? It's like if Shakespeare just scribbled his plays on reams of paper without ordering them into blank verse, or even differentiating between dialogue and stage direction. Here's my proposed re-structuring of this section:

"After midnight electricity had died and the town laid asleep and the cobble stones grew under my shoes. I waved a cab, showed my little hotel calling card to the cab driver and we chugged on over.
He: You are German?
Me: Yes, I am.
He: Oh, fine, I need a job.
Me: Oh, fine to know.
He: I want to invite you to my house.
(I nod.)
It was not a house but, in the midst of Eminönü, an acherontic dungeon. His friend was sitting on the table, and we got into a bottle of raki and soothed our gorges by eating a bowl of hıyar salatası (cucumber salad). The three of us were, by then, a drunken still life in a late August night, with our tongues dancing over matters not mattering.
It is true that I then blacked out, falling over what they insisted upon calling a table, and the taksi şoförü drove me home-sweet-home back to my hotel, where I crushed into slumber, and when I woke up, my purse was of course not there and I stumbled into the lobby and lit a cigarette and there he was, my cab driver, with my purse and my money and I çok teşekkürler ederim-ed him*. He said: "I'll give you a buzz once you are back to Almanya(acı vatan : Deutschland bittere Heimat)."
We hugged and I strolled to the town and then to the Galata bridge, making fotos all the time, but I lost my camera afterwards and only noticed that fact when otobüsing through the light green plains of Turkey heading for Ankara, with three hours drinkless, and jumping into another cab I was to my new hotel, Kara Koyunlu (Black Ram)."

III. Shaking off seasickness on a sightseeing boat in the stinging heat
on a hangover afternoon, I shook my messed-up head Could a break go here, making everything from "laughing" to "who" its own line? That, I think, would make this verse a touch easier on the eye. laughing retrospectively about the postcard selling boy who
showered me You may want to mention the bird calls sooner, like so:

"the postcard selling boy who
showered me with a torrent of broken tourist tongue bird calls"

Otherwise I'm left picturing the boy actually wielding a shower nozzle for too long a time. in front of the mavi cami Should "mavi cami" be capitalised? or Blue Mosque with a torrent
of broken tourist tongue bird calls.

IV. Invited to the luna park by a group of young people I met at a tea garden,
I was sandwiched between them in a neatly packed cab,
touching half-involuntarily the right side of Meryem’s
dangerously curvaceous body. Our sweaty forearms
communicated coyly and to avoid instant marriage I
later that night had to jump in a bus destined for the countryside. Like the first verse, this is pleasantly easygoing and fun to read.

There's some good writing here, but you really need to sort out that second section. JMHO, of course. Thanks for the read