Gunsel DJEMAL

Bloody hell that... you were back and forth like a yoyo every time you came It wasn’t very much appreciated your ego makes me vomit I’m tired of your screams you have turned my life into

There was a mother from Mediterranean they named her Cyprus who gave birth to too many children and they all died the olive trees mourned inside the bloody soil and drunk too much red

Just because of the keyboard I strike every morning and an empty inbox is blank hitting my face I know you would blame it as technological error you are on the pause mood surrounded with

I won’t bother just hold of this is the battle I’m having did promise didn’t come you may say must be that...? I agree mind you there’s no harm in wording... generally I need to see

poetry is selfish poet writes for himself/herself forwhy poet is selfish when he/she commits to the paper then it belongs to the people. Gunsel Djemal-Bromley Road-London 30/7/2009

Poetry is everything, life style in other words... it’s life itself, written version of life poetry is honest, rebellious and it is the picture of words or it is a picture falling from

i will light my last cigarette while drinking my Shiraz wine i will set on fire everything we lived i won’t be looking back when i’m departing to the ashes remainder from you... i will

the clouds are the memories of the rain/you are mine they asked to knit a poem for you one word drops, i stare and watch from me to you... my lost speeches... every time i miss you i look and

in this rainy weather today i thought rain would wash my cravings for you away… sudden tears in my eyes just to protect you from any harm i close my eye lids to protect you my lashes are

i stopped and kissed the gate i walked through the park hoping to see beloved the park is lonely as i... may be i’m late the only awake souls are the foxes’ right now the night is

walking down the Half-Moon-Lane the clouds were crying the wind was yelling and blowing crazily stirring the branches of the giant maple tree disturbed birds flutter sadly for another

this morning i thought i heard the the chant of the ezan mingling with the sounds of the church bells as the earth’s sounds are in my ears again i’m breasting the day break on lonely

wine scenery my table with the glowing candle light my purple room/gazing at you you are my breath inside your black and white photograph its cork made from the olive bead when it lands on

my mind floated with the visions and dreams i flew in the dark skies towards the east into the past that was my heart’s mission seeking you on the moon, in every shining star, on the peaks

In my shattered moments you appeared to me in that house... disguised as a black knight stood tall and dignified with one look wiped away my tears then I kept you in the warmth of my

oozing from one end to the other sucking the night dripping wiping the dark from the wounded hearts comes blue... light red painted with it’s blossomed green flowers my extended

I drunk in your honour on my balcony gazing at my beautiful garden went to bed with you woke-up you were only my duvet and pillows! Gunsel Djemal 1/5/2009 Bromley Road-London

you will hear the screams of your heart silent tears will fall inside your dark cells in your cold heart your eyes will search for a warm touch one day you will love me again you will

I was confused and upset I wanted to know what was wrong with me? I went to see my doctor “What can I do for you? your appointment is only for 20 minutes” he said hey! doctor I’m tired of

Come With your long arms And soft hands come... remove that insecure cardigan from my shoulders undo the buttons of my skins refusal grey dress lift the heart aching veil from my face and

With my teeth I will bleed the Sun... on top of that I will drink *raki don’t you worry mother... I will resurrect my father... *raki=Turkish Ouzo Poem by: Atilla Elustun 21.06.2009

either all is read or every once in a while all is said your bed is made of jasmine petals… who knows? first you are conceived then given birth they put you into a cradle and you start to

i changed the colour of the sigh of my agony into red i wonder would you know? where my wound is what kind of fear bottles up the smell of the broken heart? i will change the colour

I don’t know If the candle Still burns For me In your heart Where should I look for you Which word is bad?(In public) If I offend you By addressing as My Love It is how I talk Are the