David M. Bennett

A TURKISH RUMOR IS A JOY FOREVER
(The Ballad of Ergenekon)

A Turkish rumor is a joy for ever
For those who start the witch hunts; it will never
Pass into nothingness, but still will keep
A life all of its own, not needing sleep,
Devoid of dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, he who’s wreathing
A tangled web of nonsense—void of worth,
Which binds us to the lower depths of earth,
Where noble natures yield to silly ways,
And all the unhealthy mindsets look for ways
To shun clear searching—is the height of gall.
His form of evil drapes a blinding pall
On faultless children: Such the quack, the loon,
Profs old and young, spouting a stilted tune
To simple sheep, who dip in ink their quills
In hopes of honing journalistic skills,
Careers prestigious for themselves to make
O’er unwashed masses; Liars who half-bake,
A faulty premise, then watch how it blooms
And poisons honest minds until it dooms
All hopes of those who wish, before they’re dead
To know what’s true from false and be well-read,
Avoiding fonts of xenophobic drink,
Pouring unto us from the minbar’s brink.

Nor do investigations of the kind
We’re seeing now in Turkey bring to mind
Inherent goodness, even with pretext
Of coup prevention; they are just the next
Point of a pendulum’s lurching hard to right;
And this one comes to get you in the night!
While simple souls think they’re a slave to fate,
Islamist militants are at the gate,
Who think those different from themselves should die.

Therefore, ‘tis with unhappiness that I
Will trace the story of Ergenekon.
The very mention of the name has gone
Into my being, as each wretched scene
Is growing dark before me as the green
Of one’s own bile: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear Ankara’s din;
Now while the government says hate the Jew,
And puts up posters of the vilest hue
In Taksim Square; and while the teacher trails
Herr Hitler treats in Kayseri, and fails
To nurture peace or love. And, as the year
Grows lush for AKP, I’ll smoothly steer
My liberal thoughts, for many quiet hours,
With everlasting hope that never cowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the crazies, ghutra-rimmed with spite
Spoil Kemal’s legend; for those who appease
The hate-filled crowds would bring us to our knees
And threaten Turkey, her amazing story.
O may no fundamentalism hoary,
See it half finished: but let heroes bold,
Defend with honor that sweet land of gold,
And keep her secular until the end!
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
This herald thought out to the internet:
There let its trumpet blow, and somehow get
Folks who can make a difference to succeed
In resting not til innocents are freed.

©Copyright 2009 David M. Bennett

A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOREVER

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
‘Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:

An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple’s self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
That, whether there be shine or gloom o’ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, ‘tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city’s din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I’ll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end!
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.”

John Keats (from Book 1 of Endymion: 1818)