Each Step A Dream In

The unreal is unjust. Dance has victims. Illusion is crowded. The dream has no way out. The reply has its destination. The question loves solitude. Istanbul invites my soul. The lost is populated.

The Princess Of The Nocturnal Loneliness

The beautiful nocturne undresses my brimming dreams. I close my eyes to lose the bounded nakedness of her in the felt eternal. I can hear her invitation to the memorable that evades the arrest of thoughts. Limited in our capacity we recall the remnants of our oblivion. The princess was late for the tale. Will you be? Is your address my love?

The Rage Of Reticence

The silence of the daylight
Please tell me, is this my fight?
Is what I am always told right?
All I dare is to dream you a night
Although I am just an ordinary knight.

The Staggering Verses Of Life

As life and İzmir together dines
The past and the future combines
The words that met the lines
In the rich flavour of the articulate wines

A Surprise More Than A Gift

I wanted to be present at my American host parents Ernie and Sue's daughter Jeela's wedding. However I missed the occasion in Ankara. Sue and Jeela were in İzmir on Monday. I was happy to join them at a dinner in a nice restaurant. It has been a long time since I had not spoken English. What I should have expressed was contained in my hampered words that suffered my influency. I realized how I neglected the beloved English. This arrangement had happened so fast that I did not have time to buy a gift as I appeared in this wonderful surprise. They had remebered me in the pictured wings of a bird that flapped Virginia in its artist's perch. The time I had bought a vase they were ready to fly off to Ankara. I had noted down something on the ferry on my route to work. I am sure we will meet somehow.

.

.

Not being able to attend

A special day of yours became a regret

That my memories cannot forget.

I hope this vase of sincerity will tend

The gorgeous flowers to apprehend

.

.

And another note was for dear Ernie and Sue who did not begrudge me their valuable affection and hospitality in Pilot.

.

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Just a small gift

That in time may drift

To wish you to keep

A thankfullness memories deep

In God's Rain

There is tomorrow in everything,
That the heart sing.
Life is catering,
What the days bring.

The poet is not a king,
In what words reign.
He has an eternal spring,
In God's rain.

The distance my loneliness had forgotten far away
Do you admit?
Love seeks the limit.

.....

These lines which were scribbled on a piece of paper was not dated as many others.

Lines Fall Out Of My Life

Here he walks into the night
With an endless fight
Deep in the heart of the light
With a mind confused of what is right
My body is tremblingly tight

Oh, lines fall out of my life
Just run scared into the daylight
And disperse my blight
As you fly out into the height
My fearful eyes meet the rife
Yes I know you might
One day welcome me to the bright
However, I am alone in a sight
Without a lover, without a wife

29/07/2004
Izmir

Flapping Out

I do not chase the lines in their scampering off. Most of the time, I started journeying without a pre-meditated thought, while the pen led me to the convulsive. Although some recurrent patterns exist, the form is inspired in the succession of moments getting dressed for the self. The destined does not capitulate to the expected. What is molded into, is not an artistic challenge. It is the curving language of a revelation. What was once curled and thrown out, had become what is kept. I have no idea where the drawings I had sketched during my university years are. I will try to share what has survived the day.

04/02/2006

http://feritbaskaya.blogspot.com My drawings

The Daily Sunday Still Afloat

You are killing your imagination, is it fair? Shouldn’t there be a way out to the fields of creativity? A documentary about architecture that I have seen on BBC guided me along the touch of the human on the space. The spirit becomes visible in the transformed lucidity welcoming nature in its inspiring perfection. As the light dances on the surfaces greeting objects, I questioned my world of numbers once again. Although it is another aspect of my unreality, I probed into the hilarious unreal with the meaningful in its musicality. There is no tune in my every day endeavours. Hollow sounds of repetition drown the excitement in me. Even a program in Spanish lured me into the realm of the different sounds melted into diversity. How long will I ignore the call in me? How long will I suffer in the web of numerical chic jacket? My independence is contingent on my will but I still endure the self-imposed capitulations. There is hope in David Bowie’s Changesbowie caress. There is still a room for taking refuge in the longed for denial of the captivity. My Sundays has become a series of confessions that I am helplessly got caught in. The song China Girl is a great expanse for a worthy travel into dreams as she says “Shhhhhhh”. I am stylishly a coward, being deaf to the vibrant in me. As the lines invitingly bend in my haunting visuals, I am ironically destined to walk the usual. My time grows into a wastebasket in the surrendered. My coasts are rioting as they enchant me to come out. Am I aware which way to go? Is the curving out a worthy blurred destination? The evolving incredible innate form is the harbinger of the should-be –formed. Is the unlimited a pant of exhaustion? In the desired to be melt into there is the ravishing puzzle to be occupied with. In this flow of touches, the revelation is a thrill. The entrancing hurry of shapes and sounds swarm along the city. The rational mathematics of physicality and the mind had been intertwined on a Sunday cruise. The soul is reckless to the aftermath. There will be times when numbers would serve me. They call me goal-oriented, despite the convulsive embrace of overwhelming oceans in me. A verbal street engulfed in Izmir is ornamented with the playful lights. Today David Bowie is my guest in my corridors. Why do I immure myself in my being condemned to an office while the daylight is a gift of chase? A bird always misses the brimming sky, in the golden cage games of the alienation. In time we still need servants. It is the progress we brag about. Music is the cure for the Beyond City of Eyelids. Another exasperation soothed by the beautiful. Another reaching out in recurrent words! Another Sunday! Another dance of the imagined! Life is a sunshine I am happy to indulge in. A room of my own, only frequented by me has become a musical hangout of my contemplation. As I share my Sunday ripples, there is the promise of a distant touch on the horizon, a canvas of dreams. A day will come when I would belly my sails toward the almost unlimited. A note of lunacy is heard in the simplicity of the plunge into life. Just a wonderful splash of colours, that is to be frozen in the soul, to be softened in the hospitable warmth. The streets are liquefied as images race one another. This heavenly hell of interference is passionately unbelievable. The admired is the inspiration for the tool of gratitude. She says…in my veins. 20/11/2005 The Daily Sunday…still afloat Friends can unsubscribe any time.

In An Enchanted Forest

The song of the slopes lulls despite constantly being reminded in the path, that you are not in her anymore. Unwound in the peace of the forest, you realize that the purple tulips are not yet awake. The fresh air celebrates your belated ritualistic appearance. The changing time is revealed in the bare trees that were once dressed for the spring. The pine trees are all faithfully green. Shining olive trees fringing the winding out invitation had put on their most attractive black beads once more. Birds must be out there in the audible, vibrant bushes while you enjoy the respite of your closed eyelids. The moment feels like past in the ambient music. Time passes by your eyes. The haunted dives into a world of dreams. The unfold knows what it misses as your steps rehearse loneliness. You draw in life in the determination of the chill that is eager to bring you to your senses. Being alone you are the witness that judges cannot do without. Reticence is her verdict. The canvas is the land where the painted return back in the begrudged.Still alive in my veins wandering the chant of the bewilderment.

15/01/2006

Let's Find Out Fragments of Joy and Sorrow

Henceforth I will compile what I turn inside out in my soul in English. You will hear the voice of my streets happy to be welcomed by the Gulf of Izmir. You will snuggle into my nights' lullaby and will dance in the rhythm of my dreams. I will bring you the harvest of oblivion. I hide in the beat of my heart's letters to the destined to be lost audience of days to survive. The gulls race along with the breeze that cannot leave the boat to Karsiyaka alone. Girls chase their beauty. Rapt at the influx, I rummage my life to find the meaning that can be tucked into the memorable. Bewildered I follow the steps as a fervent admirer. You have room in my ardent eyes. Let's meet in what I shall discover in days. Join me in your breath that accompanies you to my peacefulness. Love the turquoise of the Aegean touch in your mind. I will not begrudge you the flowers of silence. Words are gorgeous when your heart blossoms.