Büsra Gümüs is a Turkish-German poet born in Hamburg in 2000. Though unimpressed by poetry in middle school, she eventually started scribbling verse as a distraction from class. She likes to experiment, both in subject and form, and has written poetry ranging from imaginary encounters to daily womanhood, from cryptic nostalgia to romantic monologues. She currently studies English and French philology in Berlin.
YAH ART DAYS vol.2 – illustrami 5, young art hunters, milano
illustrami: greatest hits, almach editore
I wish wine stuck on your lips like honey does
So sweet yet so hurtful
All I taste is the deafening buzzing of the beehives
A swollen tongue, for my words sting me more than you
And a heartbeat, is it yours or is it mine?
Indeed, you familiarized me with the bittersweet chagrin
and my burning hands with the vain, that comes with deciphering the many
voices inside the combs
still, all I hear are sounds estranged to my imagination
where are the unspoken words, the ones that resonate in my head?
The ones I dream your lips form?
Perhaps when stains of Bordeaux draw your body,
And move your heart onto your eyes
Perhaps then you will face
Perhaps when honey dares to drip from your lips’ curves
Onto mine, when drops of yellow dance on my face
Perhaps then you will confess
Perhaps if I turned into a rich bee,
One with no cobweb hair from the ever-lasting wait, the unloved’s bitterness
Perhaps then you will kiss me
you did not deserve the lipstick stains flying through the air that separated our
perhaps just my simple words
for that my lips were painted I don’t recall
nor my voice that resonates in your ears, I’m not your memory, I was never there
I could’ve used it to speak about
the poetry of dead men not of those who
wish me that
your gaze is so cheap, a supermarket
object (I am not)
I did not know still legs could wave to you
as though my they formed an angle just for your gaze
forced eye contact it was – uncomfortable
and my hands shake
in red or did I just imagine
they run a marathon between the anxious and the concerned
it’s just me who is; the heads around me are yellow and our conversation could
start a fire
that would burn him, but they don’t speak
and he doesn’t flee
your nails filthy, my skin pure
do you feel by my quietness seduced?
oh, how pathetic you thought I was
juvenile fresh; has the gold ring on your
finger ever been touched by a baby’s finger?
how unusual, even when your world falls everything keeps going- literally
the train’s movement, conversations about bliss
is that what bliss is supposed to be?- getting away from what is women’s deadly destiny?
in fact, it’s nothing like fate, when people gamble
is a man’s intention a prize to win?
yes, I am here; and I will be
for those who never had the chance to resist
and now; among heavenly clouds, towards peace navigate
the leaves whirl; and imitate a waltz
-which reminds me of your cheery gaze
until; as though calling for me,
they fall, one by one,
placed on my window and dance
together with the butterflies in my stomach
they spell your name
when I try to reach for your tangible appearance
you disintegrate; did my touch scare you away? leaves nothing but foam gone
astray; now you sway back to the clouds: the sky and my heart’s grey
oh, a déjà vu with the fog! if only the open window caught the shape of your
to slow dance with
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