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Mega Sonnet Batch: 20 Takes on Turkey
by John Kendall Hawkins
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I. Teaching English in Overseas
I told my folks I was off to Turkey to teach,
and they panicked; I presumed they feared I would die.
They invited me for dinner: chicken pot pie.
We tossed back a few frosties and they tried to reach
into me and chastise my reckless soul. Why, son?
Got the giggles. Brought along a movie to watch.
Midnight Express. Oh, their faces when the Turks catch
Billy at the airport muling horse. He was done.
And when he gets to the dungeon, rape scenes galore.
(Me cracking up.) The grim furrows of their faces.
But that was not why I fell out of their graces.
They were crazed I quit my government job. What for!?
They'd grown up knowing some hard times, and I got that,
but I wasn't gonna be a G-man asshat.
II. Istanbul, Day One, Help Me*
What a trip coming into Ataturk Airport:
military bunkers, soldiers with machine guns
in Luggage, stress, me feeling all mission-abort.
And I'd read the tap water could give you the runs.
A man with a square-shaped head and sign called my name.
He grabbed my bags, mute, and we were off. But where to?
KozyataÄŸÄ ±, it turns out. I was shown my flat. Lame.
I looked around. Where'd my driver disappear to?
The coal dust in the air filled my lungs and I slept.
I had strange dreams. I could hear the muezzin calling.
Aygaz! jingled from a van's speakers as it crept.
I projected from my body, began falling
on a wind that carried me over a dark sea
and heard voices compete in a catastrophe
of wails, ululations and cries of ecstasy.
I woke up, made Nescafe, in lieu of coffee.
I felt like a ghost. The thought made me unsteady.
The shock of the new was getting old already.
* Experimental 18-line sonnet I'm rolling my sleeves up over.
III. Taksim Square by DolmuÃ...Ÿ
To get to Taksim we hopped into a dolmuÃ...Ÿ,
seemingly stuffed already, but there was still room.
Estrus, stray sneezes, the old guy smelling of doom.
"A great way to get around if you were in no rush."
Taksim's the place to be if you want Euro-fare
and to be around expats like you, lost, now found,
smiling, nodding at each other's tee shirts, bound
for retro tables, to be served steaks, German beer.
Folks do their shopping there for knickknacks to bring home.
Your eyes avoid the machineguns looking for Kurds.
Me and the guy in the Yankees tee exchange words --
he taunts, Bucky Dent at my B cap. I point: Comb.
And the massive overflowing baked potatoes!
And the Red Light district with the hot tomatoes!
Catal H%C3%BCy%C3%BCk EL.JPG
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IV. Ã"¡atalhà ¶yuk or Bust
At university I studied all
the ancient cultures. Matrilineals
tickled my fancy best. Ã"¡atalhà ¶yuk,
according to my used assigned textbook,
got the nod from secreting pineals
who saw it as the best hope since The Fall.
They did things right and didn't f*ck around
with clown shows and excessive displays of power,
said my feminist love to me. I winked.
We held out glasses of bubbles and clinked.
And later, natch, we made love. A wower.
The theses of her persuasion astound.
She says, Let's go anarcho-communist.
Sounds orgasmic, but maybe over-blissed.
V. On Buyukada
On Buyukada there are horse-drawn carriage tours
when you get off the ferry from KadÄ ±kà ¶y,
but they're not cheap, and you may have to wait, of course.
However, it's best if you go on foot, and it's free.
Most people stay around the harbor, fill the cafes,
drink cuppas, talk small, take snaps, look sightseer bored,
before shipping back to Old Istanbul to graze
the bargains of the Grand Bazaar, one with the hoard.
There's an old touching orphanage built by the French
that looks like some dry arsonist's wet dream come true;
it's just out of town, a small climb uphill. A bench
relieves the burden, provides a chance to construe.
I light a Camel, careful where I toss the match,
and look for ghosts peering out from a shadow patch.
VI. The Anatolian Peninsula
Anatolia is stuffed with scenic goodies.
There's "eternal snow" that you can look at forever.
And Treasure of the Sierra Madre fever
brought Indy Jones types seeking biblical booties.
The biggest trophy would be Noah's Ark, of course.
The ants went marching two by two -- that kind of sh*t.
I watched In Search of one time about the ark. Some git
going on with rhetorical questions or worse.
There's just so much that's happened in the region
that I couldn't sum it up; snaps will have to do.
It's said the Apostles sent scrolls to folks here. So...
I fought some goon in a bar on the Aegean.
If you go down in the flood it'll be your fault,
quoth the Bard from Duluth. White man's blues somersault.
VII. Leander, Hand on Her Knee
"Janie's Got A Gun" was playing in my mind. Oy.
I couldn't stop the goddamn thing's looping. Punch me,
I said to Jenny. She gives me a look, real coy,
then kisses me on the lips. I've got a hunch, see,
that if the ferry sank right this very moment
with us carrying on, nazar eyes watching us French,
my hand on her knee homeward bound to sweet torment,
that my honey pie Hero wouldn't even flinch.
The spell is broken not by recrimination,
some old Islo taking umbrage, but by rose tea
proffered by a waiter, his look, Know your station.
I pay the à §ayman, while Jenny looks out to sea.
Something about the Bosphorus, late afternoons,
stirring rose tea in tiny cups with tiny spoons.
Behrouz Boochani by Hoda Afshar.
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VIII. The Kurd Problem
There one of those diasporas you hear about
on the radio, NPR, drive time, a cause
to rally round, discretionary funds go out
where hearts are missing, class buffer zone sh*t. Hit pause.
Nobody knows where they live; they don't even know.
I guess that's the point; it is a moveable beast
driven by competing lusts. I knew a Kurd though.
Not really. I reviewed his keened book, but at least
he got some air time, as they say, but who am I?
I doubt that it did much but titillate the mind
for a few minutes; a sonnet having a cry.
Stop and go traffic; it's the bind leading the bind.
My Kurd's not homeless now, and the book made him rich.
I wish more homeless would write books. I've got an itch.
OurikaValleyCarpets.
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IX. Shipping Out of Istanbul
They nickel and dime you to death when they barter,
and they expect it, at least that's what the guide says,
but we were in a hurry to board the liner
that would bring Jenny and I to Izmir; finer
deals awaited us there; she had a carpet craze
and telling her to slow down was a non-starter.
I spent the whole time reading the Herald Tribune,
while Jenny slept next to me naked and happy
as a fresh-fucked rabbit, I thought. Yanks beat Red Sox.
No pencil, no crossword. I longed for a bagel with lox.
Jenny seemed to purr and I said something sappy,
my hand along her curvature, We'll be there soon.
In Izmir the carpet twirler-cum-salesman
conjured up myopic girls with fingers. Oh, man.
X. Efes Pilsner
Saw so many breasts in Ephesus, I was awed.
Goddesses, mama mia. Locals pitching in.
I was developing a complex of male gaze sin.
It was too much, and maybe it should be outlawed.
Jenny went looking for new pelf, and I hung out
at the hotel poolside getting slowly shitfaced,
ogling all the Artemises on the slide. Disgraced
by my half-stifled urge to call out. A real lout.
For some reason, I thought of President Carter,
the Playboy interview and his lust in the heart,
surrounded by young bunnies who gave you a start,
his October surprise, new eyes: he looked smarter.
Jenny shipped home her rugs and trinket treasure zen.
The statue of Artemis would go in the den.
XI. Carpets, Mosques, The Cistern
They just keep spinning the carpets, and just won't stop.
Some tell tales of weaving girls with ruined childhoods,
as they spin, as if to torture you. Look, mister,
each rug's a girl, he spins, and here is her sister.
Punishing me, he says, barter, wolf in the woods
blaming me for his Little Red Riding Hood shop.
And, frankly, I'm tired of the f*cking mosques, Jenny.
We take a break and have a bite down in the zoo.
Bleak-looking monkeys are out on the prowl for food,
bunker mentality pacing. Down went my mood.
Saw a lion so sad it broke my heart in two.
Jen looked strangely tender, took a sip, Want any?
In the cistern crazed Medusa returned our gaze,
and Jenny held my hand. Together in the maze.
Hans Speckaert - Conversion of St Paul on the Road to Damascus - WGA21655.
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XII. Train on the Plain
Clickety-clacking by train across Asia Minor,
gazing out at the farmers in the sun at work,
you have a lot of time to think about evil,
the nature of Mankind, the Fall, and the Devil,
channeling an apostle, say Saul, berserk
with suffering, ready to convert to the Word.
Lara in the seat across from me is from York.
We've been together five days backpacking, loving --
a keeper as they say, long legs catching the rays.
She's doing a doctorate, keened on ancient ways,
and she wears a golden necklace of doves singing.
She's way too good for me, plays Mindy to my Mork.
She's reading long passages of Wordsworth aloud.
I love her tender voice, but I hate Wordsworth's cloud.
XIII. Evil Eyes and Peacock People
Daft premonition of future panopticons.
Evil eyes on sale everywhere, an early sign
we've become an internetwork of things unseen.
No tourist leaves Istanbul without the blue sheen
of new insight glowing away in their old mind.
To me it looks like an eye glued to a wet mons.
I can't help that it looks that way; just how it looks.
Is it me or do folks here avoid eye contact?
And do I have the right to be looking for some?
Besides, the nazars don't work, the whole world's a bum
that long long ago succumbed to the devil's pact.
Sweet Lara is sifting through old deserted books.
Seen a certain way, the eyes meet yours from some goop:
spooky half-beings from the primordial soup.
XIV. A Cappuccino in Cappadocia
The cave hotel we stayed in was like The Flintstones,
and, though I was born a rebel, chattering teeth
didn't suit me, and I didn't care to see my breath
mingling with Bobbi's after making love's soft tones.
Next day all worn out from love and mind-seizing cold,
we toured the fairy chimneys, and climbed lower Earth
to maybe the world's largest panic room, with hearth,
me feeling fuzzywuzzied and like I got rolled.
I dunno, I think they charge too much for gimmicks,
postcards that say, Look at me: I survived stone age
accomodations written in sore a**hole rage,
that is itself a fake wink home to fellow dicks.
All you can do sometimes is sigh, hold her closer,
and do your best to avoid seeming a poser.
XVI. Eid of Destruction
Crammed minibus heading for KadÄ ±kà ¶y.
First time ever saw a goat's throat cut.
Fat goat all dressed up like a party boy.
I said to my mind, come back, ten-hut,
it's not your culture. If they needs must slit
throats to feel alive, who am I to sigh?
Few blocks later, another took a hit.
Was too dumbstruck to ask the reason why.
The baker held a bucket out to drain
the flow stream of his gorgeous slit throat soup.
Technically, I could see how his hot pain
could be dipped into the red Campbell's goop.
Everybody seemed happy, for it was Eid,
I'd not be shocked if they'd broke out in Lied.
XVII. Off with the Ferries
From KadÄ ±kà ¶y you can see old Europe.
Galata Tower, the Mosques, hint of Horn.
If you're lucky, you get some romance in.
Nothing too hot, nothing you could call sin.
Just feeling a warm stream, the summer morn,
maybe a little hungover. You'll cope.
Lara next to you, itching for some itch,
or, at least, that's your interpretation,
as you hold a blessed curve and she coos.
Coming into Karakà ¶y, we hear hoys
for fish sandwiches. Concatenation
of men, fishing poles waiting for a twitch.
Cafe nosh in Ä degreesstiklal Caddesi.
Later that night, it's the old loch nessie.
XVIII. The Gypsies of KozyataÄŸÄ ±*
Just around the corner, gypsies lived in squalor,
on a tiny lot, laundry on a line, stories
circulated about their ways, their sad lorries
telling the snapshotter of harsh life and dolor.
Word was that you had to stay away from the grifters.
If you made evil eye contact they'd steal your soul.
The men were nasty. The kerchiefed women weren't whole.
They feasted on yabancÄ ±. Maybe shape-shifters.
But this is the stuff of fear-mongers and not true,
you told yourself, left-pluralist to the core.
Yet still you felt for your wallet just to be sure,
skirted them on your booze runs, a street or two.
I never did get past taking snaps of their scene
and it's quite likely my snapshots were a stranger's preen.
A couple of weeks later, I did lose my wallet,
but gypsies weren't there; just carelessness I'd call it.
. * 18 line hybrid sonnet
XVIII. At Gallipoli Among the ANZACs
At the monument at Gallipoli, Aussies
circle, like pilgrims, around the Kaaba,
and catch up with mates, and sip at imported beers,
and carry on until Turks arrive, put on airs
of civility that sound like taunts. My lover,
Lara, urges me toward the trenches. No worries.
F*cking around, tore my new jeans on old barbed wire,
multi-millions of lira down the drain. Lara
snaps a photo and laughs like Ataturk's fob watch,
deflecting the cruel angst from my pathetic botch.
I goosed her. Tomorrow we'd head for Ankara.
There were "unique" carpets there she wished to acquire.
You look down at the bluff they had to rise above.
You go, No way, Jose. Glad you're with your love.
XIX. Whirling Dervishes in the Snow
In winter, we went to Taksim to the dervish place,
the snow falling pretty, Bobbi not ducking in time
as I nailed her with an icy fastball. The crime
was repaid in kind and then some; she wanted face.
Ended with the usual cliche; snow snoggle
with serious, maybe fatal, sexual tension,
as I lay across her parka, gave her a toggle,
and she returned fire in ways I won't mention.
We played like that up and down Taksim's winding streets,
from the square to the tower, down to the Red Light,
boo-peeking, ducking in doorways, peals of delight
ringing out all day long, wet snow falling in sheets.
That night we reached an understanding ecstasy,
spinning in each other's hot whiteness dervishly.
Made some lovely turksih pizza with my own twist toped with fresh herbs #lahmacun #turkishpizza #mincedmeat #tomato #parsly #herbs #basil #green #leaves #dough #baking #fromtheoven #food #foodie #foodlover #cleanfood #healthy #lunch #il
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XX. If I Only Had A Lahmacun
Jesus, this poor man's pizza is mighty tasty.
There's no cheese but you really don't miss it. The lamb
is spiced, the veggies are so fresh you just might cry.
And the price couldn't be righter. Becky says, Why
don't they serve these zesty wonders at home, hot damn?
I'd like to serve you at home, I go, too hasty.
Back home, of all the sights and sounds we left behind
in Turkiye, we miss the scents of lahmacuns most
and go out of our way to find recipe books.
I luck out, find a coffee table tome for cooks
who know the game and can finesse spice. Me, I'm lost.
Becky will be cooking. I'll watch her from behind.
We invite friends over to share our secret pies.
They wolf down those bad boy lahmos. Predator's eyes.
(Article changed on Jan 04, 2022 at 12:10 PM EST)
(Article changed on Jan 04, 2022 at 5:28 PM EST)
(Article changed on Jan 04, 2022 at 6:36 PM EST)
