In the resisting wall embroideries of Hagia Sophia,
or in its mysterious tombs
In the memory of years,
in the mystic scent of a cup of coffee
sipped at the Markiz
In the specks of dust that
arrive on the Seven Hills
with the burden of the past
and make love to the sunset
In the lace worked Gothic mosques,
in the domes of Orthodox churches
In the rainbow colored skirt folds
of the Galata whirling dervishes,
embracing the Golden Horn
In a wish made by the light
of a candle lit at St. Anthony’s
In the aged wine scent beneath the Historic Peninsula Wall,
where for centuries every newcomer
has been made to say “cheers”
In the Judas tree colored acoustic melodies
of Hagia Irene and the Süleymaniye
In the Gülhane garden
where Theodora and Hürrem swept by
In the mastika liqueur that
left the guild and spread across the whole peninsula,
too restless to stand still, belly dancing away
In the brass door knockers asking,
“Are you from inside the Historic Peninsula Walls, or from outside?”
Sometimes in the manner of a lead singer
in the light of a nightclub,
its eyelashes heavy
In the fallen pole of a trolleybus
on the Şişhane hill
on a rainy day
In the blazing fire of the Patrona Halil Hamam,
still smelling of rebellion
In the smile of the concubine at Seraglio Point,
watching the islands through
the cries of the Harem
In the wooden mansion of Edirnekapı,
pine shaded and fragrant with honeysuckle,
where Aunt Eleni lives with her cats
In the manuscripts cooling
in the shade of the Old Booksellers’ plane tree,
noting down the past and memories
At Galataport, which has taken over the watch,
and at its neighbour across the water,
the Spice Bazaar, with its Turkish delight treat.
In the tea of serenity,
mingled into the garden of the Green House,
which Gülersoy touched
and made worth sharing
In Sulukule and the Peninsula’s walls moats,
where Yeşilçam, the old Turkish film industry,
once ran wild
In the treasure the Grand Bazaar at Beyazıt
keeps hidden under its pillow
In the bread of the Albanian meatball shop in Balat,
gazing over the bay
In the pigeon nests of the Historic Peninsula Walls’ gates,
Silivrikapı, Edirnekapı, Mevlanakapı,
lined up by the sunrise
In the fire tower of the Darülfünun,
at which the Galata Tower winks
In the Alemdar quarter,
where a Roman coppersmith’s synagogue
and the sash of the Virgin Mary
blend into the call to prayer
In the graveyard silence
under the great plane trees of Eyüp Sultan
In the summit of the Column of Constantine,
whose majesty seems drawn from Apollo,
as from a sacred relic
In the eternal hideaway that
Tevfik Fikret painted behind the mists at Aşiyan
In Safiye Ayla’s ghazal,
stretching from Fener to Dolapdere
In the cobblestones,
awaiting the delicate sound
of heels along the narrow streets
In the purple-marble sarcophagi,
withdrawn into the garden of the Archaeology Museum
In the dungeons of the Fortress of the Seven Towers,
of a lover screaming into the darkness
In the rustle of the porters’ baskets
carrying drunks at dawn,
or the market load
In the boza cry through the streets
of a tenor hidden in the dead of night
In the sip by sip clear water purity
that the water carriers brought by donkey
In the whirling Semah turns
that read a person through the rare streets,
a gift of the cosmos
In a sip of Vefa boza,
seated at the heart of history
on a winter day
In the geranium scent blooming in every color
on the wicker latticed bay windows
In the tray of clotted cream yogurt carried
on shoulders all day,
street by street
In Pierre Loti, who still waits
in Eyüp for the love of Aziyade
In the minaret of the Fatih Mosque,
at peace with the Church of the Holy Apostles
In Medusa’s gaze among
the tearful columns of the Basilica Cistern,
sunk into the earth
In the crystal water flowing
from the holy springs,
or in Helvacı Baba’s votive sweets
In the scent of purple acacia,
blown in from the distant Princes’ Islands
and left hanging on the soul
In the Flower Passage,
right in the middle of Independence Avenue,
drunk on the accordion’s melody
In Damcıoğlu’s “hazelnut worm” cantos,
spreading from Direklerarası to Saraçhane
In the bridal-veil vines that
cover everything like silver wire
from the top of Telli Baba Hill
In the dawn cry of the seagulls
that have glided through the air for generations
In the thrashing of a horse mackerel
in a little fishing boat,
whispering,
“Don’t worry, I’m still here”
In the Tepebaşı streets of Pera,
mingled into a porcelain teapot
In the farewell longing of Sirkeci Station,
with a glass of wine
In the flag race of
thousand year old footprints,
still walking, still carrying history,
even when concrete is raised over them
In the signature of a book in every tongue,
inked onto the Sublime Porte slope
In the waves of the Golden Horn at sunset,
which fit no painting and no photograph
In the breath-race of Zürefa Hill,
stirred by the Karaköy quay wind
In the Dolmabahçe symphony of trees
swaying, saying,
“It was granted to me too to sway on your shores”
In the gardens and pavements,
where every flower suits it,
where a different fragrance comes
At the center of the world,
marked by Sinan
with the green marble of Şehzadebaşı
In the chocolate taste of a profiterole eaten
on a winter evening
after the Emek Cinema or the Şan Theatre
In the mosaic conversation
that Saint Savior of Chora,
patiently awaiting Judgment Day,
left in trust to Kariye
In the Golden Horn taverns
that still hum with oud and saz
In that unique din composed together
by bells and hymns
In the Palace of the Porphyrogenitus,
which adorned the peninsula in blue with its tile kilns
In the lavender-scented trousseaus of Mahmutpaşa Hill,
stretching down to Sirkeci
In the bright white marbles
of the Grand Post Office,
cool to sit by in the summer heat
In the deep therapy of Saint Therapon,
witness of history on the Gülhane wall,
calling to people
In your patience,
which washes itself in history
when everyone withdraws,
and readies itself for the morning
In the patterns plastered
with thousands of glances and words,
clear only to those who love
You are there, I know
You are there, I know
I left you what only I know,
and what only you know:
my whisper,
my dust,
my gaze,
my touch,
my prayers that have no language
Thank you for accepting, Istanbul.
written by Aşur Horoz
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