On a second thought, we never talked about why.
Welcome,
to, the, newsletter, round, two.
*poe-try is the task at hand.
*if you ever feel sick, push the button.
There is a bit of water around us and I don’t know where my good pants went. I guess I didn’t forget anything but I am not doing more to remember. Our footnotes grew larger than us, stronger.1 Having peer review sessions on the streets. Embroidering bespoke measurements on bellies. Leaning on corners, thinking of the self in strictly fictional terms, funding the poetry. Pens never die but they do, it is a self-sorcery for amateurs. Today, we are decent enough to take turns.
I want to tell you how maddening things have been, everything, the lines, the words, the rhymes, also the heights and oh, these times, quite brutal, unavoidable, indispensable, good, grrowth, thhis expansion, so stubborn, how mad all these references have been, how much they flew in numbers, how I forgot counting, countries, and the once stable formula for coming, shaking, my head, walking-walking, legs, waking, dating pages, not working, burning, (out), leaving, screaming, (in), and then the flow went out of control. good.
Byproduct* is a free-standing sequel to my previous newsletter of 19 issues, Mindspillings. Byproduct* is a secondary product derived from a production process or a chemical reaction. Byproduct* is for those who periodically hesitate to talk from first person singular.
All I think I am doing with this is to construct a reflective surface for the one who is looking to perhaps see themselves, perhaps an image of themselves, or even better, perhaps, to see the insignificance of what is often being reflected. To dismantle the image, any image. Constantly. Though I wouldn’t know every time what is there to be worked yet. I acknowledge it. Where are you rushing?
Please come forward if you think you scared me, I want to give you a kiss on the forehead and wrap you around a white blanket, pray you, put you in my pocket, pack you in my bags, check you in at the airport desk, pray we get through, security, pray we meet again.
Sitting down for a writing situation assumes this preceding, self-concerned importance of what one has to say. Starting with the first person singular (I, ay) to a sentence, the continuation of that role, of taking up space with words and perception, perpetuating the assumptions. and writing more. The more written, the more an inherent insignificance becomes visible, tangible. The more it is seen, the more grasped what is seen is not what is seen. Sentences shift. Passive form takes over assumed agency. What is relevant shape-shifts. Formlessness becomes relevant. The more understood, the more it cannot be unseen, what once was invisible, on a secondary plane. and the game starts. The game of the planes, and plans, of cartesian maps. Connecting the dots, dislocating the joints, to become your own reflective surface, many of them, many which correspond to each other as much as they don’t. Many which we should put into an exhibition but somehow we won’t. Arrows have been pointing to the right direction, wrong dot. The more you understand, the less you do.
And when not only the plane but everything else lands. I demand my life jacket. looking between my legs, under the seat, I demand an emergency landing.
*Below you can find a text I wrote for an open call that didn’t go through, meant to be an open letter for the critical by-passers of Boekhorststraat:
So the paper cuts the rock for once and I’m still holding the scissors. What happened to the handle on our back door? What time did you come home at night? Does it sound horrible when I say the only climate change that matters is the one we go through every fall?
I’m taking full responsibility for how I feel.
You’d think I’m running away but I’m not. I’m jumping right into it with a blindfold.
Things are now different mom. I still doubt myself a lot. Mostly when others doubt my intentions. But I am aware of my own power, I know why I am doing things the right way. I feel one with myself, with a few occasional interventions. Everything else is secondary, even you. I can’t imagine how heartbreaking this must be, coming from your child. You always told me to read the room. If I read books as much as rooms I would have been a better writer, maybe.
And you wish there would be a name for this reason. But that’s not how language works. Language does not work at all.
I used to be very impatient, then, I rushed through that too.
I see you soon. Much love,
Z.
NEW POEMS:
BUY MY ANTHOLOGY FEATURE:
LOOK INTO WHAT I’VE BEEN READING:
*Etel Adnan, Shifting the Silence
*Alina Popa, Square of Will in Square of Love
*Katharina Volckmer, The Appointment
*Haydar Ergülen, Bahçeli Rivayet
The work came to me first, as it was, quite naturally. Will you be able to tolerate assertiveness? And then understanding the methodology came after, one could say that’s why I’m backwards and not because I’m Turkish. I heard someone saying we don’t drink beer or wine there. Turkey will drive you drunken crazy.
BU.COK.IYIYDI...!
iyi,gunler.dilerim.zeynephanim...