Critique of the Poem

1 March, 2008 (04:20) | Language, Poetry

What is an act of literature without criticism?

This poem was inspired by a little boy who shines shoes for a living in the streets of the city of Istanbul.

Little Yilmaz Its subject is the literal recounting of a tale of a search for the little boy to give him the photographs I had taken of him. The poem’s subtext, however, is the search for cultural identity. It is my discovery of another culture, another people far away from my homeland and One I never knew. I wanted to know this unknown culture. It is my journey of discovery of this culture.
All cultures seek their face, their identity. I was seeking theirs. The little boy was Kurdish. This search for cultural identity demanded my recognition and acceptance. A distinct culture that exists and was hidden and unknown to me in the beginning. I write about “the Other” and my search for this Other.

I am Canadian and come from a country of two distinct cultures. But if one looks more closely at the face of my country, it is a country of many cultures. I have lost myself in them, enjoying their differences, their stories, their food, their laughter, their sadness. We define ourselves by our differences, but in the circle of humanity, there are so many traits we share.

This little boy was the first Kurdish person I met. He was, unwittingly, my introduction to his people. He and I, we never spoke a common language. There was nothing he said to me to urge me on or inspire me. Our friendship was silent, consisting of gestures and moments shared. He did not say: “I am Kurdish”. I don’t remember how I find out that he was a Kurd. Maybe somebody told me. I only remember that his mother lived 24 hours away by bus. Twenty four hours by bus in the direction of the sun.

As is written in the poem, it was “his eyes” that “captured me” by the sheer beauty and the look of fear in them. These eyes implanted themselves in my mind & soul in the form of memory and gave birth to acts of art and writing. The little boy became my muse and symbol of the child born in poverty who is forced to work in the streets of the cities to help support their families.

This first instant of our encounter I captured in a photograph. The phrase of “beauty and the fear” represents the beauty of his eyes I saw when his eyes first looked into mine. But it is also the fear of the little child in a time of violence, in a time of oppression, far from the arms of his mother and working in the streets of the City.

The idea of poverty in the city I have juxtapositioned against its gloriously wealthy neighbourhoods. For me, this wealth was represented by the beautiful neighborhood of Bebek which I compared to Beverly Hills – expensive shops, designer cars, cafés, restaurants and the idle rich. The women I watched in Bebek, “bored and painted”, decorated by their wealth and education but doing nothing more than waiting for men. I am speaking of a life of drifting, a life without purpose. But I also sensed an uneasiness in their waiting because they sense a change is coming. But what that change will be, only an oracle could tell?

I write of “people praying for paradise and air conditioners”. Air conditioners represent a standard of economic prosperity. I had this theory in my mind that if one can buy an air conditioner in a hot country, then there would be disposable income for the luxury of air conditioners. And paradise, a Utopian dream of all mankind. These two ideas work as symbols of the shared goals of humanity, the unifying force of the collective unconscious: wealth and paradise.

The poem is written in the simplistic, naïve style of the language of the child. It is written in this manner because because this poem is for and about a little child, who became a symbol for me both of his culture and people and of the child who, through poverty, must work on the streets of the modern city. My deliberate intention was innocence and purity of language.

The poem is also about my love for the beauty of the city of Istanbul: its connection to the sea, its towering mosques, its meandering cobblestone streets and the story of the people of Istanbul whom I met in my search for the little boy.

The poem, originally written in English, has been translated into French – the other language of my country, a language I have embraced without fear of losing myself, my history, my face. In learning this language, my life has been broadened and enriched. I have also had the poem translated into Turkish and Kurdish in an effort to reach a wider audience, those especially for whom it was written. Imagine an Istanbul, and therefore a Turkey where there was not fear or violence and other cultures and languages and religions could be embraced without the fear of losing face, history, culture, the Self. This paradise would be more beautiful.

The fact that I found the little boy again in this mystical city of 15 million people is a miracle for me. I did not speak the language, I did not know his name or address and he was not in the place where I had first met him.

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