The sky behind the bluff catches fire and burns Down the clouds, spreads to the peaks Above the bay; the wind changes and turns The waves into dolphins racing to break The headland toward the open sea. The squall breaks over us, not from sky or hill, But out of black crashing ocean spilled Over sprits and masts of the fishing fleet, Water grapples mooring posts and clambers Paylines, spuming into the streets. The dwindling wick of sun is pinched, Fury reels keening on the pitchblende wind that roils Among the palms, fronds flicking verdant fire, Savage swords in the caverned dark.
Patrick sent this story to me, along with several others, on 25 Dec 2013. This one tells the story of the Zambak, chronicled elsewhere indirectly.
Billy Bielmeyer and I were sailing in the Bay of Izmir in his tiny Pirate dinghy. The hills of Izmir rising up on all sides from the deep blue sea bristled with minarets. It was the hour when the muezzins called the faithful to prayer, but you could not hear them out where we fizzed along on the sea, the main and jib flaphappy in the stiff breeze coming off the land. The wind was hot on my cheeks, and I felt Continue reading “Zambak”
Here is the boat I bought for 500 dollars in Izmir. The first day out, after getting her fixed up, a storm tore up the mainsail and blew us onto a sand reef. The captain of the fishing boat who pulled usoff lost a finger in the winch. We (bandmaster Billy Bielmeir and I) spent the night in the bar of a safe harbor, while helicopters andrescue people searched after the storm cleared. The next day we tied up what was left of the mains’l and using that and the jib, we limpedback to the yacht club in Izmir. Meanwhile the newspaper AKSAM hadreported us lost at sea and supposed dead. The photo shows Mari receiving the news. Continue reading “Lost at Sea and Supposed Dead”
The Black and Marmara seas breed gypsy souls Among the Turks. The brown and umber shoals Of shade, beneath the parrot green or blue Feathered waves, shivering to spew Onto land with raucous breakers, flicker dark And light like wrinkled, laughing eyes. The blades Of sun in slashing arcs like Dervish swords Go mad in colors that the nomad hordes Had never dreamed in barren hills by Bor; Here by Troy each man becomes a song Of red and yellow like the single birds Whistling in the open air as they soar Toward the pines at Hissarlik where goatherds meet at dusk, a dusty harlequin throng.