The Ottoman
At the foot of my parents bed was an ottoman,
it was old fashioned, but solid and sound.
My father said it had been locked for a reason,
to stop children from nosing around.
This unusual ottoman kind of haunted me
and I was curious to look inside.
One morning I found a key in the green house
and it looked like the ottoman’s size
Within minutes I was face to face with the ottoman,
the key turned the lock, so I took a peek.
A burning light shone at the bottom of a stairway;
so this was the secret my father wished to keep.
My burning curiosity had got the better of me,
so I lifted the lid wider and got inside.
Down the steps I ventured with caution,
my ears twitching, and eyes open wide.
The steps led down a narrow spiral staircase,
which met a corridor, with a door at the end.
Behind the creaky door was another corridor
and a wooden stairway which I did ascend.
This led me back up to the ottoman,
which was strange, but had to accept.
I decided to mull this over in my bedroom,
but someone was sleeping, so out there I crept.
I couldn’t believe it when I saw myself sleeping,
but then my father called me down for tea.
He and mum smiled, and dad ruffled my hair,
it was then that I came face to face with me.
I ran from the kitchen, up to my parent’s bedroom;
into the ottoman, and returned the way I came.
Everyone was sitting down for tea when I joined them
and dad knew, that I wouldn’t be disobeying him again.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Related quotes
The Battle Of Lepanto Ottomans Defeats
Holy League on 7 October 1571 attacks;
wins a crushing victory over Ottoman fleet
at the Battle of Lepanto Ottomans defeats;
off tide turning western Greek coast;
decisively defeated Ottoman mighty main fleet
of Ottoman Empire in fierce five hours;
of fighting on northern edge of Gulf of Patras;
off fate western Greece Ottoman invasion forces
were from naval station Lepanto sailing westwards;
engaged from Messina Holy League fleet;
quick sand history on this victory turns
Mediterranean Sea Holy League prevents;
becoming an open uncontested sea route;
for Muslim forces; from major Ottoman invasion
Italy protects; prevents conquest Ottomans;
advancing further into exposed southern;
flank of Europe victory Lepanto was the last
major naval battle in contest Mediterranean;
fought entirely between diced empire galleys;
great symbolic importance appropriately assigned
to an empires altering decisive naval defeat;
upon signing of peace treaty in 1573 fate turns;
victorious Holy League is incredibly disbanded
axed a short time after unity Pope Pius V died.
Extract from the poem ‘Mediterranean Colonisation Wars Left Legacy Seeds'.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Memory Of Love
I came upon a house so bare.
I knew there could be no one there.
I wished to enter so I knocked.
No one answered. The door was locked.
I saw a window through which I peered
and saw it looked just as I feared,
lonely, deserted, cold and musty
cobwebs hanging, everything dusty.
The need to go inside
was an urgency I could not hide.
Should I break the door or shatter the pane?
Encouragement came when I felt the rain.
I entered slowly and looked around
amazed and astounded at what I found.
Every room was empty but for one,
a bedroom with chair facing towards sun.
Beside the chair was a frame
holding the picture of a girl with no name.
Curiosity got the best of me
so I turned it over and I did see
her name scribbled hastily.
'Janette, my love I give to you
this picture I love to sit and view.'
and then I placed it back.
The house was no longer cold to me
for it housed a loving memory.
I left it right beside the chair
as if the lover still was there.
Upon leaving the bedroom I closed the door
so it would stay as it was before.
My intrusion on this private place
as I exited left a smile on my face.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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(Hide and seek)
My father gets the wooden stick
he counts from five
i run and hide...
My father is coming with the wooden stick
he counts from four
i close my bedroom door...
My father is looking for me with the wooden stick
he counts from three
as he searches for me...
My father is close by with the wooden stick
he counts from two
my face turns blue...
My father is right next to me
with the wooden stick
he counts from one
now i'm done...
My father finds me
with the wooden stick
he counts from zero
...yes i know, i'm in trouble...
My father says
'there you are!
i found you
now it's your turn to count
and my turn to hide'
...and the game continued...
poem by Allen Steble
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On the eve of World War I, an estimated two million Armenians lived in the Ottoman Empire. Well over a million were deported and hundreds of thousands were simply killed.
quote by Eliot Engel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ottoman Lieutenant
Michiel Huisman, Hera Hilmar, Josh Hartnett, Ben Kingsley, Haluk Bilginer, Affif Ben Badra, Paul Barrett, Jessica Turner, Peter Hosking
by Jeff Stockwell from The Ottoman Lieutenant (2016)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Memorial
Summer
He worked nights, leaving as we climbed
the tall narrow staircase to our shared room,
up into the summer heat, the steel fan
in the hallway window
pulling cool, leafy breezes
from our waving trees.
We heard the kitchen screen-door
slap shut, the Pontiac roaring to life,
and watched as slowly he backed down
the dark driveway, and was gone.
And gladly we glided through our misty dreams,
flying over tree-tops, baseball games
and cool swimming pools,
when finally the robin’s enthusiasm
and the fresh morning sun
flashing through green leaves
woke us as we heard the car stop
and Dad call cheerfully, “I’m home! ”
The air already scented with bacon and coffee,
we flew down the groaning stairs,
two steps at a bound,
and eagerly started another golden
summer’s day.
Winter
One winter day I did something wrong, and
he got angry and drew his worn leather belt
from the loops of his grey, stained work trousers
To teach me a lesson.
Terrified, I ran upstairs to the big closet
and trembled behind coats and sweaters,
as heavily he came up the steps,
righteous anger ringing in his voice,
tears flowing down my cheeks;
when my big brother, teenage and strong,
called defiance to him and drew him down
into the back yard to fight him
and save me, angered by his
memory of so many other beatings,
determined to stop it now!
But facing his own father
he could not fight back, and
weeping, I watched my dad
pummel my brother’s defenseless face,
far worse than any beating
I would have gotten.
From kitchen window,
I screamed to them both
to stop!
That was when my father saw,
in the kitchen window’s glare
his own father’s angry eyes,
and felt his father’s fists
landing hard on his own face,
and he stopped and
embraced my brother.
Spring
Seven years after my father died
my first child, my son, was born in spring,
and in the gleaming, sterile room
I first held him in my arms
as, with his impossibly wide, blue eyes
he calmy gazed right into my raw soul,
and I felt in a sudden rush of warmth,
a timeless love
and at last discovered
the reason for my life.
It was then
I understood my father.
In my son’s face I saw my own
and felt my father’s eyes gazing
in warm wonder on me
and I glowed with
unconditional love for my son.
poem by Steven Federle
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Burning Inside
Will these dreams still follow me,
On of dark obscurity?
Cant you see it up in the sky
As it kicks you in the face and lets you dye
You never have the answers
And now you tell me the facts of life
I really couldnt be bothered with you
Get out of my face and watch me die
Burning inside!burning inside!
Absolution and a frozen room
Are dreams of men below
I try to grab it but the touch is hot
The mirrors collapses, but the image can not
Im scared of darkness in a light
I scare myself cause I know Im right
I see the evil in youre savage eye
As it cuts right through the sky
Burning inside!burning inside!burning inside!burning inside!burning
Inside!burning inside!burning inside!burning inside!
Calling the mantra with a blade in the skin
For the demons within
I feel the pain is the death and decay
But the lesson never fades away
Too little shadows, turn away
Another man through the window pane
Another slave and a victim of fate
Another lesson in hate
Burning inside! burning inside!burning inside!burning inside!burning
Inside!burning inside!burning inside!burning inside!
song performed by by Ministry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Kara Mustafa
Retreating from the gates of Wien,
capital of empire holy, Roman,
Kara Mustafa next was seen
in Belgrade. Like a woman
degendered by defeat he raised
no skirt to show his legs but beard,
exposing to the ones who gazed.
his throat. Though other men have feared
their executioners, Mustafa
presented to the silk garotte
his skin just like an orange Jaffa
ready to be peeled. The knot
was tied around his neck, he died,
and dying thus proved heroic
that in his life. Mustafa sighed,
but laughed, because he died a stoic,
to the executioner presenting
with ease, without complaint, a throat
that never wasted time lamenting
his fortune, though scaped like a goat.
Inspired by a review of “The Enemy at the Gate” by Andrew Wheatcroft, reviewed by Eric Ormsby in the NYT Book Review on June 14,2009 (“Empires in Collision: In the 17th century, Habsburgs and Ottomans clashed over the city of Vienna”) :
Wheatcroft, the author of several earlier books on both Habs¬burgs and Ottomans, states that he set out here to portray the Ottoman “face of battle, ” borrowing a phrase from the classic work by John Keegan, and in this he succeeds; his narrative is thrilling as well as thoughtful, a rare combination. Even so, a subtle imbalance prevails. The Ottomans inspired dread in their enemies; fear was part of their arsenal. But, as Wheatcroft repeatedly demonstrates, the Habsburgs were fearsome too, and perhaps even crueler than their opponents, engaging not only in full-scale massacres but in flayings, beheadings and impalements. Perhaps because Wheatcroft hasn’t drawn on Ottoman Turkish sources, his Ottomans, for all his skill at depicting them, appear oddly imperturbable. After Kara Mustafa’s debacle before the walls of Vienna, he retreated to Belgrade; there, on Christmas Day 1683, he greeted the sultan’s executioners, kneeling with “stoic Ottoman calm, ” and even courteously lifting his beard to expose his throat to the silk garrote. The story is legendary, and Wheatcroft recounts it well. Still, here as elsewhere, we’d like to hear the fierce heart beating beneath the legend.
6/17/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Ages Of You
Postcard stowaway within
Pristine indigo without
Banded ottoman as such
Sofa seated one too much
All along the range all along the range
Ages of you
Train pulls over hanging bridge
Conductor looks up, thinks
Out and down, hands stuck to the left
To the right, you should fall,
The horses just dont gossip anymore
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Time Displaced Empires Conflict Expire
Byzantium Byzantine Empire survives;
to be time displaced Islam at greatest extent?
Arab Empire this region controlled 75%.
Europe dark Middle Ages slowly recovers;
Renaissance rebirth of 12th century leads
after centuries to European new aspirations?
Naval prowess of growing European powers?
Forced flexes muscles Ottoman Empire confronts
halts further rapid Ottoman Empire expansions?
European Catholic maritime states;
a coalition of southern Mediterranean
a Holy League fleet in 1571assembles?
Illustrious members were the Papal States;
Habsburg states of Spain Sicily Naples;
Republic of Venice Republic of Genoa mobilizes;
Grand Duchy of Tuscany the Duchies
of Savoy Parma Urbino pledged prepares;
Knights of Malta all will fight Ottomans?
50,000 infantry 200 galleys 100 other ships;
4,500 cavalry adequate artillery too late...
too late assembled defense Holy League fleet?
Venetian defenders of island Cyprus;
in July 1570 were attacked by Ottomans
invaded by conquering Ottoman forces?
Too late to aid Cyprus prevent island's;
capture by conquest Islamic Ottomans
Holy League waited too long perhaps?
Who failed to assemble which powerful allies?
Holy Roman Empire their truce with Istanbul kept?
France honoured anti-Spanish alliance with Ottomans?
Mighty Portugal could spare no forces;
in ongoing maritime confrontations...
was heavily engaged with rival Ottomans;
in both the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean;
proud Portugal had Reconquista fought...
539 years its Moroccan campaign now fights.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Father
Father, blessed father,
Its morning again.
I give you, father, myself, father,
Continue your plan.
I know together we can climb mountains in the sky.
No one can stop us when Im standing by your side.
Troubles knocking here again;
Ill tell him jesus has me by his hand.
Hell walk me through.
Father, loving father,
Create in me
A pure love, father, your love, father,
Instill it in me.
I remember the nights Ive cried for you;
Now I only have to die for you;
Thank you, lord, youve made it clear just for me.
I see the light;
Its burning out the night.
Oh, father,
Its morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Reckoning
My mother was carried to heaven
On the day that I turned six,
She died of tuberculosis
Spitting blood in a coughing fit,
She'd been so ill for a long long time
That I couldn't recall her smile,
My father, he just grumbled, said:
'Your Ma will be gone for a while.'
'She's gone to sing in a choir up there,
Who knows how long she will be? '
But I saw the coffin that carried her out,
The hearse and the burial tree,
I watched as it sank down into the ground
And my father just left it there,
Went off to visit my 'aunt', he said,
A woman with long, blond hair.
I stayed at home, such a lonely child,
And went to a place in my head,
Where mother was fit and without a care
She laughed at the things I said,
My father left me alone a lot
So mother would tell me, 'Shush! '
We'd laugh and giggle when he went out
But talk in a sort of hush.
I played outside at other times
Where the grass grew long and wild,
I'd catch the skinks as they darted past,
I was always a curious child,
I'd bring the Sleepy Lizards home,
My father didn't mind,
He said I could keep the pets I caught,
I thought he was being kind.
But then one day he came on home
With this 'aunt', who moved right in,
He said they were married now, so I
Should call her 'Mum', not Jen.
I scowled, and went to my room to cry,
My mother was looking sad,
She said, 'just do what your father says,
I'm your Mother, but he's your Dad.'
This Jenny, she was all right at first
She tried to make me smile,
But I was feeling rebellious then,
And turned my back for a while,
I kept my rabbits and guinea pigs
And fed them out in their hutch,
But Jenny came out to look at them,
And she didn't like them much.
I knew, she wrinkled her powdered nose
And said, 'Oh pew! They stink!
We'll have to find you a hobby, one
That's pure and clean, I think.'
I heard her talking to father, say
That she thought I was rather slow,
She wanted the garden tidied up
So my animals had to go.
It was just about that time, I think
That my mother said goodbye,
She couldn't stay in that house, she said,
It was time for her to fly,
She left me alone in a great big world
So I brought a Lizard inside,
And put it under my bedclothes
Thought it a perfect place to hide.
When Jenny made the bed, she screamed
And shook me like a rag,
She went and got a kitchen knife
And a plastic shopping bag,
She made me put the Lizard in
Then she took the bag outside,
And stabbed and stabbed 'til the Lizard bled,
'Til my Lizard friend had died.
'Now bury it! ' she said to me,
'And don't you ever dare
Bring filthy animals into this house,
For if you do, I swear...'
At this she put the knife to my throat
And stood and watched me scream,
I saw the hate in her powdered face
It was like an awful dream!
Whenever my father left the house
She'd always scream and shout,
Knock me around for the slightest thing
Then drag me, throw me out,
Lock the door so I couldn't get in
And give me nothing to eat,
She said if I told my Dad on her
It would only get me beat.
She killed my rabbits, cooked them up
And served them from a pot,
She gave me a crooked, evil grin:
'You'd better eat the lot! '
I found myself in a black, black rage
Inside, at the things she'd done,
And hoped that my father would go on out
And buy himself a gun.
He never knew what she did to me,
I never would dare to say,
I knew that she'd get me on my own
And then there'd be hell to pay,
So I stayed outside in the barren fields
And found me a hessian sack,
Then went for a hunt with a long, forked stick,
It was time to get her back!
I waited until he'd gone away,
Was gone two days or more,
Then bit my tongue as she raved at me,
Spat hate from the kitchen door,
The morning came, and there wasn't a sound
To come from that angry head,
And I will never regret the day
I put a snake in her bed.
10 March 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Depressed Bubble
His eyes twinkled,
When water bowled along,
With a heavy heart full of grief he stood there,
Feeling out of sorts.
Thinking what would happen to his mother,
When she'll know he got a D,
Thinking what would happen to his father,
Knowing his son couldn't reach his expectations.
Hearing his father's footsteps the boy ran away,
How would he face his father,
How would he face his mother,
What would he say to them?
Only this that they shouldn't have expected much from him,
Or rather blame himself?
His father called out his name,
He couldn't bare the pain,
It was the third time his hard work had went in vain,
The boy thought of nothing,
And while the father reached,
He was horrified for he saw blood stains on the floor,
And no sign of his child.
Teardrops wetted his clothes,
And all that he cited was,
Did you came to see me,
Or did you wished me to go with just tears in my eyes and blood on my hands.....
Written on 10/20/10
poem by Ayesha Riaz
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Cell
His father dropped out
For no rhyme or reason
At sixteen, Confusion
Struggled for identity
With a desire to be respected
He joined a gang,
Bought his first gun
And killed a man
Ever since
He's been on the run
Time, as if on wheels,
Moved fast
He turned eighteen in the hole
Living a condemned life
His only hope
Is the sliver of light
Set in the jail-cell metal door
They showed their power
By walking up and down
The concrete-paved corridor
Slapping their palms
With wooden battens
And with an occasional spit
He hates this
He hates this so much
Oft times he wished
He had a gun
I would show them
God knows
I would show them
Who is the man
5/30/11
poem by Buxton Shippy
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The Death of Fred Marsden, the American Playwright
A pathetic tragedy I will relate,
Concerning poor Fred. Marsden's fate,
Who suffocated himself by the fumes of gas,
On the 18th of May, and in the year of 1888, alas!
Fred. Marsden was a playwright, the theatrical world knows,
And was highly esteemed by the people, and had very few foes;
And in New York, in his bedroom, he took his life away,
And was found by his servant William in his bedroom where he lay.
The manner in which he took his life : first he locked the door,
Then closed down the window, and a sheet to shreds he tore
And then stopped the keyholes and chinks through which air might come,
Then turned on the single gas-burner, and soon the deed was done.
About seven o'clock in the evening he bade his wife good-night,
And she left him, smoking, in his room, thinking all was right,
But when morning came his daughter said she smelled gas,
Then William, his servant, called loudly on him, but no answer, alas!
Then suspicion flashed across William's brain, and he broke open the door,
Then soon the family were in a state of uproar,
For the room was full of gas, and Mr Marsden quite dead,
And a more kind-hearted father never ate of the world's bread.
And by his kindness he spoiled his only child,
His pretty daughter Blanche, which made him wild;
For some time he thought her an angel, she was so very civil,
But she dishonoured herself, and proved herself a devil.
Her father idolised her, and on her spared no expense,
And the kind-hearted father gave her too much indulgence,
Because evening parties and receptions were got up for her sake,
Besides, he bought her a steam yacht to sail on Schroon Lake.
His means he lavished upon his home and his wife,
And he loved his wife and daughter as dear as his life;
But Miss Blanche turned to folly, and wrecked their home through strife,
And through Miss Marsden's folly her father took his life.
She wanted to ride, and her father bought her a horse,
And by giving her such indulgences, in morals she grew worse;
And by her immoral actions she broke her father's heart;
And, in my opinion, she has acted a very ungrateful part.
At last she fled from her father's house, which made him mourn,
Then the crazy father went after her and begged her to return,
But she tore her father's beard, and about the face beat him,
Then fled to her companions in evil, and thought it no sin.
Then her father sent her one hundred dollars, and found her again,
And he requested her to come home, but it was all in vain;
For his cruel daughter swore at him without any dread,
And, alas! next morning, he was found dead in his bed.
And soon theatrical circles were shocked to learn,
Of the sudden death of genial Fred Marsden,
Whose house had been famous for its hospitality,
To artists, litterateurs, and critics of high and low degree.
And now dear Mrs Marsden is left alone to mourn
The loss of her loving husband, whom to her will ne'er return;
But I hope God will be kind to her in her bereavement,
And open her daughter's eyes, and make her repent
For being the cause of her father's death, the generous Fred,
Who oft poor artists and mendicants has fed;
But, alas! his bounties they will never receive more,
Therefore poor artists and mendicants will his loss deplore.
Therefore, all ye kind parents of high and low degree,
I pray ye all, be advised by me,
And never pamper your children in any way,
Nor idolise them, for they are apt to go astray,
And treat ye, like pretty Blanche Marsden,
Who by her folly has been the death of one of the finest men;
So all kind parents, be warned by me,
And remember always this sad Tragedy!
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Alfred
You are like the untapped love with torns and,
I am like the unused paradise in chains;
But, what had to be done should be done on this love.
The future matters and i have you in mind,
But you shouldn't hide behind the walls of Yerusalem!
For the requirements on this case can never be told.
From the Ottoman Empire to the present Empire in Rome,
I am courageously motivated to love you forever;
But, what had to done should be done on this love.
Alfred, my love to you is alaborated into extrem positions;
And, with a crude periscope through the dark tunnel,
But i will live on this love with you alone.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Locked
Children tattooed, pierced and studded, dreadlocked;
parents panicked, indecisive, deadlocked.
Mother to daughter: live as you must, if you must;
for just a bit longer, keep the door to your bed locked.
Son to father: teach me what you know,
but I won't agree to keep the door to my head locked.
Mother to father: where have you been, and where
have you kept your thoughts and all you might have said locked?
They'd come so far, and then she saw, in him,
the door to their life, their home, their daily bread locked.
One night in a fiery panic dream he ran
and found the door toward which he'd wildly fled locked.
Aging, but at long last ripe and ready,
she found the on-ramp to the road ahead locked.
They learned too late the cost of keeping that cellar
full of truths that could not be gainsaid locked.
The young return. Too many find the way back
to lives in the country for which they fought and bled locked.
Eric, old friend, as you try each door in the mind,
will you wake one day to find the heart instead locked?
poem by Eric Torgersen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Father & Son
There is the family photograph
That is your father’s face,
There is your father’s father
Grey-gathering years apace;
The son, bright-eyed in the morning,
The father, lined and drawn,
The son became the father
On the day that you were born.
We’ve all set out on the highway
Our fathers wished us well,
The sons became the fathers
In the same distinctive spell;
The road of all beginnings
Is all there is to lend,
But many a twist, and many a turn
Has marred us at the end.
He was my father’s father,
I am my father’s son,
We’ve travelled as far, and farther
Than our father’s years have run;
The twists and turns of fortune
Mean nothing, lost or won,
But the love of a father’s father,
And the love of a father’s son.
3 September 1977
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Couplet: Come With Me (Ekphrasis)
This door was cut from the same tree
that held Me up for all to see.
There's no latch, bolt, padlock, or key,
swing it open, (your name) come with Me.
Follow My lead. Stay close behind.
The path's narrow. See how it winds?
Pace yourself and don't make a sound—
we're passing over hallowed ground.
Not many have ventured this way.
They don't like the small gate they say.
Most prefer that wide road over there;
it's large, red gates are a matched pair.
Look up ahead. See that bright light?
That's My signal. An angel's in flight.
Not to worry we'll be safe now—
we're near My Father's house anyhow.
We'll soon behold My Father's throne.
Don't be afraid you're not alone.
Ask My Father for all your needs.
He'll reward you for your good deeds.
You'll claim victory just like Me.
I paid the price that set you free.
Father gave Me a throne like His.
My reward was eternal bliss!
poem by Caryl Ramsdale
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Haunting
Sleep is an enemy these days
I sleep, I wake, I sleep, I wake
I look outside the window at the night
Sometimes I have such dreams
as vivid as the day, at other times
the dreams, they stay away.
It was a night of vivid dreams
I heard a noise downstairs, someone shuffling, rustling
I called, "Is someone there? "
Footsteps coming closer, passing by my door.
I heard the bathroom being used
and I called out some more.
The bedroom door creaked open,
she moved across the room, her face was so familiar
but I screamed and off she flew.
The face I saw was tired miserable and worn.
She seemed to be quite harmless
but still I was concerned
and later on that morning
as the sun rose in the sky, I realised who she was
and I breathed a heavy sigh.
The lady in my bedroom
was someone I knew well. It was me you see dear reader,
it seems I haunt myself
poem by Ruth Walters
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