Jill Rees: Welcome Press

My Imam

Crisp heat rises on water,
harem-blue stained-glass
cutting the sallow patterns
of my sinewed heart,
veering round impassioned
traffic on Taksim Square,
swayed by old songs in new versions.
Hairy-armed men laugh as
they gaze critical and hungry
at European blonds. Your brow
thickens. You judge judgement
and find it lacking.

I am a woman of a thousand sequins,
taken from my jealous home
by idle curiosity. You’re a man
of dreams and firm convictions.
I sit in the dolmus imagining
your fiery hair flowing
behind you across the plains.
My dolmus breaks down
And I am escorted home
by a snow-capped man
who expounds Turkish hospitality.

Another writer smiles and gasps
at forbidden books, Jane Austen
and jail sentences.
In my mind you raise
your arms on the minaret
and sonorously call the dawn:
‘Prayer is better than sleep’.
Rising red behind tower blocks
the sun’s wind fiercely blasts
your robes. In fear and trembling
you stand firm,
and I want to stand by your side
(in your heart women are not forbidden,
my Imam) and raise
the tempests of change,
chant freedom into the
dungeons of the enterrored
as they clutch their scarves;

and I, I was blown here
into your arms.

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Tags: Istanbul, Poetry