Old Istanbul (Biographical) Poem by Bengt O Björklund

Memories of old Istanbul
surface at the closure of winter’s light,
smelling of forgotten alleys,
of water salesmen with horses and carts
seen through the tiny window
of a juniper lost in jail
late one dusty Mediterranean summer.

Children play on the dirt road
with kites and puppy dreams of flying,
not knowing the concealed city
that crawls adjacent with instant weight
for a loaf of bread today.

Hot summer winds softly moves
unbleached cotton curtains,
hung before bars of painted iron.
Cats sleep with content and purr
at the end of a selected bed.

Academic topics merges with images
of angles intriguing the here-ness,
matures into words that start to fall
with paint and songs of vast collective air
amongst harmed countries and their sullen flags.

Weed was holy in windows
tepid spring days when wind was
and tempered sprites longed.
The enhanced blurry bubble
spoke of Thomas, Dostoyevsky and Tagore.

The young man dared to be holy,
suppressing all old patterns of comfort and habit,
sleeping on pure wood,
looking for him
that observed the observer,
observing…