Poems

Urla harbour, Turkey, 23 August 2009

by | Oct 2, 2009 | Poems | 0 comments

Sixty-three years ago
My mother gave birth
To me.
Now she is dead
And I am an old man:
White-bearded,
Salt-sprayed,
Sun-baked,
A grandfather
Bobbing up and down
In a water-slapped boat
At the end of the Izmir gulf.
The wild meltemi wind
Blows from the Black Sea,
Howling in the rigging.

Anaxagoras was born here
Who claimed the world
Was made of seeds
And the sun
Of red hot rocks.
He was banished
For saying that the gods
Did not rule the planets.

I say that neither men
Nor gods rule us.
What will become of me?