Tag Archives: Turkey

Camp Follower

13 Saturday Mar 2021

Posted by in Architecture, History, Humour, Photography, Travel

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Turkey. Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart

He did me a favour as I found a low denomination note under the stone seating in the amphitheatre after he left. It wasn’t his, but he slowed me down so that I noticed it!

Homage to Cappadocia

12 Thursday Dec 2013

Posted by in Arts, Humour, Music, Poetry, Suttonford, Travel, Writing

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Flag of Turkey.svg

A crescent moon hangs over the airport,

its smoky aura a faded flag

unfurling to greet weary travellers.

The sun rises on fierce Taurus mountains,

while an orange seller opens his stall,

ready to squeeze any thirsty tourists,

dud Ataturk coinage at the ready.

Jewelled pomegranate juice is bitter:

Bitte schon, bitte schon, the fervent cry.

From the coach window slim minarets pass,

jabbing upward like propelling pencils,

whose secret calligraphy is noting

Islamic history on the skyscape.

In a field a lone cotton-picker wears

a balaclava-benign terrorist.

His eyes meet mine for a second’s fraction.

In the amphitheatre at Aspendos

a pseudo Roman centurion climbs

purposefully up the marble ledges,

kisses my hand; claims we’ll be together

forever, because he wants a photo

which he can charge me for, striking a pose.

Rebuffed, he then looks ready to crumble

like the masonry and retreats backwards,

dropping a five lira note in his wake,

sad confetti for a failed love affair.

I disentangle myself from a scarf

draped round my neck by a woman who knows

how to persuade me that her gift is free.

A straight-jacket of guilt ensures her sale.

Blue, glass evil eye is pinned to my chest,

but fails to protect me from bargaining

for a fine silk carpet I did not want.

A feral cat stretches over roof tiles

and a sandy dog curls up in the sun.

Soon the call to prayer will be ascending.

The dervish will rotate one final time,

realising his tomb is not on Earth,

but in the hearts of the enlightened.

How can I ever be his resting place

when all I see is from a moving pane?

Mum, that’s really good.  You should publish it online when

we get back, encouraged Drusilla Fotheringay who was

looking over her mother’s shoulder as she wrote her

perceptions down in her diary.  Show it to Dad.

They were sitting in the sun at Pigeon Valley, having some

apple tea before going on to The Fairy Chimneys.

No, your father would correct it with red ink and would give me

a mark out of ten.  Once the teacher..

Mum, are you two going to get together, do you think, or….?

She looked around for her father, but he was standing looking

out across the chasm and appeared to be deep in conversation

with someone from the other tourist coach.  The same company

was shifting various groups around the sites in a different order,

but today they seemed to have their charges in synch.

Both men were wearing cotton hats and very similar long shorts,

their look completed with orthopaedic sandals and dark socks.

It was then that she noted that they wore identical t-shirts

emblazoned with Britten Concert Dec 2013, St Birinus Middle School.

The face of the other conversationalist seemed familiar.

Mum, Drusilla whispered.  Don’t look now, but it’s that conductor guy-

you know, the one from the school concert.

Mr Poskett? replied her mother.  Oh, what a bore!  What’s he doing

here?

I don’t know. Your evil eye amulet doesn’t seem to be

working!  You should ask for a refund!  Look out!  Here he comes!