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    Erdinç Durukan
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    The poem describes a heartless lady who is asked for help in a solitary hour. She is compared to being as vast as an ocean and her indifference is like a wound that confuses one's sense of being. The speaker's soul feels under attack and his heart beats heavily like the pounding of waves, as his despairing head strains towards death. Within his certainty, something hostile trembles and grows bitterly like a harsh plant at the source of his tears.

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    The poem describes a heartless lady who is asked for help in a solitary hour. She is compared to being as vast as an ocean and her indifference is like a wound that confuses one's sense of being. The speaker's soul feels under attack and his heart beats heavily like the pounding of waves, as his despairing head strains towards death. Within his certainty, something hostile trembles and grows bitterly like a harsh plant at the source of his tears.

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    11 views1 page

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    Erdinç Durukan
    The poem describes a heartless lady who is asked for help in a solitary hour. She is compared to being as vast as an ocean and her indifference is like a wound that confuses one's sense of being. The speaker's soul feels under attack and his heart beats heavily like the pounding of waves, as his despairing head strains towards death. Within his certainty, something hostile trembles and grows bitterly like a harsh plant at the source of his tears.

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    of 1

    Made of wave in ingots and white pincers,

    your furious apple health stretches without limit,


    the trembling cask in which your stomach listens,
    your hands daughters of wheat and sky

    How like you are to the longest kiss,


    its fixed shock seems to nourish you,
    and its thrust of live coals, of fluttering flag,
    goes throbbing in your domains and mounting trembling,
    and then your head slenders into hairs,
    and its warlike form, its dry circle,
    collapses suddenly into lineal strings
    like swords’ edges or inheritance of smoke.
    DONALD D. WALSH

    TYRANNY

    Oh heartless lady, daughter of the sky,


    help me in this solitary hour
    with your direct armed indifference
    and your cold sense of oblivion.

    A time complete as an ocean,


    a wound confused as a new being
    encompass the stubborn root of my soul
    biting the center of my security.

    What a heavy throbbing beats in my heart


    like a wave made of all the waves,
    and my despairing head is raised
    in an effort of leaping and of death.

    There is something hostile trembling in my certitude,


    growing in the very origin of tears
    like a harsh, clawing plant
    made of linked and bitter leaves.
    DONALD D. WALSH

    37

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