Atop my crown there’s the feather of a bird
whose claws have never touched the earth.
A bird that lives entirely in the air.
You know nothing of the world,
your geographers make childish drawings
of a palace that I’ve seen with my own eyes,
a room where I’ve lain
with Genghis Khan’s daughter —
a bed as green as the eyes of the prophet —
or was it his daughter-in-law? No matter.
Samarkand is real, the colour
of hummingbirds fighting bumblebees;
but in Samarkand they too have a need for somewhere else,
so they talk of Rizla. I’ve seen the palace there
and the red room where I’ve touched the lips
of the dowager queen, blind since birth
and still a girl despite the death of so many kings.
Above and below, before and behind,
the sun kisses my empire, rivers lick my thighs,
the muezzin calls from the minaret,
but nothing can drown out her cries.
Brother Charles, can’t you see that your kingdom
is nothing but the runt of an afterbirth compared to mine;
you were born in a swamp by the name of Holland,
I was born in the pig sty of the Krajina
but I have children in seven cities, seven climes.
The Serbs ride back and forth between them all,
they make good spies but they are Christians like you,
they believe in silly things like a donkey
breathing foul air on a foul god.
Every morning I get down on my knees
and give praise to Allah
that I was kidnapped from the Krajina.
I pray as Isaac prayed
before he cut off the head of a child,
or is it the other way around?
I can’t remember your tales,
I’ve been a Turk too long…
Laurence O’Dwyer | An Affair with his Step-Grandmother
Contents | Mudlark No. 75 (2023)