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Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Writing in the Rain

the rain smelled different in Paris,
a musky, green, sewery
shower milked from the Seine,
saturated boats spanning
the river, as did lovers before us,
we held hands with the rain,

the clouds were a Ferris wheel,
constantly turning, as
you asked me what rain
was in Turkish; and I had
wanted to play a little game,
as we walked along the Seine,

I dipped my finger in the rain
and wrote the word yagmur
on the sleeve of the bridge
that had stood faithfully
shouldering lovers unseen, but you
looked uncertainly at the scene:

you mouthed the word unevenly,
said it looked strange, and I had
smiled and shook my head,
pressing a rain-soaked finger
to your parted lips gently
as we stood by the Seine,

I explained how the g
was undressed; I gave it a hat,
took your hand to stroke it
through; like this ğ I said,
it silently marries the ya to the mur
to make the word rain:

I helped you mouth the word,
yamour and the word
suddenly came to life in your
mind; it's like the French word
amour you said; I nodded,
there was no more to explain,

we came to a deeper meaning
while lovers came out like stars,
to shine in the showery
romantic Paris scene
walking along the milky Seine,
as we stood writing in the rain.

From the collection: "From Paris, In Love" (Turkish Vistas) >>

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