Oh Türkey, O Türkey,
wherefore art thou Türkey?
You Osman of old, you
Ottoman so bold, who
rode upon the haunches of destiny,
in six centuries of Caliphate history,
astride the swiftly flowing Bosphoros
riding bright as phosphorous,
across our grand confluence of East and West.
Safe passage through your Dardanelles’, we do request,
if it please you, sir.
Do you concur?
You, oh Sultan of Sogüt,
insistent besieger of Byzantium,
you, Conqueror of Constantinople,
extinguisher of the Caliphate,
you, Ankara anchor of that ancient Anatolian
soul, born and raised up in Konye of old.
You, brash instigator of Young Türks!
What mischief lurks
behind your Izmir eyes,
that glisten now as stars arise
beneath a crescent moon,
to induce some dervish swoon?
Do you even comprehend
the golden-sashéd man who still yet stands,
with lampstands in his angels’ hands,
holding forth your seven stars,
between Patmos’ sands and Akhisar,
strung like bright’ning Pleides pearls,
as His ancient scroll unfurls?
Tags: Akhisar, Ankara, Bosphoros, Byzantium, Caliphate, Christianity, Constantinople, Dardanelles, Hagia Sofia, Islam, Istanbul, Izmir, Osman, Ottoman, Patmos, Pleides, poem, poetry, Turkey, Young Turks