busra gumus


Behind the beehive


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

Büsra Gümüs

Ripped Jeans


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

Büsra Gümüs

Leaves nothing


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

leafy appearance

to slow dance with

Büsra Gümüs



YAH ART DAYS vol.2 – illustrami 5, young art hunters, milano


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.

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via bramante 13 20154 milano



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