JOURNEY TO EDMONTON
The buses rumble and roll,
The cars wind and honk,
The shopkeepers display their wares outside of their doors
To customers, real or imagined, sifting past or gazing out from upper decks.
So much is going on, you see nothing, it’s hidden in plain sight.
They sell strange underwear, hair extensions and, under awnings, coffee
Is crafted and drunk by Turks, whose voices are warm and jagged.
High clouds pass overhead, you do not ask anyone why
This or that is happening, only continue, perhaps overhearing:
“At Wood Green, Turkish films are shown, please go here if
You wish to see girls enjoy themselves through excessive weeping
At the fate of a woman who has hit her head, lost her memory,
So that her devoted husband must leave post-it notes in the kitchen
To remind her to keep looking, looking for her gone forever mind,
Returning with white faces, shaken by sobs, unable to properly
Eat. At the bus station, their tears are forming a shallow lake,
But a small businesswoman’s dreams of expansion remain unsatisfied.
These children with almond eyes, their wise uncles drive Porsches;
Horns outside nice homes of a summer evening, call them out.
Although there are strong women enough to prepare Mercimek Corbasi
and Rulo Borek
The boys will not stop talking to them: no wonder they are distracted.
Furthermore, these soldiers of Edmonton stand accused of fighting,
And the girls are driven onwards just like dogs and chickens.
Sometimes a Saturday morning can seem like this,
But why would a private tutor dare to complain?
Even in these indifferent times
Children from the Bosphorus continue to keep on growing.
The government is eager for our taxes,
But how can we afford to pay?
We know now having boys is bad,
While having girls is for the best;
Our girls can always be married off to the neighbours,
Our sons merely desirers of golden times and faster things.
Have you not seen how on the borders of Edmonton
Ancient bleached bones of takeaways are left to be harvested?
The young people don’t care for injustice, the old men weep,
And you arrive late, as if from heaven, to hear their voices laughing.”
The buses rumble and roll,
The cars wind and honk,
The shopkeepers display their wares outside of their doors
To customers, real or imagined, sifting past or gazing out from upper decks.
So much is going on, you see nothing, it’s hidden in plain sight.
They sell strange underwear, hair extensions and, under awnings, coffee
Is crafted and drunk by Turks, whose voices are warm and jagged.
High clouds pass overhead, you do not ask anyone why
This or that is happening, only continue, perhaps overhearing:
“At Wood Green, Turkish films are shown, please go here if
You wish to see girls enjoy themselves through excessive weeping
At the fate of a woman who has hit her head, lost her memory,
So that her devoted husband must leave post-it notes in the kitchen
To remind her to keep looking, looking for her gone forever mind,
Returning with white faces, shaken by sobs, unable to properly
Eat. At the bus station, their tears are forming a shallow lake,
But a small businesswoman’s dreams of expansion remain unsatisfied.
These children with almond eyes, their wise uncles drive Porsches;
Horns outside nice homes of a summer evening, call them out.
Although there are strong women enough to prepare Mercimek Corbasi
and Rulo Borek
The boys will not stop talking to them: no wonder they are distracted.
Furthermore, these soldiers of Edmonton stand accused of fighting,
And the girls are driven onwards just like dogs and chickens.
Sometimes a Saturday morning can seem like this,
But why would a private tutor dare to complain?
Even in these indifferent times
Children from the Bosphorus continue to keep on growing.
The government is eager for our taxes,
But how can we afford to pay?
We know now having boys is bad,
While having girls is for the best;
Our girls can always be married off to the neighbours,
Our sons merely desirers of golden times and faster things.
Have you not seen how on the borders of Edmonton
Ancient bleached bones of takeaways are left to be harvested?
The young people don’t care for injustice, the old men weep,
And you arrive late, as if from heaven, to hear their voices laughing.”