Aytek Sever - Fluke

www.isaretatesi.com 

Aytek Sever 

Poems in English 

2008-2022

AYTEK SEVER 

Aytek Sever is a poet and translator. Born to Balkan immigrant parents in 

Turkey in 1981, he grew up in Bursa and received his B.A. and M.S. 

degrees from Boğaziçi University, Istanbul, and Middle East Technical 

University, Ankara. From 2012 to 2013, he was a visiting researcher at 

George Washington University. Since 2018 he has been the editor of the 

literary publishing website isaretatesi.com where several of his e-books also 

appeared. His poetry collections include Hiperbor I-VI (e-book, 2018), Siòn 

I-III (e-book, 2019), Moto Perpetuo I-II (e-book, 2021), and Anka (w.i.p.); his 

translations into Turkish include works by R. W. Emerson, W. Whitman, 

H. D. Thoreau, R. Tagore, W. Kandinsky, G. Stein, and D. H. Lawrence. He 

also translated Introducing Comparative Literature by César Domínguez, 

Haun Saussy, and Darío Villanueva into Turkish (2022). His translation of 

Whitman’s “Song of Myself” into Turkish was published on the 

WhitmanWeb under the auspices of the International Writing Program 

(IWP) at the University of Iowa (UI). He lives in Turkey and writes in 

Turkish and, occasionally, in English.


FLUKE 

Poems in English 

2008-2022

Fluke 


Cover picture: 

‘Suprematism No. 55 (Spherical Evolution of a Plane)’ 

Kazimir Severinovich Malevich, 1917 

First edition: İşaret Ateşi (e-book), 2023 

Fluke is a collection of Aytek Sever’s poems written originally in English. Some of 

the poems were published earlier in Sever’s Hiperbor (2018), Siòn (2019), and Moto 

Perpetuo (2021). The present collection, organized chronologically, also includes 

seven poems from Hiperbor translated by the poet from Turkish into English. 

Copyright © Aytek Sever, 2023 

Citation: 

Sever, Aytek. Fluke. 2023. http://www.isaretatesi.com/aytek-sever-fluke/ 

Published as an e-book on www.isaretatesi.com. All rights reserved. No part of 

this publication may be printed or reproduced in any form or by any means or on 

any other website or medium, currently existing or hereafter 

invented/introduced, without the prior permission of the author/copyright owner 

of the work. Please use the citation details given above for references. 

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Eserin tamamı veya bölümleri hiçbir yolla basılamaz, kopyalanamaz, eser 

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yayımlanamaz. Alıntılar için lütfen kaynak gösteriniz. 

No forms of machine translation or artificial intelligence have been used in the 

writing or translation of any of the poems in this volume. 


isaretatesi@gmail.com

To the folly of the inspired

“No poem is intended for the reader, no picture 

for the beholder, no symphony for the audience.” 

-W. Benjamin- 

“One does not think that which is not.” 

-Parmenides-

CONTENTS 

Proem (2022) …………………………………………………………. 16 

F l u k e 

How to circulate light in your head (2008) ……………………….. 20 

From Hiperbor (2010-2012, e-book: 2018, limited edition print: 2021) 

A poem of malfunction …………………………………………... 25 

Omen ………………………………………………………………. 27 

Arrangement ……………………………………………………… 28 

Un-blessed ………………………………………………………… 29 

Twist ……………………………………………………………….. 32 

Human figures ……………………………………………………. 33 

Impulse ……………………………………………………………. 35 

Resonance …………………………………………………………. 38 

Jazz …………………………………………………………………. 39 

How to play chess with yourself (2013) …………………………… 41

From Siòn (2012-2014, e-book: 2019) 

Arietta - I …………………………………………………………... 46 

Arietta - II …………………………………………………………. 47 

Arietta - III ………………………………………………………… 48 

Arietta - IV ………………………………………………………… 49 

Arietta - V …………………………………………………………. 50 

Arietta - VI ………………………………………………………… 51 

Arietta - VII ………………………………………………………... 52 

How did this happen ……………………………………………... 54 

From Moto Perpetuo (2014-2016, e-book: 2021) 

Perplexed ………………………………………………………….. 58 

An Americanism ………………………………………………….. 60 

Twins ………………………………………………………………. 61 

Dialogue divine …………………………………………………… 63 

From Anka (2016- , w.i.p.) 

Blank ……………………………………………………………….. 68 

Myth ……………………………………………………………….. 69 

Glimpse ……………………………………………………………. 70 

Brain ……………………………………………………………….. 71 

Ship ………………………………………………………………… 72 

Whatever …………………………………………………………... 73

Scale flair ………………………………………………………….. 75 

Glow ……………………………………………………………….. 76 

Sundry, Eve ……………………………………………………….. 77 

Spirit ……………………………………………………………….. 78 

Bomber sequence …………………………………………………. 80 

Day of dust ………………………………………………………... 81 

Raw Instant: A Booklet of Mantras (2019) ………………………. 83 

Translations from Hiperbor (tr. 2022) 

Swan ………………………………………………………………. 120 

Yellow hotel ……………………………………………………... 122 

Day ………………………………………………………………... 125 

East-West …………………………………………………………. 127 

Right now ………………………………………………………… 129 

Winter legend ……………………………………………………. 131 

Hyperzapping ……………………………………………………. 134


PROEM 

Any poem I wrote in English was a matter of impulse—solely 

writing down whatever it was that pressed. Hence, it was 

always some chance occurrence—a stroke of luck, if I may 

claim it to be, and a miraculous unlocking of an otherwise 

deadlock situation, both verbal and spiritual. 

Was it automatic writing? Only in the sense of being under the 

influence of a compelling drive—an inner, spontaneous urge: 

an outpouring of words, not so random but almost 

compulsory, as, quite often, entire sentences (or verses), 

paragraphs (or stanzas), and even the whole piece came out at 

once. Should I, for the sake of refinement, call it a kind of 

glossolalia? Perhaps. Better call it a fluke—one relished, 

descried, or suffered! 

Once the act of writing was over, the rest was the 

craftsmanship necessary to make it poetry. 

16


17


FLUKE 

18


19


HOW TO CIRCULATE LIGHT IN YOUR HEAD 

-instructions- 

to be read with eyes closed 

it is. 

To start with, you need to find the light—to detect where 

Light appears ex nihilo—or you make it appear as such (it 

is as if a lamp is turned on). You may find it close to the center 

of your mind, or, surprisingly, at the exact “center.” 

Once your light is there, reset it to where it is before doing 

the following: move the light, in a controlled manner, a little 

bit to the right, and immediately bring it back. This is to test 

the light—to measure its “momentum.” Repeat the same for 

the left. Lift it upwards and let it fall downwards; then recall it 

to the center (—never allow free fall!). Always keep in mind 

that the “center” is your origin of control. 

Having ensured that the light is yours, you can go on to 

make the light move in small circles. Determine an outmost 

margin for the largest possible circle; make your light reach 

that limit and return. Back at the center, you will find that the 

light has gained a magnitude of “intelligent mobility”—which 

20


you assigned to it. Let your light move in zigzags, bounce back 

and forth from the inner walls, and follow an intricate path with 

its dynamic swerves (—erroneous moves will be corrected). 

Any time you feel the need to check, you will see the light 

restore itself at the center. 

Let the light burst and go straight to the zenith—lose it 

for an instant, and then let it rain down and wash the cortex. It 

must be as if both brain hemispheres are flush with bright 

colors. The downpour of light will recollect at the base, just like 

a lake. Resummon it all from there to your origin of control— 

make it “evaporate.” 

Back at the center? Feel free to spread the light in all 

directions, and enjoy sensing it flow back shortly. 

It looks like you are in full control. Why not go all the 

way, then? 

Your light is one. Do not attempt to paint all inside your 

head with it, as this will render your present light nonexistent. 

Do just the opposite. Make it as dark as possible for your 

solitary light. When ready, “striking” it will make it multiply. 

Ready? 

It’s time for the Big Bang! 

21


22


From Hiperbor 

23


24


A POEM OF MALFUNCTION 

Upon the foreground of bay panoramas –upon the crosseye 

focus of my gaze– these bay-blueprints of mine that I 

impose fade into what is a mere obstacle for me to the view: a 

blind spot for vision that is impossible to penetrate. 

Captive in an opal glass cocoon, it is 

ever the same point of the translucent 

wall that I hit with the chisel. — 

Malfunction: moodless cognition. 

A bay—of a thousand pieces: each piece separate, each 

piece on its own—indifferent to the other. A thousand pieces 

that in total are not a bay. 





Lines, measures, proportions, curves: trying to perpetuate 

the manner in beauty turns out to be nothing but a power- 

25


nullifying technique. The manner in counter-beauty. Rigidity is 

the whole story. 





The notion of existence that accrued to me from endless 

days and nights of personal experience—does not suffice at the 

moment to invoke above the city the great questions of the 

immortal mind. 





The poison that is left of the finest things of my 

programmed day dissolves now late at night into my blood. 





26


OMEN 

You are well-dressed. Decent and kind, you are walking 

down the broad busy street. Careful though you are not to 

stand out, for anyone to observe, you are not at all disguised. 

Whatever is mismatching about you, just with a brief glance 

one can get the hint that you are not from here: an immigrant 

you are, here you don’t belong. 

You do not stumble, or stagger, but you are salient. Your 

shadowy mien and bleak conduct reveal that, despite moving 

elsewhere, you never forgot about your origins and ambiguous 

past. You are inconcealably dull and barren. 

You have a plan for the day, you have things to arrange, 

you need to go ahead, and you have an address in your mind. 

Just stay focused on the way and walk along—even though 

you see a cloud of calamity fifty yards down the street: 

whether a brawl, an ambush, or a commotion, whatever that 

gloom is, you don’t know how and why to avoid it, and have 

to walk directly on in—the way you have always been 

destined to make happen what will happen next. 

27


ARRANGEMENT 

They were the days of “Mighty summer, a perfect day to be 

living”—the pop melody that I filled with my very own spirit. 

Joy without reason! What an arrangement it was with the city 

that it opened its doors wide before me with the melody the 

key in my hand. The key to fulfilling exposure in boulevards, 

in parks, in narrow alleys. The key to potency. The key to 

conquest. The key to absolute relief. The key to the possibility 

of even being overwhelmed by a backyard corner busy with 

flies. —Not a thing to question! The city revealed all its hidden 

wonders, and I was there to exploit it to the end. 

All passion flowing into the facility of one simple 

melody, repeated a million times and forever ageless—only to 

wake up one day to realize that the key had all of a sudden 

become useless. 

It was in those keyless days that I came to experiment 

with alchemy, instinctive esoterics, and the art of undoings. 

28


UN-BLESSED 

Being un-blessed is a variant of being blessed. What does 

that mean? There are those who are blessed; and there are also 

those who are, deservedly, first blessed, then, unintentionally, 

un-blessed—till the next time they are somehow once more as 

blessed as before. The latter are the real ones when the case is 

being blessed or not blessed at all. 

Why would one live were it not for the sake of receiving 

blessing? What sacrifices wouldn’t we be ready to make to be 

blessed? We are dying to see the signs of blessing vibrate in the 

bliss-blurred contours of appearances. Then we feel fine to be 

there—being blessed. 

But there is this special case of being blessed, so much so 

that it turns, afterwards, to being un-blessed. This is not the 

same as never having been blessed. On the contrary, this is 

rather like being twice-blessed, or, in other words, being overblessed. 

However, the problem is that, now, the “blessingvibrations” 

and “bliss-blurs” are lacking from those “contours 

of appearances” where they should normally be—and yet, they 

are so subtly undone that it is almost impossible to distinguish 

their absence, because, as blessed, we had seen that they were 

there—that they could and, hence, should be there. That is the 

29


reason why being un-blessed feels confusingly fine! We have 

the knowledge of blessing even when it is undone in our blessed 

selves. So why not pretend (to ourselves) the full bliss at all 

times and in every circumstance? 

We are un-blessed but blessed! Thus, it all goes fine with a 

spoiled stomach full of faint hunger. We know what it is to be 

blessed, even while seeing with its full breadth the 

deprivedness of the soil of its brilliance! Feels fine. No 

problem. As there is the witnessed excessive profundity of 

blue. Somewhat un-profound though. Not to worry. 

There is something deliberately strong and intensive 

down to the field between the dull sun afar and the artificial 

flowers hereby. Voices descend down to the shades beyond the 

pine trees and, dying out, accumulate there without reason. 

How low-pitched… Still we go on, compelled so much to far 

and remote inland. We just can’t give up forcing it the way we 

are used to as those having experienced blessing. All the way 

to the dead-end impression above the dark bog that is there 

without reason (or with out-reason)! All the way—the gusts of 

the forest that are doomed to blow directly into the dead-end 

through any shortcut! Straight forward! The route is one and 

the same—we have to realize every time what we have already 

memorized. 

Being un-blessed, we have no choice but to be attentive to 

our “rendered-dreamless” vacuum that distorts our basic 

orientation. We are forever left to recover balance in a slanting 

orient. Of the mysteries of the hour, we, the un-blessed, are too 

30


much afraid. We are never able to abandon our voluntary 

gazes and our intended tints and reflections. We are the unblessed—we 

can never refrain from glancing whenever the 

compulsive moon beckons, even when we are sure that it is 

absolutely for nothing at all in the end. 

The worst for us is that we are—till the rotation of 

blessings brings us back to our original not-undone blessing. 

31


TWIST 

What a sage! 

Intense with presence, solemn and stark, full of dark 

aura. No apparent drama. Concealing gloom, prompting grace. 

In the face of duty, flagging prematurely. Urging power with 

whatever breath incapable. A well-engineered grin for a 

circumstance exhausted. Smart gesture for a failure registered. 

Resorting to former charm. Trapped in rigor, pretending 

vigor—to attain fatal substance and animal malfunction. 

Compulsively rehearsing rapture, destined for doom. 

Utterly funny! 

32


HUMAN FIGURES 

evil documentary 

ON THE EARTH. CITYSCAPES. 

MOBILE MASSES. 

PEEPING TOM OF SCIENTIFIC VISION: OBSERVING 

THE FLOW OF BODIES. 

(PURE BOREDOM, PURE INTEREST.) 

LOWERMOST ATMOSPHERIC LAYER THE SIZE OF 

HUMAN BEINGS. 

INDIVIDUAL BODIES ACTIVE IN DOINGS. 

OPERATING WITH FORCE VECTORS ON. 

CROWDS OF INSTINCT. ANIMATE CORPORA. 

(RANDOM BEAUTY, RANDOM UGLINESS.) 

MECHANICAL PRECISION IN ANIMAL FUNCTION. 

33


BODY STRIPPED OF THOUGHTS. 

BODY OBLIVIOUS: 

BODY GOES, BODY ACTS. 

34


IMPULSE 

I. 

the odd gleam on the contours 

of this favorably-shaped rock 

that I recognize so intensely now 

corrects my severe being 

that knows no relief 

were it not for to retrieve 

an emblematic sign 

pertaining to the ultimate 

approval of things. 

II. 

enormous clouds 

fluttering along dry heights 

with summerly elusion 

suddenly prompt 

a gaze in my eye 

beyond the urban expanse 

35


up to the hilltop 

leading me on 

to the primeval sun 

right on my forehead. 

III. 

gusts around 

the spiritually-full 

passive volcano 

perpetually urge the city to reassert 

the ghostly mass of buildings 

all so doubtful of 

existing precisely. 

IV. 

as if trapped 

in a time loop, 

the eye comes 

back and back 

to the same set of 

sunlit trees on the landscape 

to repeat the feeling 

of a forward and reverse 

alchemy of dark and light. 

36


V. 

in this material world 

conditioning my obscure vitality 

I have this impulse only 

to watch a fire that is burning 

totally independent of 

my watching it burning. 

37


RESONANCE 

-Anatolian requiem- 

to Aline, Vram, and Deniz 

Once, early in the morning, with an abrupt mountain 

image in my mind and a persistent tone in my ears, I, feeling 

fortunate in the company of a Cypher-reader, a Sight-recorder, 

and a Healer, had been bent on walking up to the exact 

midpoint of a long arch bridge over a red river to trace on an 

opposite slope the paths of caravans of a century ago—that I 

was suddenly arrested by a moment’s full contemplation of 

running water, rushing wind, surrounding hills, and bird 

sounds (thereby finally transcending the fixed patterns of my 

dull imagination)—and in the next instant, as if trying to 

complete a cosmic circle, my eyes instinctively turned up to the 

clouds high above and slowly descended back, refocusing on a 

most personal dreaming spot, by my feet, on a piece of broken 

wood: the communion of all souls ever alive resonated deep in 

that swift secret infinitude. 

38


JAZZ 

to a commuter on the bus, by the window 

You are there and this is a novel feel I get out of you. 

American girl! Play well with the strap of your bag. (Your 

nature thus translates into our mainstream reality. In a 

character that I know of all living. Of myself.) —Electric soul! 

Ticktock rhythm! Latent boom! Dreamy night thoughts! Flash 

vision! Free-flowing profile before the city lights! Busy heart of 

the dark! —You are the moment: either left out of time or 

enclosed back in time. Blue wiz! Net of patterns! Spark-catcher 

of desires! Cute plot! My belief in easy presence! Lovelike! 

Sneeze gently where you are—and I will perpetually spread 

you out in slow jazz tempo. 

39


40


HOW TO PLAY CHESS WITH YOURSELF 

-basic rules- 

“I am Lazarus, come from the dead, 

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all.” 

“That is not what I meant at all. 

That is not it, at all.” 

-Prufrock- 

1. BELIEVE. – The first requirement: You’ve got to believe 

that you can play chess with yourself. (Don’t hesitate to be 

childish.) That gets the game going! 

2. FORGET. – Just ignore the fact that you were alone 

when you first got your place by the checkerboard. Assume 

that “the other player” was there with you at the time. Forget, 

then, that you are all alone. 

3. ENJOY. – Have fun of the game like a real player—and 

don’t ever pretend that! Get absorbed in the game. Find your 

own ways to inflame your enthusiasm. Sure you can do that! (I 

know you are an expert in that.) Be there to enjoy the game 

fully: why would you be there playing it were it not for the 

ecstasy of playing? 

41


4. LOSE. – Oops! That’s how it has to be. You have to 

lose. There can be no other way it can end up. Be fair to the 

game. Play it great and lose in the end: after all, that is the 

ultimate proof that you were ever playing. If you were to win, 

would it rightly be “playing chess with yourself”? 

How does it feel like being a Kasparov now? 

42


43


From Siòn 

44


45


ARIETTA - I 

havoc reigns 

on the dunes that aren’t there 

till a compass finally asserts itself 

over the vast ambiguous land 

a scheme is better there 

stripped of its curse 

when northerly humane lights 

signal the due 

continuation of serendipity 

46


ARIETTA - II 

it’s a weird amalgam 

of things ancient and contemporary 

when the vain moon 

by instant change 

drags all its environs 

into a transfigured 

night of blue 

47


ARIETTA - III 

as long as an endless 

succession of rooms 

fill the nightly void 

in a myriad colorful niches 

the concrete canyon 

might never be too rigid 

for a simple movement of air 

48


ARIETTA - IV 

the world was devoid 

of its pluralities 

and I was set 

as the urgent-only-one 

amidst an absurdly routine 

flow of recurrent happenings 

seemingly destined to last 

till the end of time 

—when all of a sudden 

there came this unique 

close-up view 

of painted wall surface 

with its so many 

spots and scratches and shades 

undoing it all 

resounding with one-off 

everyday echoes 

49


ARIETTA - V 

-a riddle of “laggers”- 

“hi Gravity 

this is Reel 

I thought it would be better 

if I introduced myself to you first 

but it seems like 

I’ve already gone down 

and hit the ground.” 

50


ARIETTA - VI 

thought you would 

never make it happen 

but there you are: 

feel: the hum 

in your ears 

could finally make it 

up to the row 

of godlike trees 

crowding the valley 

—and the omnipresent 

hush 

51


ARIETTA - VII 

there he is 

looking upwards 

taking a few steps forward 

quickly turning his head 

and looking once more 

to bell towers 

bright birds 

and patches of sky above and clouds 

and whatever is stirring 

for him up there: 

neither the harsh wind and the frost 

nor the omens of some early exhaustion 

nor the customs of everyday awareness 

and unawareness 

nor the ultimate sign plate 

on the wall reading 

“spirituality prohibited 

you can be arrested” 

52


could constrain him 

from arranging for himself 

the firmament above 

and indulging in 

the dense details 

of self-being 

53


HOW DID THIS HAPPEN 

Orientation is—damage. 

Once you are oriented to where you are, that’s grave 

trouble: the east, the west, the north and the south is fixed, and 

you are fixed in your place as well. Can you move or change 

that? You’re stuck right at the center, having rendered the 

place into a nowhere—because it’s so precisely somewhere! 

Orientation is destruction. 

Orientation is sheer madness. 

Orientation is—a syndrome! 

What would you prefer then: being oriented and staying 

stuck where you are (because it’s secure), seeking bits of 

pleasure in fantasizing over well-memorized escape plans; or 

randomly changing the place so as to find yourself in some 

novelty each time, hence ever replacing the security of being 

oriented with the immediate harsh insecurity of being 

disoriented (because it’s so imprecisely nowhere) and 

perpetually repeating the impossible-to-undo trauma fugue 

“How did this happen?”? 

54


55


From Moto Perpetuo 

56


57


PERPLEXED 

He was trapped in a circle of “do-wrong”, but he didn’t 

know why. 

All he knew was that he was idle and passive inside, 

while he couldn’t help but be active outside. Thus, without the 

guidance of an inner rhythm, every now and then he 

unintentionally acted wrong, as proof of which he instantly 

lost ground and remained stagnant inside. 

The gods called this unintentional wrong act “sinning” 

(the way they would normally call an intentional wrong act)— 

and, in turn, the wrong-doer was wrathfully punished. In fact, 

the person was just vagrant and hence proceeded evil ways; 

but if the gods were to be taken true, then he, the wrong-doer, 

had mistaken “sinning” for “living”. 

Yet he was living. And he somehow managed to go on 

with his routine. 

But then, all of a sudden, even though the wrong-doer 

had made no change in his mode of action, the gods, those 

ever doing right, conferred him an unexpected blessing, 

perhaps hoping for once that this would turn everything for 

good. (Or, maybe, some act of the wrong-doer had randomly 

58


been “right” for once, and had, in turn, been awarded. No one 

knows for sure.) 

It was a real bliss for both the wrong-doer and the gods. 

They enjoyed it while it was unquestionably true. (Maybe, if 

this could somehow be repeated one more time, then a “rightdoer” 

would be made out of the whole thing. Or maybe, it 

would just be enough for the wrong-doer to patiently keep 

inactive till some authentic inner rhythm for “right” compelled 

him.) 

But soon, the wrong-doer, the one who was ever idle 

inside but could not remain passive outside, inevitably 

committed an act, a simple one, in his own fashion—and once 

again, (as it became apparent) because he had some cryptic 

instinct dictating so, he did commit it for wrong. 

This time it was such an unexpected twist contrary to the 

general flow of things that even the gods were left perplexed. 

(As for the wrong-doer, he went on living the way he was 

accustomed to. Moreover, already knowing how to proceed through 

perplexities and vagrancies, he did exercise some random plays of 

pleasure upon the default nothingness of the moment, amazing the 

gods further.) 

59


AN AMERICANISM 

A: “So, what I seek is an elevation. A total one. An 

elevation in every sense.” 

B: “The elevator is on the other side, sir. You may take the 

escalator on that side as well. Have a great day!” 

A: “Oh, OK… Umm… I better take the elevator then. 

Thank you.” 

(A few seconds later, walking towards the elevator & talking to 

oneself) 

A: “Yeah, sometimes you should not ask for more than 

whatever comes along for your share: this is what you cannot 

transcend for now—just take the elevator at the corner and get 

to the floor above.” 

60


TWINS 

Eternally here. One twin, and then the other—one after 

the other. On the same bench, here, in the corner of the park, 

identical. 

Since their birth, they are marked—with double existence. 

Hence they are recognized. Here where they are, they are 

infinitely magnetic: self-repeating and recurring. 

Like everyone else, they are equipped with eyes. (They 

are equipped with a YES). But they only have their eyes when 

they see clearly and intensely. (Then, they do have their YES.) 

Otherwise, they do not. And if not, there is no point in forcing 

a sight. (Then, they do have a “no-point”—a NOT.) 

They are dense, very dense in their volume—as identical 

twins. 

How electric they are… How here they are… And how 

not here if not now… 

They are here! —Thank God, they are eternally here. 

61


(They are kin to that man who instantly 

goes mad when he cannot repeat an authentic 

sound, reinforce an image, or mimic a flicker. 

That Dionysus man, so obsessed and fascinated 

with sounds, images and flickers, is currently 

a myth——a myth merely.) 

62


DIALOGUE DIVINE 

THERE WAS 

THIS NEW GOD 

SAYING 

“NO ROOM” 

AND KEPT SAYING 

“NO ROOM 

FOR SEASONS— 

NO ROOM 

FOR TURNS— 

NO ROOM 

FOR THE OTHER— 

NO ROOM 

FOR WHATEVER— 

NO ROOM 

FOR ROOMS.” 

AND TO HIM 

I FAITHFULLY SAID, 

63


“NO GOD 

—YET. 

NO TIME 

FOR ANY GOD.” 

AND KEPT SAYING 

“NEW ROOM.” 

64


65


From Anka 

66


67


BLANK 

What did you do to end up with that BLANK? 

It’s right, it’s BLANK. It’s awkward, it’s BLANK. It’s 

obvious, it’s BLANK. It’s dark, it’s BLANK. It’s full, it’s 

BLANK. It’s urgent, it’s BLANK. It’s none, it’s BLANK. 

You pose it, it’s BLANK. You transpose it, it’s BLANK. 

You expose it, it’s BLANK. You delete it, it’s BLANK. You 

repeat it, it’s BLANK. You refine it, it’s BLANK. You improvise 

it, it’s BLANK. You exercise it, it’s BLANK. 

BLANK is a blank BLANK. 

Do whatever not: exorcise the BLANK. 

68


MYTH 

It is an act of becoming—this tumult of myriad ships in 

the bay, the outburst of concrete civilization through the 

modern haze, the lush proliferation of furnaces and 

smokestacks, the drizzle of heavy light upon clear-cut and 

angular architectural facets, and such bubbling of silos, 

swarms of trucks and trailers, and such immediacy, spasm and 

haste, with pipelines vying for the throbbing heartland, and 

tanks and tubes and pillars all winding in a crazy web of 

endless twists and tangles and turns. 

An act of becoming this is—and thus, with an ultimate 

call of the myth, sudden and profound, returns at noontide the 

harbor to its glorious vale. 

69


GLIMPSE 

It was tough—to even exist. So much of light, air, sound, 

and dark I had to experiment with—so much effort I spent, 

and I am already outspent. 

All I need is sleep now—and a glimpse of life’s absent 

dream: just give me whatever is left of my room, my bed, my 

instinct, my gleam. 

70


BRAIN 

-gertrudity- 

Feeding a brain is not cute. It’s brute. A sudden fall, a 

parachute, and it goes and it goes and on and on. But then a 

feeding a brain is mute. On and on. Mute and brute, always 

with fall. Or sometimes within fall. It’s not cute. And 

sometimes no parachute. On and on, no parachute fall. That’s 

feeding brain. Nude. There’s no way not to feed a brain. A 

brain never not to. No not to. A brain is to feed. No not. Feed a 

brain. Feed a fed brain. Never to. Fed cute. 

71


SHIP 

the ship 

on the horizon 

is not 

what it is 

it is 

what immediately 

follows 

its being seen 

72


WHATEVER 

I. 

It travelled as fast as possible—whatever it was. 

I did feel it. 

II. 

It keeps coming back—whatever it was. 

It was never gone. 

III. 

It was ready for me—whatever it was. 

And I was there. 

IV. 

It was tense—whatever it was. 

I was too susceptible to it. 

73


V. 

It did not last long—whatever it was. 

But it did outlast its time. 

VI. 

It is gone—whatever it was. 

I came instead. 

VII. 

I am here—whatever I am. 

And I do: I do am. 

74


SCALE FLAIR 

Why do you always have to keep your mind 

running so? For any setting of space, the 

glare is always within: Just arrest the time 

and make it flare. 

75


GLOW 

The cell was there—a singular unit of space. Ever ungone. 

Ever twice. Twice undone. Coincident uncopied. Real core 

reinforced. Rare ratified. Redeemed room redone. Rid of 

nothing. Full volume. Itself its self. Uncontrolled fiery fit. Cell 

glow. 

76


SUNDRY, EVE 

-a sunset poesy- 

Deepbelieve dreamyturntowardsy. Sundownseewooow 

straightttahead rightaheaddarkening yetthoughstillalight 

somehouwwllingsycity. Dullbrightcity withinitselfcitysomber 

thereshownsetssun bluishgreyglowyyouuoowaa. Timeitscool. 

Itstimethehourcool. Graylyblou pitchmetalitscool 

swayyyeydims. Eveinsideinevenink. Sunbackbehindinvisible 

nonpresentsunoutqoool. Turnathwartshhh 

cityaheydbluedarqq itseveninqkool. Drysunnow. 

Impossiblenotto ewnink winkwing writeahaid 

nightfallingbefell untodoink niteink blublaqqool timeahate. 

77


SPIRIT 

a spirit hovering above the city— 

the city as matter and time, 

becoming and duration. 

hovering, the spirit, 

now here, now there— 

suspended for a moment, and spent: 

nowhere! 

instantly summoned, 

incessantly absent: 

the more the pull 

the more the suffocation— 

respired at the last gasp despite being dispirited 

inspired the spirit 

78


reborn 

out and out 

above and around the city and far off 

79


BOMBER SEQUENCE 

elegy for irretrievability 

There it goes—the flying fortress. 

Whoa—caught fire! One wing burning, definitely got hit. 

Sways and swerves. 

Oh, the tail burns too! 

Almost in free fall. Explodes—a ball of fire—and comes apart. 

Hold on! [PAUSE] It’s one piece yet. Can’t it revert to being itself— 

just as it was a moment ago: huge, sturdy, menacing—a flying 

fortress? 

As if trying to— 

80


DAY OF DUST 

81


82


Raw Instant 

A B o o k l e t o f M a n t r a s 

83


84


running out of fuel yet fiercely red 

85


with instant glance reeling to unreal 

86


devoid of substance now yet fuller 

87


done it and seen the ultra pink otherwise invisible 

88


scorched drying so fast undoing water 

89


in itself already double 

90


seen into itself pure agony 

91


self-fragmenting to get lost in 

92


existent but out of itself not coexistent 

93


incorrigibly correct with ultimate glimmer 

94


already made impact yet with a deferred difference 

95


peak trapped in its overreach 

96


furiously impatient to overcome awkwardness before flare 

97


urge figure vigour in a second 

98


abrupt zeal of no epiphany recurring 

99


full blaze in ultimate take 

100


bulky pale at once murky 

101


too dense to unfold intrinsic overlap 

102


vacuum gushing last gasp plenum 

103


gems mining void 

104


coil sizzling impotent 

105


crisis riddle paralyzed 

106


chill fading out vast 

107


sense relapsing dogmatic 

108


pink the sunset blown off 

109


respire robust unto itself expire 

110


gyre overdrive zooming in annulled 

111


exert exact epiphany expelled 

112


apex crimson miscuing crisis 

113


unsettled familiar to thrive 

114


endless theme never thought of 

115


swift waning dazzle blinking in posterity 

116


117


Translations from Hiperbor 

118


119


SWAN 

Why is it that one’s eyes are overstrained while gazing at 

a swan? Is it because the swan hesitates to be a swan, or the 

eyes are distracted by the rippling of the dark pond in the 

background? Staring at the darkness, the latter seems more 

likely—but not so, refocusing on the swan. 

What is a swan? He begins with his spotless white, the 

tail, the round body, the slender wings, the long and thin neck, 

and then the tangerine beak, the darkly outlined pitch-black 

eyes—but there, towards the feet paddling in the water, any 

unity suddenly dissipates. Why? Where is that droop within 

the swan undoing his presence? —For a swan to be a swan, he 

first has to have an intact entity. 

Since there can be no incomplete swan, I must verify him 

now. I try to emphasize him. From my repertoire of swans, I 

evoke one. The draft of a swan with a tune, a scent, and a 

disposition. I will go over the swan in the pond once more, 

imposing that particular design. For the swan might not exist 

by himself. Maybe it is me who should ultimately substantiate 

him. But that would suggest the presence of replicate swans 

everywhere—as dull and absurd a possibility as can be. What 

then? Was it also me who brought out the pond here? 

120


Now I remember. That pond was here. The swan too. 

And everything else was here—the whole setting with its 

minute details. The rocks were here, the grasses, and the 

weeds. Wooden fences. And this particular light. They are all 

on their own, always, provided that one arrives here with a 

fluent, uninterrupted, vivid walk, descends the stairs whistling 

pleasantly, and sits on a bench to get a second breath. Then the 

eyes are invigorated, the thoughts tranquil and regular. The 

foliage glows serenely in the dark, and the sweet aroma of the 

evening is in the air. Stones, shrubs, trash cans, bare branches, 

plain walls—all reposed in snug nooks of mystery. Sounds 

reverberate, tinkling, crackling, ruffling, rattling—the din of 

the world rolling in. It was long before me myself that my 

harmony had arrived here: and there comes smoothly gliding 

over the water, unhurriedly and bearing the simple streak of 

self-being—the swan. 

121


YELLOW HOTEL 

They would build the Yellow Hotel, but it was a 

challenge to find the right place. Strangely enough, they had 

conceived the Yellow Hotel and been struck by the idea 

instead of finding a location first and then contemplating the 

proper structure to build there. So not only the outline of the 

building but also its architectural specifics were definite from 

the beginning. 

They sought a site for construction. First, they scanned 

various districts in several metropolises. But soon, they left the 

city—it wasn’t an urban setting they were looking for. They 

went into the desert. Then they traveled through steppes and 

crossed ridges. They surveyed the Black Sea coasts. Climbing 

up a monumental rock overlooking Lake Ladoga, they 

observed the environs. At some point, they opened up a space 

in Siberian forests but then changed their mind and departed, 

leaving the area vacant. 

They ascended the Balkan mountains and traversed 

myriad summits, passes, ravines, glades, and cliffs. Never once 

looking back, they went on and on. And, finally, they set their 

eyes on a bare steep scarp amongst three peaks. There, they 

hung up a lamb leg in the open air to see how long the flesh 

122


would endure. They also grafted a pear branch on a plum 

sapling to try whether it would hold. In the end, relying on 

favorable signs, they settled there. 

Bleak slopes, far and wide. All eroded by winter frost, 

barren and windy with frigid, harsh gusts now and again. —It 

was necessary to prepare a place for the Yellow Hotel. They 

dropped large stone blocks with helicopters and piled them up 

alongside logs to be used in building a terrace. Water was 

sprayed from planes, and dust and sand were blown. Heat 

waves were sent out—and radio waves in D minor. Tons of 

clayey soil and volcanic ash mixture were heaped; seeds, 

gravel, and weeds were deposited, as well as minerals, 

manure, and cultures of beneficial bacteria. Pine tree 

specimens were planted in accordance with climate reports: all 

of them took root. The earth embraced the stone blocks, and all 

the material cohered. The ground was ready. 

They were intent on building the Yellow Hotel. Timber 

was brought on. Sturdy posts were driven deep down into the 

ground. Sand, cement, paint, and steel were hauled. Planks 

and columns were firmly installed. There was no building plan 

on hand, but everything swiftly proceeded as if there was one. 

The floors rose, one after another. The walls were set up, and 

the façade was clad. In a flash, the construction was over. And 

the exterior was painted yellow. All finishing work was 

done—everything was neat and bright. 

123


Thus, on this strange slope amongst obscure, nameless 

crests, the Yellow Hotel was erected. —It was proclaimed 

throughout the whole world. 

And, solely for the Yellow Hotel, people from far away 

began flocking into the gloom of these desolate mountains 

where howling winds blew incessantly.—Food smells, 

laughters, child cries, and sounds of music were all over as if 

the mountains were replying to the D minor. 

Finally, one night, for the first time, the orange light of 

the attic room came on. 

124


DAY 

I wake up to a pink, yellow, white day—a mellow 

morning with appeasing sleep dabbed like cream inside its 

recesses. There is this sweet harmony conjoining the curtains, 

the sunlight filtering inside, the console, the wall mirror, and 

the pendant. Everything is dense and equable like the dreams 

pervading the night; fluent thoughts keep weaving images like 

a mesh. —However, such a start to the day troubles me as 

well: I am daunted by what the great day hinted by the 

promising morning may entail. So here I am—the man sitting 

by the pattering radio at the table with a floral tablecloth, 

eating a plain bun and drinking tea, trying to become smaller 

and readjust the morning. 

But then the transmuted morning turns out too insipid. 

Nor trying the early tunes of the day again suffices to bring 

back the morning that started well. —The day slipped through 

my fingers. I am without a morning now, without a day, 

without a story; I can find no theme for my constructs; I 

repeatedly mismove amid all blandness and don’t have a road 

map. —There is only this: a series of mysterious, obscure 

behaviors pertaining to my lifestyle, which is the outcome of 

125


long experiments and experiences, and whose inner workings I 

have no grasp of. 

Fortunately, the rigid logic that keeps me confined in 

repeating patterns all day relaxes towards the evening, 

unleashing new, fresh possibilities. —An expansive breath 

comes out, an unprecedented leg strength for a long walk: the 

scent of pine trees, the knot untangled at the base of my neck, 

the touch of the wind, and the occult belt in the sky rendering 

the spirit of the evening palpable. The juice of clouds in the 

varicolored east that I drink so heartily and insatiably. The 

Black Citadel upon the hill far away that I see lightening so 

many times—leaving me breathless so many times. 

And at night, returning home, it’s me again—the man 

just sitting on the green armchair in the dim light of the floor 

lamp, staying inactive, almost motionless, so as not to upset 

the evening’s high-cycle rhythm, and (waiting for the sleep to 

unfold) indulging in mind-wandering, —reinforcing it with 

solid bodily and respiratory discipline. 

126


EAST–WEST 

In the West, they know so much we don’t know; they live 

so differently. We, Easterners, can’t be that way, no matter 

how much we imitate them. 

For instance, they know how to blend whatever there is 

in the orderliness of granite and aluminum kitchen 

countertops and the glimmer of flatware that is relevant to the 

happiness of the nuclear family at dinner, as seen from outside 

while the view proceeds from one window to the next, with 

the ultramarine and smoky gray hues blinking amid the 

liveliness of the party in the khaki-claret hall of the adjacent 

apartment, adding stimulating and soothing notes of modern 

promises. This, we don’t know. How could we? —They have 

their cars going around bends with corresponding electronic 

music. The same eludes us; we are so alien when we are in our 

cars. They line up silver-plated duckpins on opaque shelves in 

dim light and enhance the effect with scent dispensers and 

chiming digital bells—then they go and experience the mood. 

Their rooms hypnotize. They are so good at finding 

satisfaction in compact ambiances available. Among them are 

those who experience ineffable thrills in vacuum 

toothbrushing cabins. In their cities, when the French horn 

127


resounds, people act as one in glamorous avenues. In cafés, 

they manage to be a part of the fictions they believe in, as they 

snuggle against orange-lit pendants mounted above floral 

wallpaper. They know very well what technique to use to 

create what effect—and know down to the minutest detail, 

whatever is obvious! They let oily mineral water flow through 

chrome-coated ultrathin galvanized pipes. A saxophone is 

heard playing as their cameras shoot close-ups underneath 

riverboats through the mossy and plankton-rich stream of 

murky waters. They know how to change the colors of the sky 

with certain chemical processes, and they reproduce their own 

trees, ideal lakes, and plains through manipulations. 

Here in the East, we know none of these. Even if we 

know, we don’t know. We live in the void and spin around in 

fetal position in gray air. We cannot distinguish left from right. 

We don’t know much about whatever is obvious. — 

Nonetheless, we know subtle answers to arcane riddles. 

Understanding the riddle and the answer spans centuries. — 

And we get surprising results out of methods that are in 

essence so different from their apparent effects. 

128


RIGHT NOW 

right here, right now: 

conducting the current 

to both sides 

the cord. 


more distinct than ever 

the affinity between 

the day’s east and the antipodal west. 


the inner meaning of 

the notions of 

gravitation, the center of gravity. 


reality effective. 

129



the affirmed commonality of living. 

right here, right now— 

for a moment we paused to exist: 

time is up, 

move on, keep going. 

130


WINTER LEGEND 

plates shatter, 

the crash resounds in the ashen sky; 

crows burst forth, 

the ring of cold 

grazes against the heights encircling the city, 

a black flash goes off 

amidst the concave void of the plain: 

winter begins. 

the frozen lake gleams afar, 

a pink signet at the junkyard. 

as metal blocks tumble 

and it all comes to nothing, 

perhaps the silence 

is a portent— 

before abandoned gazebos 

are taken over 

by the sway of the wind. 

131


in the dull street 

a trite stir is trapped, 

repeating itself; 

the keen breath 

urging the planes in the park 

to strive toward 

the distant snowy summit 

casts about for an ice 

still not around. 

while scanning 

high up in the sky 

for the forceful crackle 

groping along the tension in the air, 

I am stuck 

on concrete clouds 

and suffer the time 

that has prematurely cramped up 

in the bubble of revery it pervaded. 

just then, it begins to snow— 

and with an absolute change 

the knot comes untied: 

132


the firmament is a bell jar, 

everything is fresh by itself 

with childlike trust 

and innocence, 

and the city is indeed 

in a snow globe. 

133


HYPERZAPPING 

outer space streaming on the screen, 

my thoughts ultraviolet 

contacting the ocean shore, 

my grain of sand golden 

hot waters deepening, 

a firefish I am into the dark 

platinum pervading the void, 

densité 21.5 

rags sacred in daylight, 

my throes euphoric 

sun basking in clay, 

inscriptions far and wide 

134


river devouring luster, 

in damp dusk dew diamond 

silent vortex in the amphora, 

at the threshold I emerge 

touching electricity, 

a tabula I swallowed my stomach radiant 

135


136


. 

137

Aytek Sever - Fluke

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