The River

By Nick Conrad

                                                         the Paria River                   

The unmeasured moment suddenly

a chasm, a slot canyon, deep, narrow,

down which I raced, a river of tumult,

a flash flood careening off wave worn walls

bouncing into and out of dead-end

box canyons spilling storm driven through narrows,

a whoosh of air signaling my approach

as I churned on through each too snug slit,

each slim egress, each choke point, the rock

too smooth to afford handholds and me

brimming skyward, spinning spinned spun,

a canyon roar, gravelly voiced,

that started as an echo down

from the north edge of Bryce, a murmur

spilling out of Little Henderson,

a gurgle from Water Canyon, as mumblings

from once dry washes that soon were not just

mere meanders, but, a babbling made louder

by Tropic Ditch Falls, by the waters

from Mossy Cave and Glory Cove,

that rambled on out of Cope Canyon,

banking through Amphitheater

and Cottonwood Canyon, joining

in time Little Creek, the Henrievile--

itself a shout down from Shurtz Brush Creek,

from Paria Hollow--a surging

cacophony from Wildcat Wash on

past the Kodachrome Cliffs, joining

Rockspring Creek’s garrulous churning

waters tumbling on down past Deer Creek

Canyon; by Deer Range, a river 

guarded by the Toadstool Hoodoos;

the bone dry flats of Telegraph Wash

as if shattered anew its splintered

passes soon rain drenched washes dawdling

at first but soon dwindled down straights,

claustrophobic channels of swirl

and eddy, of riotous confluences

such as Buckskin Gulch where petroglyphs

told tales of hunters and the hunted,

of closed canyons gaping like knife wounds

to the east, of the Twin Buttes to the south,

of dinosaur claw tracks exposed

on a distant plateau, of spent cliff

flotsam stranded on Bone Yard’s slope,

of Chihuly-like wave canyons,

of Top Rock Arch eyeing The Alcoves

etched multitudes as I screamed past,

flooding the broadening canyon,

rumbling on toward Lee’s Ferry; there,

a muddy sluice, riffle quickened.

By Nankoweap, a fury long spent.

---

Nick Conrad’s poems have appeared recently in Acumen (U.K.), Blueline, Cloudbank, North Dakota Quarterly, Plants and People Journal, Red Rock Review Literary Journal, Stand (U.K.), and Third Wednesday. A poem of his was included in Magma Poetry Review’s (U.K.) special Anthropocene issue. His first book, Lake Erie Blues (Urban Farmhouse), appeared in 2020. His podcast for All Write in Sin City aired in 2021.

Self-Portrait as Anna’s Hummingbird

by Jen Karetnick

An American sentence acrostic

The largest of the smallest,

best in class for backwards flight,

flyswatter-hued throat—how

is such bustle even viable—vivid-

coated, a touch of brave

with a bit of bullshit, maybe

a symbol but might be a herald,

color-fast in rain, shies from

that which brings the wrong gaze or

bugs a perennial traveler,

can’t resist the neo-nectar, will never

take for granted the native license

in the art of levitation, hover,

and standstill.

---

A 2024 National Poetry Series finalist, Jen Karetnick is the author of 12 collections of poetry, including Inheritance with a High Error Rate (January 2024), the winner of the 2022 Cider Press Review Book Award. Forthcoming books include What Forges Us Steel: The Judge Judy Poems (Alternating Current Press, 2025) and Domiciliary (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2026). See jkaretnick.com.

Massive Mornings

by Angela Townsend

I wake overwhelmed more often than not. This is no fault of the mornings. They are merciful, predictable, tumbled smooth by underground rapids. I need them to be the same, or my electrons will lose rhythm and fly loose into the night.

The list is all rubber bullet points, buoyant and brief. Reassure cats. Say Lord’s Prayer. Thyroid medicine. Feed cats. Wash. Brush. Plead with bangs. Surrender. Scoop litter. Dress. Breathe. Email. Wash teacup. Reassure cats. Praise the Mercy for coffee. Surrender.

The world must be remade every morning, but I am made of dandelions. No matter how many times I hit good soil, I will blow weedy and frizzy tomorrow. It all feels enormous. I cannot handle it, until I do. The cats and the Mercy laugh. I laugh. I look in the mirror and remind myself to research headbands.

It is a fine thing to wake overwhelmed more often than not. It is entirely the fault of the mornings. They are fat caterpillars that undulate like cosmic disco larva. They are rude and proud and remember the beat.

The provisions are ludicrous, an embarrassment of gems. I have been looking at my cats’ shaggy pantaloons for years, yet I thrill again. They are Little Lords Faunteroy in nutmeg stripes. Spearmint Colgate makes my teeth smile at each other. My apartment is as pink as ballet. The water is as warm as I decree. This is the coffee that the Lord has made. My mother exists.

The world is remade every morning, and I wonder how anyone gets through the first hour without falling down ten times. I toddle through starry sameness. I will be excited tomorrow. I cannot handle it. The saints and angels laugh. I laugh. I finger the knots in my old desk and remind myself to touch more trees.

My mother became a psychologist when I was thirteen. She tells me I have been blessed and “tasked” with a busy brain. My mother will not use the word “cursed.” That is not what words or mornings are for.

I was the child who worried about the man sleeping in front of the pizza parlor. I also worried I might sleepwalk into the kitchen and drink Pine-Sol. I praised the Lord of polliwogs and gingersnaps but required a poster declaring “There Is Nothing God Cannot Handle Today!” over my amnesia.

A morning will never be less than too much for me. It has been hijacked with yeast. It only knows the word “yes.” It will double in size tomorrow.

---

Angela Townsend works for a cat sanctuary, where she bears witness to mercy for all beings. She is a multiple Pushcart Prize nominee, and her work appears or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Chautauqua, Pleiades, SmokeLong, and West Trade Review, among others. She graduated from Princeton Seminary and Vassar.

Come Again Another Day

By Rachel McKinley

You are picking dandelions in a rainwater lake, squishing the sopping petal in my palms, gifting me your wonder. I am a hippo, you say, barefoot bottom-walking, not swimming, because you don’t know how to do that yet. The water is murky now, churned by the exploration of trampling feet, curious hands. Your Crocs float; so do your brother’s sandals. Your sisters’ rain boots, haphazardly launched into the deep, are drying out on the pavement, as best they can. The water line inches up your body, invisible at first on your bare knees, creeping slowly to your thighs, your waist, your shoulders as you make friends with the water. The fabric clings to your skinny frame, a makeshift bodysuit that makes you seem taller and smaller at the same time. You discover air bubbles, fill your shorts and shirt, delight in the capture and release of what you (usually) cannot see. Your sisters, still potty training, scream that they need to pee, so we call a temporary halt, make plans to return in the afternoon. You cry at the caution that the puddle may be gone by then, may be absorbed into the ground, food for the dandelions, grass, and clover under the surface. I feel at home there, you say. As I dry your tears, I confess my fear of losing things, too.

---

Rachel McKinley is an MFA candidate and Graduate Teaching Assistant at the University of Alaska in Fairbanks. When not writing, reading, or homeschooling her four children, she enjoys hiking and attempting to keep plants alive.

Clouds

by Jeff Fearnside

When I was young, I wanted to climb

to the high places—

feeling life large in me,

in command of the views,

for the bodily satisfaction

of having climbed.

I’m now satisfied

to lie on the grass

and watch the clouds.

The distance from me to them

is exactly the same

as the distance from them to me.

Yet how insignificant I must seem

to them, and how astonishingly

grand they are to me.

Forms appear, morph:

now a loon, now a bat, now a flying monkey

from The Wizard of Oz.

A potato. A dog. A snail.

The Horsehead Nebula.

A ladies high-heeled boot.

They constantly move, change,

sometimes light, sometimes dark,

sometimes stretching their filaments

until they break

and disappear.

Yet even unseen

they’re still there,

dispersed, waiting

for the right conditions

to regroup and materialize.

A cloud is nothing

if not patient.

More forms appear.

Their shadows intermittently

engulf me.

Then they stitch themselves together

like cheesecloth over the sun,

straining its rays,

creating a single shadow

that engulfs everything.

To truly know

the immensity of things

one must be unafraid

to be small.

---

Jeff Fearnside is the author of two full-length books and two chapbooks of prose and poetry, most recently Ships in the Desert (SFWP,2022). His work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including The Paris Review, Story, The Pinch, Los Angeles Review, and The Sun.

Fresh As a Rose

Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar, Translated By Aysel K. Basci

Fresh As a Rose

Its every moment fresh as a rose

Made of glimmer and ivory foams,

Sleepy, wuthering summer morns,

Southern winds, and back-to-back dreams.

Dissolving, as if tulle,

On the shoulders of timid waves,

Its secret hidden in the air,

This blast, this spring… Mad kisses

And smiles hiding coral glasses…

How many sunsets did I watch on this shore?

Within the faint-violet clouds

How many bloody suns agonized

With the anxiety of distant mossy gardens;

Voices, like unreachable horizons,

A boat, burning in treacherous tides,

Pigeons, flying from our palms,

Fate that never leaves our sides.

---

Bir Gül Tazeliği

Bir gül tazeliği içinde her an

Fildişi köpükten ve parıltıdan

Mahmur, uğultulu yaz sabahları,

O üst üste rüya, cenup rüzgârı.

Ürkek dalgaların omuzlarında

Tül tül dağılanlar, sırrı havada

Bu cümbüş, bu bahar... Çılgın öpüşler

Mercan kadehleri gizli gülüşler...

Kaç akşam seyrettim bu sahilde ben

Bulutların solgun menekşesinden

Kaç güneş çırpındı kanlar içinde,

Yosun bahçelerin uzak vehminde;

Sesler erişilmez ufuklar gibi

İmkânsız sularda tutuşan gemi,

Uçan güvercinler avucumuzdan

Ayrılmayan kader baş ucumuzdan.

---

Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar (1901-1962) was a prominent Turkish poet, novelist, literary scholar and essayist, widely regarded as one of the most important representatives of modernism in Turkish literature.

Aysel K. Basci’s translations appeared in The Common, Washington Square Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Los Angeles Review, Columbia Journal, Adroit Journal, and elsewhere.

The Egg

By Beth Hendrickson

The ocean spreads glistening white until it hits a circular limit. The white wave sizzles onto the black heat of its shoreline. It halts because there has only ever been one being of infinity, and this white ocean is not it. A sun rises like a biodome. Like an apricot. Like a golden boil. Around the sun, the wave’s white edges flutter like the loose cheeks of a 100-year-old nursing home resident who is rolled to the dining room, given a cake with a single candle representing a century of flames, and told to blow it out.  In the wheelchair, her body fills space to allotted limits. Her edges crisp, blacken, and crinkle in the searing heat of her finite being. Someone has brushed blush circles onto the white oceans of her downy cheeks. In the end, both are alike—the white ocean with a bulging sun now setting, cooking, in its middle, and the woman sitting in the wheelchair. Both will be consumed, when it is time.

---

Elizabeth has been a riverboat deckhand, violinist, rock climber, and middle school math teacher (in no particular order). She was long-listed for Jericho Writer’s 500 Novel contest and has received National Scholastic Writing Awards. She lives in Pittsburgh, PA with her husband, two daughters, and a strong-willed dachshund.

a Noite

by gerrie schrik

a noite

Você já viu a Noite? Bem-visto mesmo? Sim? Então você sabe que as vestes macias dela são cinzas e azuis. Que mudam com a lua, o tempo, as estações...

           Na hora dos grilos e sapos encontrei com ela, ela me pegou pela mão e andamos na mata. Ela estava vestida de primavera; um azul profundo, cheio de vagalumes. Não sei se pelos movimentos dela, pelo vento, ou pelo voo mesmo, mas era uma dança de luz. De algum esconderijo uma Mãe-da-Lua estava chamando. Um Curiango respondeu. E a mata respirava verde. Mariposas boiavam no perfume de flores pálidas. O tempo ficou líquido. Mas o que mais me lembro é aquele azul profundo cheio de vaga-lumes.

dama da noite -
o luar coberto
de perfume

---

Night

Have you ever seen the Night? Really seen her? Yes? Then you know that her soft garments are grey and blue. That they change with the moon, the weather, the seasons…

            At the time of crickets and frogs I met her, she took me by the hand and we walked in the woods. She was dressed in spring; a deep blue, full of fireflies. I don't know if for her movements, for the wind or even flight, but it was a dance of light. From some hiding place a Potoo was calling. A Nightjar answered. The woods were breathing green. Moths drifting on the perfume of pale flowers. Time became liquid. But what I remember best is that deep blue full of fireflies.

lady of the night - 
moonlight covered
with perfume

---

Gerrie Schrik is an educator and translator who received an award for the children's story 'the Colours of Flowers' and had poetry published in Portuguese. She loves hiking and birding and lives in a small food forest close to a stream in the Piracicaba River Watershed in Brazil. Honouring and acknowledging the Guarani and Kaingang, the traditional custodians of these lands and waters.

Sea Change

by Sarah Fawn Montgomery

I am no longer

a woman who can

breathe underwater,

tread rising tide,

trade my voice

for the chance

to walk on land

pretend to love

a man who doesn’t

understand the void

of a cold open sea

strongest abandoning

the surface to survive

further in fathoms

that would burst

a body from inside

vessels wrecked as ships

made myth simply

because they could not

persist and I do not

want pearls for eyes,

prefer to wade alone

towards death’s ferryman

without proper payment.

---

Sarah Fawn Montgomery is the author of Halfway from Home, Quite Mad: An American Pharma Memoir, and three poetry chapbooks. Nerve, a craft book on developing a disabled writing practice, is forthcoming with Sundress Publications, and Abbreviate, a short collection of flash nonfiction, is forthcoming with Harbor Editions.

Watch for the Small White Flowers

By Amie Potter

Should I teach my daughter how to forage–to spot, for example, 

the Pennsylvania bittercress that might spring up as hope

to nourish her after a nuclear winter? 

Look for the leaves. They’re pinnate. Watch for the small white flowers. 

That kind, too, you take. See the fine hairs on the stems? The red veining?

(Or would a good mother lend purpose to chaos?)

Here are the seeds from the milkweed. Feel them. They’re like the scales

of a silken fish. Keep them. If anything happens, it is your job

to bring the butterflies back.

---

Amie Potter is a writer, gardener, and overly enthusiastic community college English professor. Her poetry deals with nature, trauma, and the underbelly of the domestic. She has also been published in The Hopkins Review. 

Old Man Jacobs

By Alan Bahr

A weed-covered field was all that passed for a community park, with shops on either side that begged for a coat of paint and paying customers. We were visiting my father’s hometown accompanied by my Uncle Doug, who was regaling me with tales of his youthful indiscretions. The stories were hilarious and told with the shit-you-say flair of a prison confession. They little resembled my father’s sober recollections, which made me wonder why Dad couldn’t be more like his older brother.

Doug nodded toward the park and said it had once been a ballfield. He chuckled and pointed to where the backstop had stood.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“How I blew up second base.”

I laughed, recognizing a prelude to another good story. “How’d you do that?” I asked.

“Got my hands on a stick of dynamite and a long fuse. Lit it and ran like hell. Hid over there.” Doug turned and gestured toward a building across Main Street.

I tracked his gaze and imagined him at my age, a teenaged boy cowering behind a shop wall, hands over ears, waiting. “What happened?” I asked.

“Made a big hole.” Doug let out a loud guffaw.

“I remember that.”

My dad whispered the confirmation in a way that told me what would follow: another dousing of cold water onto our day’s entertainment. Earlier that morning, he’d exchanged words with Doug that were as close to an argument as I’d ever heard pass between them. He told my uncle to be careful of what he said around me, which prompted a terse reply. It’s a free country, little brother. All my dad could do then was sigh in a powerless way and speak what had sounded like gibberish to me at the time. You think freedom is doing whatever the hell you want. Which is why apprehension follows you everywhere.

My father stared at the site of the old ballfield, then at the sad storefronts on either side of it. “Blew out nearly every window,” he said.

My smile disappeared. “You were there, too?” I asked.

Dad shook his head. “I knew better than to follow your uncle out at night. It took a month to replace the panes and clean up the mess. That’s what I recall.”

Doug looked down and kicked at the dirt.

“And there was that other thing, too,” my father said. “Remember, Doug?”

My gaze went from father to uncle, then back again. “What?” I asked.

“Tell him,” Dad said. “Go ahead. It’s a free country.”

Doug put his hands in his pockets and jutted his chin toward the second-floor apartment over a hardware store. “Old man Jacobs died that night,” he said. “Fellow didn’t make it out of bed. Not my fault. Heart attack, they say.”

We eyed the building, not saying a word, when the double doors opened and a chime sounded. We watched as an elderly couple stepped outside and walked away.

---

Alan is a recovering investment banker and former commercial fisherman. His short fiction and essays have appeared in Midwest Prairie Review, Circle Magazine, Banyan Review, Contra Costa Times, and others. He lives in the San Bernardino National Forest with his wife.

The "Sky Above Clouds" Just Looks Like the Sea

by Jamie Benner, After Georgia O’Keeffe

All lines are liminal

at rest on the horizon.

The sienna sky

leaves glaciers

like neighbors

dissociative expanses

cuffed in unfamiliar hues.

A ship’s corpse sinks

just out of sight.

Beneath, slip shapes

of pitch—

a mother, a calf, a sea

filled with strangers,

faced with a choice:

to splinter or stay.

---

Jamie Logan Benner holds a PhD in English from the University of Southern Mississippi and works at Acadian House Publishing. She previously served as Managing Editor at The Pinch, Product, and BreakBread magazines and Associate Editor at Mississippi Review. Her writing appears in Prairie Schooner, New Ohio Review, Barrelhouse, and elsewhere.

White Man's Footstep

by Jim Krosschell

It arrived in the baggage

of the Puritans,

and spread as they did.

Wherever they dug a road

or slashed a wood,

there it grew, weedy.

But Maliseet and Cree

learned to eat its leaves,

to apply them as a salve

to wounds they suffered.

Plantago major

became a useful citizen,

naturalized to the New World,

unlike those who brought it in.

---

Jim Krosschell’s poems and essays have appeared in some 70 journals, and he has published two essay collections: One Man's Maine, which won a Maine Literary Award, and Owls Head Revisited. He lives in Northport, ME and Newton, MA, and is Board President of the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance.

Magenta

By Miles Liss

The sky’s an orange river in this city of thieves.
Gray or blue, the clouds trail overhead.

This is no doomsday scenario
even if the world is slowly fading.
Everything’s rich with life, except maybe us.

Try not to think too much—
just listen—a drop of honey.

The clouds are heavenly silent. They pick up
the magenta of the sun and carry it with them
like a command across the sky.

---

Miles Liss is the 2021 winner of the AWP Kurt Brown Prize in Poetry. A collection of his poetry and art is forthcoming from Death of Workers Whilst Building Skyscrapers Press at https://www.deathofworkerswhilstbuildingskyscrapers.com. He lives in Northern Virginia with his wife, the poet Zakia Ahmadzai.

The Barred Owl of Tree Hollow

By Janay Garrick

“You here for the owls?” the man flings open his Ford truck’s white door, his accent, southern. “Damn things. Up all hours of the night. Goddamn neighbor,” he points across the street at three old oak trees where them damn things live. “She puts out half a rotisserie chicken every night on her back deck. Keeps ‘em around.”

I, myself, am pleased with the goddamn neighbor, whoever she is. A Barred Owl baby above my head just now. Black-eyed, close-set, mottled gray peeping down at me. The baby moves her head elliptically right, then left. Clockwise then counterclockwise. She’s hip hop, she’s feather and flow—she’s got some bounce to her ounce. Delightful! How could anyone possibly call her, Damn Thing?

Baby Owl practices the short sprint, the fly-hop from oak to oak. She lands, at times, too close to a vertical branch and hasn’t the room to retract her wing. It’s clear: she’s no idea how long those things are, nor of what they are capable. Her wing scrapes the branch, she tilts left, tilts right, but does not fall. She wobble-walks, she side steps like a country-line dancer. Look at her feathered down! Her silver ballet skirt made of tulle.

From the family of Typical Owls, Barred Owl’s call is commonplace, a loud “who-cooks-for-you” most frequently heard at night. No wonder the man can’t sleep, Who-Cooks-For-You carrying on like she does—all night—like some 1960s, bra-burning feminist. I picture the man in the thralls of two a.m. pillow-plumping sleep, thrashing, kicking straight then jackknifing, then straight-as-a-board and cursing. Lots of cursing. This pleases me enormously. Barred Owl, she’s done her do. Sometimes birders say her call sounds like this: who-cooks-for-you-all. She’s real southern.

I strain my neck, tilting toward the treetops. It’s dusk dark. Where are the rest of them? I wonder. He said this was a family of seven. The no-see-ums pinch, yip, irritate. I swat, smack, ignore. They persist.

The Barred Owl is nocturnal. She hunts at night. When agitated, or defending her territory or her babies, she sounds like a French Bulldog. Her bark ascending, rising into a hoo-wah, loud and drawn out. This is a Big Old Deal. Ruckus raising. Her big, flat-faced, blunt-headed bark; her blunt-tongued, bar-breasted feathers in a ruffle. Do not invade her territory. She is revved up.

I look up to her.

Lightning’s heat has vaporized the water inside the oak tree, but the steam does not blow the trunk or the limbs apart. There, Barred Owl sets down wing and pulls up perch. She grafts herself into tree and limb, homemaking where wind has done its damage and lightning has flung its fiery tail. She is strong and resolute. She thinks outside the box, the bars, and barriers—what the oak tree calls disaster, Barred Owl calls home.

---

Janay Garrick writes from her grandmother’s pink secretary desk in Northern California. Influenced by the poetry of witness and resistance writing, Janay desires her art to speak back to the centers of power. Her work has appeared in Narrative, TriQuarterly, Eclectica, and Memoir Land among others. Connect with her: janaygarrick.com.

We Took It All

By Laura Rockhold

We went mid-morning, under a clear sky,

to walk and listen as we do in the woods.

First, we saw two trumpeter swans gliding on the lake,

holding themselves as sacred as their other, we said, loves for life.

In the marsh, we saw four great white egrets wading,

each on their own path.

And three garter snakes sunning

their creative sides in the tall, yellow grass.

We saw six bass spawning by the bridge, giving up

something they think they love, for something they really do love.

We saw one bald eagle ascending

from the lowest to the highest point.

And on the lake again, we saw two loons and their reflections

as still as reawakening dreams.

We started on the path for home, and took it all

as a sign of something good.

---

Laura Rockhold is a poet and visual artist living in Minnesota. She is the inventor of the golden root poetic form and 2022 recipient of the Bring Back The Prairies Award and Southern MN Poets Society Award. Find her at: www.laurarockhold.com.

Copper River

By Faith Allington

I wasn’t born here,

I still remember hours of gold

I traded for the pine-pitch

of forests, for basins

of rainfall and snowmelt.

This far north, the fog 

is furrow-tongued 

and the mountains hem 

the dusk into place. 

This far north, the blue silk 

of the Pacific Ocean 

turns grey with longing.

Each year the salmon return 

to the place they were born,

orienting themselves on stars,

magnetite in their bodies

calling them home.

I watch from the shore

and feel the ache of them 

fighting the currents

to find the heart of their longing,

emerging at the last 

into no recognizable form.

---

Faith Allington is a writer, gardener and lover of mystery parties who resides in Seattle. Her work is forthcoming or has previously appeared in various literary journals, including Crow & Cross Keys, The Fantastic Other, The Quarter(ly), Bowery Gothic and FERAL.

Slowly Lightening / Yavaş Yavaş Aydınlanan

by Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar, translated from the Turkish by Aysel K. Basci

From a mossy emptiness,

A slowly lightening

Underworld universe

Is pulling me to itself.

A star distance away,

Hazily and timidly,

Shapes dividing the time

Are awaking one by one.

Oh, crystal chandelier, lit instantly

By a single breath of silence!

In this mysterious trinity

The sky is getting closer to us.

The light's geometry

Is your garden of eternity.

Listen and you will hear

The voices of the beetles and the bees.

I know, no one can take

Successive drinks from the same fountain.

Every breath is like a farewell

From these familiar shores.

Against all odds,

Which dove’s wing

Built this palace

With its frothy flutter;

And which hand extended

This golden cup from an empty night,

As the days’ red fruit

Leaked from a thought?                                 

Oh, constantly changing things

At the doorstep of a moment!

This lightening is waiting to play                                                                              

At the bedside of every dream…

---

Yavaş yavaş aydınlanan

Bir deniz altı alemi,

Yosunlu bir boşluktan

Çekiyor kendine beni.

Bir yıldız uzaklığında

Uyanıyor birer birer

Ürkek bulanıklığında

Zamanı bölen şekiller.

Ey sükutun bir nefeste

Yaktığı billur avize!

Bu esrarlı müselleste

Gökler yakınlaştı bize...

Aydınlığın hendesesi

Sonsuzluk bahçendir senin;

Dinleyin geliyor sesi

Arılarla böceklerin!

Bilirim kimse içemez

Üst üste aynı pınardan,

Bir veda gibi her nefes

Alışılmış kıyılardan.

Hangi güvercin kanadı

Köpükten çırpınışında,

Bu sarayı tamamladı

Her tesadüfün dışında;

Ve hangi el boş geceden

Uzattı bu altın tası,

Sızdıkça bir düşünceden

Günlerin kızıl meyvası?

Ey eşiğinde bir ânın

Durmadan değişen şeyler!

Başucunda her rüyanın

Bu aydınlık oyun bekler…

---

Aysel K. Basci is a writer and literary translator. She was born and raised and Cyprus and moved to the United States in 1975. Her work has appeared in the Columbia Journal, Michigan Quarterly Review, Los Angeles Review, Adroit Journal, Aster(ix) Journal, Tint Journal, Bosphorus Review of Books and elsewhere.

Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar (1901-1962) was a Turkish poet, novelist, literary scholar and essayist, widely regarded as one of the most important representatives of modernism in Turkish literature. He was a professor of aesthetics, mythology and literature at the University of Istanbul. Although he died more than 60 years ago, his writing and poetry remains very popular.