Alan Ireland Poet Free verse

Recluse

‘I’m a failed Muslim. 
I drink raki now,’ he says. 
A bottle twinkles 
on the upturned orange box. 
 
On the unmade bed, 
a punch-drunk pillow 
lurches in a sea of ruptured quilts. 
 
‘I never pray,’ he adds, 
as hawk-eyed Ataturk 
retreats to an ascetic frame 
and glowers at the room. 
 
And we who are too precious 
to confess our faults 
feel awkward in the silence. 


Turkey, 1990


First published in Blue Minaret

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Johnson Vdev May 18, 2025 at 6:25 PM 'And we who are too precious to confess our faults feel awkward in the silence.' The hypocrisy we live with told so well. Nice poem.

Joe Maverick April 1, 2025 at 12:56 PM Strong metaphors on the turbulece that all Lives face if we are truthfull Alan, still despite All our vanitys we know there is better.' I have Noticed a build up in spirituality as God has Begun showing signs, over the last 15 years the Tempo is up. Its got me thinking anyway.' Alan Ireland April 1, 2025 at 2:14 PM While traveling in central Turkey, in what was once called Galatia (because it was settled by Gauls), I saw a little Turkish girl with bright red hair - a living reminder of those ancient times, when the area was largely Christian.