(SR) 11: Hiking on Hisarlik
HIKING ON HISARLIK
We will either find a way or make one
Hannibal
BREACHING KAPALCARSI
O polymartic world emporium!
Where West meets East upon a nexus point
That are the grand bazaars, centaurean
Man-horse vaulting great continents, unjoint
By slender Bosphorus – Here, Constantine
Imagin’d his glorious, eternal
Bastion, confounding the grim design
Of Eastern hordesmens’ hoof-roads infernal;
I’d enter’d Turkiye by Pegasus,
This wondrous land becomes a nest for us,
Where prosper Sultans, kept forever young
By pristeen mausaulea, streams of birds
Appear, take perch – each immaculate dome
Agrees: “We’re more spectacular than Rome.”
ISTANBUL
I plung’d into a madd’ning, labyrinthine
Megacity metro; sign-by-sacred-sign
Names shone like glow-worms sufi saints employ;
Thro’ Yenakapi, Mecidiyekoy
Then Kagithane, an office there I made
In the Ottoman Archives – wide walls array’d
Maps of empire, tow’ring oer – from the Balkans
To Persia, banners flew like falcons.
I hopp’d upon a boat to Büyükada ,
Whose serendiptous, fumeless, esplinada
Feels Turkiye’s Portmeirion – chateaux rows
By hillside verdure crown’d – the whole bestows
A sense of sweet oasis on the edge, sea-girt,
Of sixteen million people, & their dirt.
COACHRIDER
What a relief, you made it chief!
In deepest Asian Istanbul,
The bubbling hub of Kamilkoc,
Serving Turkey, since 1926
I met Ozman on the coach,
His name means poetry in Turkish,
We sat there swapping DJ sets,
Heads nodding to the groove & the road.
I’m on the borders of being brilliant,
I mean, Mount Ida’s over there somewhere,
& across the Byron-swam Hellespont,
Anzacs died for England.
So, this is where the next adventure starts
The one that makes the blood pound in mens’ hearts.
DOWNTOWN CANAKKALE
The Turks they are a gallant race,
Gallipoli defiant,
The Age of Empires met their pace,
Then treat them like a client.
Now laugh, they, off those global games;
Contented, them, to be
Alive & thriving round the lanes
Of down-town Canakkale.
I took my camera to the streets,
Compos’d so many photos,
To show to Haydyn & to Keats
I am the Silver Rose!
For while art’s lust in me repeats,
Let’s follow! “Where?” “Who knows?
TO THE FUTURE STUDENTS OF MY GENIUS
When travelling in Turkiye I kinda lost myself,
So put up some videos of me singing on mi phone
& realis’d I was quite a cool chap, actually,
Went out for a street-stroll, strut in my stride
On the hunt for the tent I’d be needing that night
But were searching for ages, I’m like dont worry,
It’s time to live off yer wits, you’ve done it before…
From the edge of town, thro’ the maze which hid my digs,
I found myself stumbling into the center of Canakkale,
Thought ‘why don’t I try that first place, just in case,
That were clos’d early morning, when all I’d observ’d
Were rows of flashy sports shoes’ – to my joy it had
A little camping bit hidden away – bought a tent, sorted!
So, I’m not really a genius, I’m a complete fuckin dafty!
WHEN LORD BYRON SWAM THE HELLESPONT
As Leander, who was nightly wont the Hellespont to cross
Was thought a myth, so the deed was call’d a doubtful story,
No traveller endeavour’d, ever, Abydos to Sestos
‘Til Byron came – Leander swam for love, but he for glory
Upon a genial day in May, with Lieutenant Ekenhead
Of the Salsette frigate, after calculating the tides
They dove inside the icy currents that so rapid sped
No boat could row directly forth the stream that so divides
Asiatic from Europa, the waters chill’d by ices
From melting mountain snows, angular courses were forc’d
Forging four miles from one, but each a modern Dionysis
They swam like more-than-mortals, on reaching the other coast,
Emerge no better swimmers, of a feat on which both prided
Quoth Byron, “as Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did.”
GALLIPOLI
You can see what Churchill was trying to do,
Over in Whitehall with maps and busy brain,
The Central Powers would rely on, he knew,
The Dardanelles, & all that Turkish grain.
Besides, the Old Man of Europe was palliative,
Just one big sneeze and his knees would collapse,
But there’s not many Antipodeans who’d forgive
How one man’s plans would devastate the Anzacs;
& decimate and desecrate and blow to fuckin bits,
Malaria, & dysentry & endless runny shits,
Kitchener’s a cunt, the Abduls scrap like dingoes,
& all this Death is just to give the Turks a bloody nose.
“I’d rather be a ‘would-to-godder’ than die upon that ridge!”
“Come on digger, do your duty!” “War’s a privilege!”
GOKCEADA
I am what you call a ‘Front-Line Sonnet-Hunter,’
With a need to be out tracking down the most excuisite
Of poetical experiences – & when we find them
We’re completely justified in answering the call of our soul.
So, there I was, right, right in my fucking element,
Scrambling arcane rocks, scattering bleating goats,
& as I climb’d those proper steep & bouldery slopes,
Every step became a pleasure, I was feeling fit as fuck.
But, seeing how landslide-precarious the summit was,
& having the preservation of this, the vital necessity
Of finishing off the Silver Rose, I forego the very peak,
To sit, high enough, on a much safer precipice,
Wondering & planning the wonderful walks yet to come,
Tomorrow, & the day after, on this heavenly Aegean isle!
SCAEAN GATE
Stripp’d of world distractions by life’s timerats gnaw’d away,
To Canakkale sail’d back on a windy, muggy day
A coach fare bought for Afyon, then superglued my shoe
& set off marching south, Homeric questings to renew
The way was straight the sun lay west, bang goes the starter’s gun
A marathon of miles, so with a wave to everyone
Me watching whether in my times or ages yet to come
Feet eating up these meaty streets to the beat of my own drum
Foot sore I came on Troya, with delight I view’d that hill
Like Ataturk at Afyon, who, with an eager thrill
Lays out a map, leaps to his feet, hands rais’d to his Protector
Shouts loud & proud, now we, the Turks, have vengeance made for Hector
As joyous as the revelery cut short when out that horse
Leaps Odysseus, with twenty men, & open’d this gate, of course!
IN HOMER’S WAKE
Hiking thro’ a series of small Turkish towns,
With the same old chay shop & the same old men,
Out came my laptop instead of a pen
& I began to write; well before light
I’d broken camp by Hisarlik, lost my hat in the dark
Hats come & go, but sonnets are immortal!
As I forded the Scamander, Zeus sent a rainstorm
B,y black pipers led, spear-legion of rain-shafts;
Quick-witted, pitching tent in a red & random field
Starts an hour of dry-waiting, trainers like mudblocks
But alive – I’m not just surviving, but thriving
As inside these sonnets my love of life maintains
Its fullest force…
…all along the Trojan plains
I march’d on Tenedos, a poet in Lord Homer’s wake.
THE NEXT ISLAND
The Gods won’t halt my hike at Hisarlik
These Turkish sonnets set to delve on farther;
Yon Tenedos, rebranded Bozcaada,
O! Hanging basket blend of Grecian brick
& Turkish flavours! The next box to tick
In my lifetime’s island-hopping saga;
Malta & Sicily, Islay, Jura,
Gokceada, Büyükada – so fantastic
It is when mainland stresses left behind,
Purging life’s hectic heavings from the mind!
Above the town I sat, across the main
Mount Ida climb’d, the Muses use my brain;
“Where next?” I ask’d them, “somewhere in the snows
Of India, another Silver Rose!”
PHRYGIAN VICTUALS
Itinerizing lately, there is one
More city left to visit, Afyon;
I’d met a pretty girl in Manchester –
Halime by name -, Allah has blest her
With beauty, ziki, sense of humour too,
Her feelings golden & her meaning true;
We breakfast on pekmas & tahini,
We drive to the caves of Ayazini,
At the lion stone of Aslankaya
Rock carvings, vaulting epic time, inspire
Ruminations on which hand had made ’em,
Which of the ancient king-chiefs had okay’d ’em,
What systems of belief, which rituals,
& what the offerings of Phrygian victuals.
LORD BYRON NEVER GOT THIS FAR EAST
As cypress wood will sometimes need a laithe,
Even a poet sometimes needs to bathe,
Cleansing themselves before a change of scene,
These were the best baths I had ever been,
Presenting menthol-scented sauna rooms
& porcelain to lie on, with perfumes,
I’d had wood-heated hot-tubs back at home
& bath’d in Budapest like Ancient Rome,
But this was something else, some Muslim-style
Water, healing people; on marble tile
I sat, overheated, but ecstatic,
Staring at the ceiling with emphatic
Feelings – Great Gods of Poetry, leap inside
This spirit, keep on visiting my ride!
BLACK SEA BESIDE
In training for tours subcontinental
Starts a fortnight’s hiking, camping nightly
Amid gorge-torn Ballica, Istanbul
Beyond; from Tepeoren, politely
Nodding to burqas, & with proud men press’d hands,
Finding this idyll such a privilege,
First sonneteer to see these sheer, green lands!
As, “may your path be clear,” heard ridge-to-ridge,
My shatter’d Turkish earning directions
To rest my gout at Cavuzagzi Beach –
Where, editing these sonnets, in sections
(This world of tours & beauties ought to teach),
From fishermen I bought their final beer,
& dreamt of Argonauts who’ve landed here.
Mumble Words 