04-30-2013, 10:23 PM
Version 2 (major upgrade of stanza (?) II by 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.
II. (brilliantly copy-edited by Heslopian)
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
with a hangover bathing in the stinging heat
of an afternoon, coming up too soon,
I shook my messed-up head laughing retrospectively
about the postcard selling boy, who
showered me with a torrent
of broken tourist tongue bird calls
earlier today in front of the Blue Mosque:
Mavi Camii.
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.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Original:
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. <<<< thank you, Tom
Somebody should have taken a photo
to quick-freeze that moment of cozy euphoria.
Shaking off seasickness on a sightseeing boat in the stinging heat
of a late hangover afternoon, I shook my messed-up head
laughing retrospectively about the pushy picture postcard selling boy
showering me in front of the Blue Mosque with a torrent
of broken tourist tongue bird calls.
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.
----------------------
* "I çok teşekkürler ederim-ed him." id est: I thanked him very much
** was originally this mess:
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.
tic: Gadda* would have called it "Quer pasticchiaccio brutto!"
The reason (this to Tom) why I am rushing through this is, because I have three more parts of my Turkish travelogue. (ankara, Kurdish! Antalya and Elmalı (a mountain village to the Northwest of Antalya, the toponym meaning ironically enough: Avalon (or better:Ynys Afallon ! ,-) )
-----------------------
* Carlo Emilio (Italy's Joyce)
link to his master piece
http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quer_pastic...a_Merulana
----------------------------------------------------------
(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.
II. (brilliantly copy-edited by Heslopian)
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
with a hangover bathing in the stinging heat
of an afternoon, coming up too soon,
I shook my messed-up head laughing retrospectively
about the postcard selling boy, who
showered me with a torrent
of broken tourist tongue bird calls
earlier today in front of the Blue Mosque:
Mavi Camii.
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.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Original:
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. <<<< thank you, Tom
Somebody should have taken a photo
to quick-freeze that moment of cozy euphoria.
Shaking off seasickness on a sightseeing boat in the stinging heat
of a late hangover afternoon, I shook my messed-up head
laughing retrospectively about the pushy picture postcard selling boy
showering me in front of the Blue Mosque with a torrent
of broken tourist tongue bird calls.
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.
----------------------
* "I çok teşekkürler ederim-ed him." id est: I thanked him very much
** was originally this mess:
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.
tic: Gadda* would have called it "Quer pasticchiaccio brutto!"
The reason (this to Tom) why I am rushing through this is, because I have three more parts of my Turkish travelogue. (ankara, Kurdish! Antalya and Elmalı (a mountain village to the Northwest of Antalya, the toponym meaning ironically enough: Avalon (or better:Ynys Afallon ! ,-) )
-----------------------
* Carlo Emilio (Italy's Joyce)
link to his master piece
http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quer_pastic...a_Merulana
