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Best Famous Turkey Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Turkey poems. This is a select list of the best famous Turkey poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Turkey poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of turkey poems.

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12
Written by Edward Lear | Create an image from this poem

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
  In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money
  Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will.
" So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

A Ballad of Ducks

 The railway rattled and roared and swung 
With jolting and bumping trucks.
The sun, like a billiard red ball, hung In the Western sky: and the tireless tongue Of the wild-eyed man in the corner told This terrible tale of the days of old, And the party that ought to have kept the ducks.
"Well, it ain't all joy bein' on the land With an overdraft that'd knock you flat; And the rabbits have pretty well took command; But the hardest thing for a man to stand Is the feller who says 'Well I told you so! You should ha' done this way, don't you know!' -- I could lay a bait for a man like that.
"The grasshoppers struck us in ninety-one And what they leave -- well, it ain't de luxe.
But a growlin' fault-findin' son of a gun Who'd lent some money to stock our run -- I said they'd eaten what grass we had -- Says he, 'Your management's very bad; You had a right to have kept some ducks!' "To have kept some ducks! And the place was white! Wherever you went you had to tread On grasshoppers guzzlin' day and night; And then with a swoosh they rose in flight, If you didn't look out for yourself they'd fly Like bullets into your open eye And knock it out of the back of your head.
"There isn't a turkey or goose or swan, Or a duck that quacks, or a hen that clucks, Can make a difference on a run When a grasshopper plague has once begun; 'If you'd finance us,' I says, 'I'd buy Ten thousand emus and have a try; The job,' I says, 'is too big for ducks! "'You must fetch a duck when you come to stay; A great big duck -- a Muscovy toff -- Ready and fit,' I says, 'for the fray; And if the grasshoppers come our way You turn your duck into the lucerne patch, And I'd be ready to make a match That the grasshoppers eat his feathers off!" "He came to visit us by and by, And it just so happened one day in spring A kind of cloud came over the sky -- A wall of grasshoppers nine miles high, And nine miles thick, and nine hundred wide, Flyin' in regiments, side by side, And eatin' up every living thing.
"All day long, like a shower of rain, You'd hear 'em smackin' against the wall, Tap, tap, tap, on the window pane, And they'd rise and jump at the house again Till their crippled carcasses piled outside.
But what did it matter if thousands died -- A million wouldn't be missed at all.
"We were drinkin' grasshoppers -- so to speak -- Till we skimmed their carcasses off the spring; And they fell so thick in the station creek They choked the waterholes all the week.
There was scarcely room for a trout to rise, And they'd only take artificial flies -- They got so sick of the real thing.
"An Arctic snowstorm was beat to rags When the hoppers rose for their morning flight With the flapping noise like a million flags: And the kitchen chimney was stuffed with bags For they'd fall right into the fire, and fry Till the cook sat down and began to cry -- And never a duck or fowl in sight.
"We strolled across to the railroad track -- Under a cover beneath some trucks, I sees a feather and hears a quack; I stoops and I pulls the tarpaulin back -- Every duck in the place was there, No good to them was the open air.
'Mister,' I says, 'There's your blanky ducks!'"
Written by Marianne Moore | Create an image from this poem

A Grave

 Man looking into the sea,
taking the view from those who have as much right to it as
 you have to it yourself,
it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing,
but you cannot stand in the middle of this;
the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.
The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey— foot at the top, reserved as their contours, saying nothing; repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea; the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
There are others besides you who have worn that look— whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer investigate them for their bones have not lasted: men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating a grave, and row quickly away-the blades of the oars moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were no such thing as death.
The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx— beautiful under networks of foam, and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed; the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls as heretofore— the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath them; and the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise of bell-bouys, advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped things are bound to sink— in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor consciousness.
Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

The Four Brothers

 MAKE war songs out of these;
Make chants that repeat and weave.
Make rhythms up to the ragtime chatter of the machine guns; Make slow-booming psalms up to the boom of the big guns.
Make a marching song of swinging arms and swinging legs, Going along, Going along, On the roads from San Antonio to Athens, from Seattle to Bagdad— The boys and men in winding lines of khaki, the circling squares of bayonet points.
Cowpunchers, cornhuskers, shopmen, ready in khaki; Ballplayers, lumberjacks, ironworkers, ready in khaki; A million, ten million, singing, “I am ready.
” This the sun looks on between two seaboards, In the land of Lincoln, in the land of Grant and Lee.
I heard one say, “I am ready to be killed.
” I heard another say, “I am ready to be killed.
” O sunburned clear-eyed boys! I stand on sidewalks and you go by with drums and guns and bugles, You—and the flag! And my heart tightens, a fist of something feels my throat When you go by, You on the kaiser hunt, you and your faces saying, “I am ready to be killed.
” They are hunting death, Death for the one-armed mastoid kaiser.
They are after a Hohenzollern head: There is no man-hunt of men remembered like this.
The four big brothers are out to kill.
France, Russia, Britain, America— The four republics are sworn brothers to kill the kaiser.
Yes, this is the great man-hunt; And the sun has never seen till now Such a line of toothed and tusked man-killers, In the blue of the upper sky, In the green of the undersea, In the red of winter dawns.
Eating to kill, Sleeping to kill, Asked by their mothers to kill, Wished by four-fifths of the world to kill— To cut the kaiser’s throat, To hack the kaiser’s head, To hang the kaiser on a high-horizon gibbet.
And is it nothing else than this? Three times ten million men thirsting the blood Of a half-cracked one-armed child of the German kings? Three times ten million men asking the blood Of a child born with his head wrong-shaped, The blood of rotted kings in his veins? If this were all, O God, I would go to the far timbers And look on the gray wolves Tearing the throats of moose: I would ask a wilder drunk of blood.
Look! It is four brothers in joined hands together.
The people of bleeding France, The people of bleeding Russia, The people of Britain, the people of America— These are the four brothers, these are the four republics.
At first I said it in anger as one who clenches his fist in wrath to fling his knuckles into the face of some one taunting; Now I say it calmly as one who has thought it over and over again at night, among the mountains, by the seacombers in storm.
I say now, by God, only fighters to-day will save the world, nothing but fighters will keep alive the names of those who left red prints of bleeding feet at Valley Forge in Christmas snow.
On the cross of Jesus, the sword of Napoleon, the skull of Shakespeare, the pen of Tom Jefferson, the ashes of Abraham Lincoln, or any sign of the red and running life poured out by the mothers of the world, By the God of morning glories climbing blue the doors of quiet homes, by the God of tall hollyhocks laughing glad to children in peaceful valleys, by the God of new mothers wishing peace to sit at windows nursing babies, I swear only reckless men, ready to throw away their lives by hunger, deprivation, desperate clinging to a single purpose imperturbable and undaunted, men with the primitive guts of rebellion, Only fighters gaunt with the red brand of labor’s sorrow on their brows and labor’s terrible pride in their blood, men with souls asking danger—only these will save and keep the four big brothers.
Good-night is the word, good-night to the kings, to the czars, Good-night to the kaiser.
The breakdown and the fade-away begins.
The shadow of a great broom, ready to sweep out the trash, is here.
One finger is raised that counts the czar, The ghost who beckoned men who come no more— The czar gone to the winds on God’s great dustpan, The czar a pinch of nothing, The last of the gibbering Romanoffs.
Out and good-night— The ghosts of the summer palaces And the ghosts of the winter palaces! Out and out, good-night to the kings, the czars, the kaisers.
Another finger will speak, And the kaiser, the ghost who gestures a hundred million sleeping-waking ghosts, The kaiser will go onto God’s great dustpan— The last of the gibbering Hohenzollerns.
Look! God pities this trash, God waits with a broom and a dustpan, God knows a finger will speak and count them out.
It is written in the stars; It is spoken on the walls; It clicks in the fire-white zigzag of the Atlantic wireless; It mutters in the bastions of thousand-mile continents; It sings in a whistle on the midnight winds from Walla Walla to Mesopotamia: Out and good-night.
The millions slow in khaki, The millions learning Turkey in the Straw and John Brown’s Body, The millions remembering windrows of dead at Gettysburg, Chickamauga, and Spottsylvania Court House, The millions dreaming of the morning star of Appomattox, The millions easy and calm with guns and steel, planes and prows: There is a hammering, drumming hell to come.
The killing gangs are on the way.
God takes one year for a job.
God takes ten years or a million.
God knows when a doom is written.
God knows this job will be done and the words spoken: Out and good-night.
The red tubes will run, And the great price be paid, And the homes empty, And the wives wishing, And the mothers wishing.
There is only one way now, only the way of the red tubes and the great price.
Well… Maybe the morning sun is a five-cent yellow balloon, And the evening stars the joke of a God gone crazy.
Maybe the mothers of the world, And the life that pours from their torsal folds— Maybe it’s all a lie sworn by liars, And a God with a cackling laughter says: “I, the Almighty God, I have made all this, I have made it for kaisers, czars, and kings.
” Three times ten million men say: No.
Three times ten million men say: God is a God of the People.
And the God who made the world And fixed the morning sun, And flung the evening stars, And shaped the baby hands of life, This is the God of the Four Brothers; This is the God of bleeding France and bleeding Russia; This is the God of the people of Britain and America.
The graves from the Irish Sea to the Caucasus peaks are ten times a million.
The stubs and stumps of arms and legs, the eyesockets empty, the cripples, ten times a million.
The crimson thumb-print of this anathema is on the door panels of a hundred million homes.
Cows gone, mothers on sick-beds, children cry a hunger and no milk comes in the noon-time or at night.
The death-yells of it all, the torn throats of men in ditches calling for water, the shadows and the hacking lungs in dugouts, the steel paws that clutch and squeeze a scarlet drain day by day—the storm of it is hell.
But look! child! the storm is blowing for a clean air.
Look! the four brothers march And hurl their big shoulders And swear the job shall be done.
Out of the wild finger-writing north and south, east and west, over the blood-crossed, blood-dusty ball of earth, Out of it all a God who knows is sweeping clean, Out of it all a God who sees and pierces through, is breaking and cleaning out an old thousand years, is making ready for a new thousand years.
The four brothers shall be five and more.
Under the chimneys of the winter time the children of the world shall sing new songs.
Among the rocking restless cradles the mothers of the world shall sing new sleepy-time songs.
Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

16-bit Intel 8088 chip

 with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64 drive read a file you have created on an IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use the CP/M operating system but can't read each other's handwriting for they format (write on) discs in different ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but can't use most programs produced for the IBM Personal Computer unless certain bits and bytes are altered but the wind still blows over Savannah and in the Spring the turkey buzzard struts and flounces before his hens.
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

Cut

 for Susan O'Neill Roe

What a thrill ----
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone Except for a sort of hinge Of skin, A flap like a hat, Dead white.
Then that red plush.
Little pilgrim, The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle Carpet rolls Straight from the heart.
I step on it, Clutching my bottle Of pink fizz.
A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap A million soldiers run, Redcoats, every one.
Whose side are they one? O my Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.
Saboteur, Kamikaze man ---- The stain on your Gauze Ku Klux Klan Babushka Darkens and tarnishes and when The balled Pulp of your heart Confronts its small Mill of silence How you jump ---- Trepanned veteran, Dirty girl, Thumb stump.
Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

The Sun Weilds Mercy

 and the sun weilds mercy
but like a jet torch carried to high,
and the jets whip across its sight
and rockets leap like toads,
and the boys get out the maps
and pin-cuishon the moon,
old green cheese,
no life there but too much on earth:
our unwashed India boys
crosssing their legs,playing pipes,
starving with sucked in bellies,
watching the snakes volute
like beautiful women in the hungry air;
the rockets leap,
the rockets leap like hares,
clearing clump and dog
replacing out-dated bullets;
the Chineses still carve
in jade,quietly stuffing rice
into their hunger, a hunger
a thousand years old,
their muddy rivers moving with fire
and song, barges, houseboats
pushed by drifting poles
of waiting without wanting;
in Turkey they face the East
on their carpets
praying to a purple god
who smokes and laughs
and sticks fingers in their eyes
blinding them, as gods will do;
but the rockets are ready: peace is no longer,
for some reason,precious;
madness drifts like lily pads
on a pond circling senselessly;
the painters paint dipping
their reds and greens and yellows,
poets rhyme their lonliness,
musicians starve as always
and the novelists miss the mark,
but not the pelican , the gull;
pelicans dip and dive, rise,
shaking shocked half-dead
radioactive fish from their beaks;
indeed, indeed, the waters wash
the rocks with slime; and on wall st.
the market staggers like a lost drunk looking for his key; ah, this will be a good one,by God: it will take us back to the sabre-teeth, the winged monkey scrabbling in pits over bits of helmet, instrument and glass; a lightning crashes across the window and in a million rooms lovers lie entwined and lost and sick as peace; the sky still breaks red and orange for the painters-and for the lovers, flowers open as they always have opened but covered with thin dust of rocket fuel and mushrooms, poison mushrooms; it's a bad time, a dog-sick time-curtain act 3, standing room only, SOLD OUT, SOLD OUT, SOLD OUT again, by god,by somebody and something, by rockets and generals and leaders, by poets , doctors, comedians, by manufacturers of soup and biscuits, Janus-faced hucksters of their own indexerity; I can now see now the coal-slick contanminated fields, a snail or 2, bile, obsidian, a fish or 3 in the shallows, an obloquy of our source and our sight.
.
.
.
.
has this happend before? is history a circle that catches itself by the tail, a dream, a nightmare, a general's dream, a presidents dream, a dictators dream.
.
.
can't we awaken? or are the forces of life greater than we are? can't we awaken? must we foever, dear freinds, die in our sleep?


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Investigating Flora

 'Twas in scientific circles 
That the great Professor Brown 
Had a world-wide reputation 
As a writer of renown.
He had striven finer feelings In our natures to implant By his Treatise on the Morals Of the Red-eyed Bulldog Ant.
He had hoisted an opponent Who had trodden unawares On his "Reasons for Bare Patches On the Female Native Bears".
So they gave him an appointment As instructor to a band Of the most attractive females To be gathered in the land.
'Twas a "Ladies' Science Circle" -- Just the latest social fad For the Nicest People only, And to make their rivals mad.
They were fond of "science rambles" To the country from the town -- A parade of female beauty In the leadership of Brown.
They would pick a place for luncheon And catch beetles on their rugs; The Professor called 'em "optera" -- They calld 'em "nasty bugs".
Well, the thing was bound to perish For no lovely woman can Feel the slightest interest In a club without a Man -- The Professor hardly counted He was crazy as a loon, With a countenance suggestive Of an elderly baboon.
But the breath of Fate blew on it With a sharp and sudden blast, And the "Ladies' Science Circle" Is a memory of the past.
There were two-and-twenty members, Mostly young and mostly fair, Who had made a great excursion To a place called Dontknowwhere, At the crossing of Lost River, On the road to No Man's Land.
There they met an old selector, With a stockwhip in his hand, And the sight of so much beauty Sent him slightly "off his nut"; So he asked them, smiling blandly, "Would they come down to the hut?" "I am come," said the Professor, In his thin and reedy voice, "To investigate your flora, Which I feel is very choice.
" The selector stared dumbfounded, Till at last he found his tongue: "To investigate my Flora! Oh, you howlin' Brigham Young! Why, you've two-and-twenty wimmen -- Reg'lar slap-up wimmen, too! And you're after little Flora! And a crawlin' thing like you! Oh, you Mormonite gorilla! Well, I've heard it from the first That you wizened little fellers Is a hundred times the worst! But a dried-up ape like you are, To be marchin' through the land With a pack of lovely wimmen -- Well, I cannot understand!" "You mistake," said the Professor, In a most indignant tone -- While the ladies shrieked and jabbered In a fashion of their own -- "You mistake about these ladies, I'm a lecturer of theirs; I am Brown, who wrote the Treatise On the Female Native Bears! When I said we wanted flora, What I meant was native flowers.
" "Well, you said you wanted Flora, And I'll swear you don't get ours! But here's Flora's self a-comin', And it's time for you to skip, Or I'll write a treatise on you, And I'll write it with the whip! Now I want no explanations; Just you hook it out of sight, Or you'll charm the poor girl some'ow!" The Professor looked in fright: She was six feet high and freckled, And her hair was turkey-red.
The Professor gave a whimper, And threw down his bag and fled, And the Ladies' Science Circle, With a simultaneous rush, Travelled after its Professor, And went screaming through the bush! At the crossing of Lost River, On the road to No Man's Land, Where the grim and ghostly gumtrees Block the view on every hand, There they weep and wail and wander, Always seeking for the track, For the hapless old Professor Hasn't sense to guide 'em back; And they clutch at one another, And they yell and scream in fright As they see the gruesome creatures Of the grim Australian night; And they hear the mopoke's hooting, And the dingo's howl so dread, And the flying foxes jabber From the gum trees overhead; While the weird and wary wombats, In their subterranean caves, Are a-digging, always digging, At those wretched people's graves; And the pike-horned Queensland bullock, From his shelter in the scrub, Has his eye on the proceedings Of the Ladies' Science Club.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Death Baby

 1.
DREAMS I was an ice baby.
I turned to sky blue.
My tears became two glass beads.
My mouth stiffened into a dumb howl.
They say it was a dream but I remember that hardening.
My sister at six dreamt nightly of my death: "The baby turned to ice.
Someone put her in the refrigerator and she turned as hard as a Popsicle.
" I remember the stink of the liverwurst.
How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon.
The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
The milk bottle hissed like a snake.
The tomatoes vomited up their stomachs.
The caviar turned to lave.
The pimentos kissed like cupids.
I moved like a lobster, slower and slower.
The air was tiny.
The air would not do.
* I was at the dogs' party.
I was their bone.
I had been laid out in their kennel like a fresh turkey.
This was my sister's dream but I remember that quartering; I remember the sickbed smell of the sawdust floor, the pink eyes, the pink tongues and the teeth, those nails.
I had been carried out like Moses and hidden by the paws of ten Boston bull terriers, ten angry bulls jumping like enormous roaches.
At first I was lapped, rough as sandpaper.
I became very clean.
Then my arm was missing.
I was coming apart.
They loved me until I was gone.
2.
THE DY-DEE DOLL My Dy-dee doll died twice.
Once when I snapped her head off and let if float in the toilet and once under the sun lamp trying to get warm she melted.
She was a gloom, her face embracing her little bent arms.
She died in all her rubber wisdom.
3.
SEVEN TIMES I died seven times in seven ways letting death give me a sign, letting death place his mark on my forehead, crossed over, crossed over And death took root in that sleep.
In that sleep I held an ice baby and I rocked it and was rocked by it.
Oh Madonna, hold me.
I am a small handful.
4.
MADONNA My mother died unrocked, unrocked.
Weeks at her deathbed seeing her thrust herself against the metal bars, thrashing like a fish on the hook and me low at her high stage, letting the priestess dance alone, wanting to place my head in her lap or even take her in my arms somehow and fondle her twisted gray hair.
But her rocking horse was pain with vomit steaming from her mouth.
Her belly was big with another child, cancer's baby, big as a football.
I could not soothe.
With every hump and crack there was less Madonna until that strange labor took her.
Then the room was bankrupt.
That was the end of her paying.
5.
MAX Max and I two immoderate sisters, two immoderate writers, two burdeners, made a pact.
To beat death down with a stick.
To take over.
To build our death like carpenters.
When she had a broken back, each night we built her sleep.
Talking on the hot line until her eyes pulled down like shades.
And we agreed in those long hushed phone calls that when the moment comes we'll talk turkey, we'll shoot words straight from the hip, we'll play it as it lays.
Yes, when death comes with its hood we won't be polite.
6.
BABY Death, you lie in my arms like a cherub, as heavy as bread dough.
Your milky wings are as still as plastic.
Hair soft as music.
Hair the color of a harp.
And eyes made of glass, as brittle as crystal.
Each time I rock you I think you will break.
I rock.
I rock.
Glass eye, ice eye, primordial eye, lava eye, pin eye, break eye, how you stare back! Like the gaze if small children you know all about me.
You have worn my underwear.
You have read my newspaper.
You have seen my father whip me.
You have seen my stroke my father's whip.
I rock.
I rock.
We plunge back and forth comforting each other.
We are stone.
We are carved, a pietà that swings.
Outside, the world is a chilly army.
Outside, the sea is brought to its knees.
Outside, Pakistan is swallowed in a mouthful.
I rock.
I rock.
You are my stone child with still eyes like marbles.
There is a death baby for each of us.
We own him.
His smell is our smell.
Beware.
Beware.
There is a tenderness.
There is a love for this dumb traveler waiting in his pink covers.
Someday, heavy with cancer or disaster I will look up at Max and say: It is time.
Hand me the death baby and there will be that final rocking.
Written by Nazim Hikmet | Create an image from this poem

Autobiography

 I was born in 1902
I never once went back to my birthplace
I don't like to turn back
at three I served as a pasha's grandson in Aleppo
at nineteen as a student at Moscow Communist University
at forty-nine I was back in Moscow as the Tcheka Party's guest
and I've been a poet since I was fourteen
some people know all about plants some about fish
 I know separation
some people know the names of the stars by heart
 I recite absences
I've slept in prisons and in grand hotels
I've known hunger even a hunger strike and there's almost no food
 I haven't tasted
at thirty they wanted to hang me
at forty-eight to give me the Peace Prize
 which they did
at thirty-six I covered four square meters of concrete in half a year
at fifty-nine I flew from Prague to Havana in eighteen hours
I never saw Lenin I stood watch at his coffin in '24
in '61 the tomb I visit is his books
they tried to tear me away from my party
 it didn't work
nor was I crushed under the falling idols
in '51 I sailed with a young friend into the teeth of death
in '52 I spent four months flat on my back with a broken heart
 waiting to die
I was jealous of the women I loved
I didn't envy Charlie Chaplin one bit
I deceived my women
I never talked my friends' backs
I drank but not every day
I earned my bread money honestly what happiness
out of embarrassment for others I lied
I lied so as not to hurt someone else
 but I also lied for no reason at all
I've ridden in trains planes and cars
most people don't get the chance
I went to opera
 most people haven't even heard of the opera
and since '21 I haven't gone to the places most people visit
 mosques churches temples synagogues sorcerers
 but I've had my coffee grounds read
my writings are published in thirty or forty languages
 in my Turkey in my Turkish they're banned
cancer hasn't caught up with me yet
and nothing says it will
I'll never be a prime minister or anything like that
and I wouldn't want such a life
nor did I go to war
or burrow in bomb shelters in the bottom of the night
and I never had to take to the road under diving planes
but I fell in love at almost sixty
in short comrades
even if today in Berlin I'm croaking of grief
 I can say I've lived like a human being
and who knows
 how much longer I'll live
 what else will happen to me


 This autobiography was written 
 in east Berlin on 11 September 1961
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