Günsel Djemal-Elüstün (Cyprus)

Günsel Djemal-Elüstün (Cyprus)
She was born in Lefkosia Cyprus from Cypriot parents. Her father was a policeman her mother was a fashion designer.
When she was 11 years old emigrated to England and graduated from secondary school Edith Cavell in Shorditch – London. After 1974 war in Cyprus returned to Cyprus 1976 and graduated from Turkish Language and Literature also continued studying English Literature at Turkish Girls Lycee’ 1977-78.
From 1980 – 1990 has lived and worked in occupied Lefkosia – Cyprus. Moved to London in 1991. Lives a humble life and enjoys the little things. Has been writing poetry since she was 11 years old. She was at the international poetry editorial board at http://www.agonia.net from 2009-2012 also were publishing her poems online there and still writes and publishes her poems there. Her poems translated into more than 10 languages also into Albanian and Chinese languages.
Kiss me
from the night sky
drain the moon and the stars
in to your heart
leave poems
on my face
disturb my hair
which you have wrapped
with your eye lids
to that Mediterranean blue
leave your dreams on your boat
bilingual we talk as one
tired alone
drew your eyes and look
I will carve you to the Venetian pillars
If you want we can demolish the barricades
from the white of the jasmine I become sad
she obstinately blossoms
through the sandbags at Victoria Cafe’
before the mesmerized glances of the cops
kiss me.
who’s toy hasn’t been this city
trust me being a poet is a lie
the blue on our hair
did not fit
the waves crashing on the rocks
should remain with you
I’m the reprisal to this port
is it a little thing to kiss you
from your Cypriot location.
Dumb woman / women
(this poem has been dedicated to the woman who died working in brothels in Cyprus)
The temperature of July is making the present immemorial
bandit is biting our tongue
owl is hiding in the port of Famagusta
on our faces crow black days
untimely blooms ‘ebeden ölmez’ – immortal flower
In brothels; they are not stupid but pretty
does not know Turkish
humiliated with rude behaviour in pain
with loud voice and broken Turkish she is responding
while her whipper continues tormenting
woman is dying
a dumb woman/women
perpetrator unknown
don’t our eyes sharpen backwards
when our feet hugging to life like stone breaking weed
at the ports bayonet’s and at wharfs arsenal
and the delicate body of the life worker is getting cold
her dreams are on white pages
one evening without looking behind
to the roads she walked
even if you hang it on the washing line
and despite this poem I wrote
her hopes already turned into soil.

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