Hillary Keel: For Orhan Pamuk

"... to long to know more about this world, to understand it ..." from Istanbul, Memories of a City by Orhan Pamuk

 

In Istanbul

I long

for Istanbul

 

for the sweet

ugly men

of Istanbul

 

who catch

my eye

and it

goes straight

to the belly

a soft

thud in my

gut

in Istanbul – men have

this sweet

about them

dark-eyed and

boyish, they

sell corn

or carpets

they offer

tea and

a cushion

a place

to rest

while examining

wares

 

Ask a Turkish

man (in Istanbul)

with a

good command

of your language

"What is hüzün?"

 

The man will shut

his eyes in meditation

he will shake his head

speechless

as sea wind blows

through his dark curls

 

You will try

to help (as

I did)

and ask

"Is it sadness?

mourning?"

 

He will say

it is not sadness

and more than

mourning

"Is it melancholy?"

you persist

 

He will say

it is something

like melancholy

he will say hüzün

is hüzün

 

The men

of Istanbul

put an arm

around my

shoulder

throw scarves

at my feet

say,

"Can't you

say hello?"

"Please don't

break my heart"

"You only gave

me 10 Lira

and I have three

small children"

after a long

taxi ride

through dense

Istanbul traffic

 

This week

I long

for these men

 

Hüzün – loss,

spiritual agony

and the grief

attending it

 

I long to eat

bananas and honey

sip my tea

in a Galata Bridge café

watching seagulls

swarm on the stormy

green sea

as ferry boats

merge and maneuver

into place

 

I long for

Istanbul

in Istanbul

 

for its minaret

skyline, for its

domed mosques

and the wailing

call for prayers

 

Hüzün – spiritual

anguish

from not

being close

enough to Allah

for not being able

to do enough

for Allah

in this world

 

I long

for the man

whose prayers

I unintentionally

interrupted – don't

know why I

walked into that

room and there

he was, prostrate, like

a baby, like

an old man – such

sweet hüzün

about him

 

Or Ramazan

the one who

scrubbed me down

covered me

in bubbles, who

cleansed and softened

me as I lay

on heated marble:

my back, my belly

my ass, the soles

of my feet

I lay there

and he smiled

placing his fingers

just so, pressure

here, a caress

there, how he

knew his art

Ramazan I long

for you

 

They say

the absence

of hüzün

causes one

to feel hüzün

 

In Istanbul

I long

to dance

in a circle

of belly-dancers

shimmies jingling

our gold and silver

coins as we overlook

Istanbul's snowy rooftops

and the Marmara Sea

 

then walk

in a snowstorm

to Topkapi Palace

to admire the Topkapi

dagger and the Spoon-maker's

diamond

to walk through

the marble halls of

the Harem, its tiled walls

and golden fixtures

my breath steamy

in the frozen rooms

as wet snow falls

in the courtyard

–        and warm up

 

with tea while watching

the sea, rays of light

shining through

heavy clouds onto

Istanbul's three peninsulas

 

Hüzün in Istanbul

is a communal awareness

of glories once possessed

and later lost

 

Overwhelmed

by hüzün

I sit alone

in my room

eating pistachios

and Turkish Delight

bought from two smiling

young men of Istanbul

I read poetry by Rumi

on divine passion

in a book I bought from

two sweet young men

of Istanbul

who said, "You must

have this book

in your collection."

 

I sit alone

longing for divine passion

I fly

through the night

searching for divine love

divinely aroused

by Istanbul's divine beauty

by its hüzün

 

I am dazzled

by sparkling lamps

and labyrinthine

passageways, endless

calls, the arched

ceilings and frescos

of the Grand Bazaar

where men grin

and sell me

moonstones and bras

bedspreads and chest sets

where I drink ayran

and tea to get my

bearings about me

 

Istanbul

give me one more

sip of raki

one more puff

of sweet tobacco

let me lay longer

on your cushions

be your divine dancer

in the Galata Tower

let me shimmy

in your hüzün heart

and praise you

in my poetry

 

wandering uphill

on narrow streets

in your ferry boats

eating sesame rings

and my boots are

muddy outside

the Egyptian market

where cobblestones

have been torn

from the road

while sweet ugly

men wash their feet

outside the mosque

unafraid of the cold

in Istanbul