The Best Fluffy Pancakes recipe you will fall in love with. Full of tips and tricks to help you make the best pancakes.
Your hands grave like all stones,sad like all prison songs,clumsy and heavy like all beasts of burden,your hands sullen like hungry children’s faces. Your hands nimble and light like bees,full like breasts filled with milk,brave like nature,your hands hiding their…
It’s no crime to be Romeo or Juliet,it’s not a crime even to die for love;what counts is whether you can be a Romeo or Juliet—I mean, it’s all a matter of your heart.For instance, fighting at the barricades or…
Is the sadness I feel these sunny winter days the longing to be somewhere else— on the bridge in my Istanbul, say, or with the workers in Adana or in the Greek mountains or in China, or beside her who…
As dawn breaks on the horns of my ox,I plow the earth with patient pride.The earth is moist and warm on my bare feet.I beat iron all morning—the darkness is dyed red.In the afternoon heat I pick olives,the leaves the…
Far off in the night, airport lights burned into the skylike white flames,and the trains I missed dived sparkling into the darkness. taking part of me away.I made a journey.I made a journey.People’s eyes were all white,the putrid waters stank.I…
For seven years now Uludagh and I have stared each other in the eye.It hasn’t budged an inch and neither have I,yet we know each other well.Like anything living, it can laugh and get mad.Sometimes in winter, especially at night,…
Here, eyes, see Balaban’s art.Here is dawn: the month is May.Here is light: smart, brave, fresh, alive, pitiless.Here are clouds: like whipped cream.Here, mountains: cool and blue.Here are foxes on their morning rounds-light on their long tails, alarm on their…
First Series1The world you saw was real, Rumi, not an apparition, etc. It is boundless and eternal, its painter is not the First Cause, etc. And the best of the rubaiyat your burning flesh left usis not the one that…
Hazel are my lady’s eyes,with waves and waves of green—gold leaf overlaid with green moiré.Brothers, what’s the story?For nine years our hands haven’t touched:I got old here,she there. My girl, your thick white neck is lined,but we can’t possibly get…
One night of knee-deep snow my adventure started—pulled from the supper table, thrown into a police car, packed off on a train,and locked up in a room.Its ninth year ended three days ago.In the corridor a man on a stretcher…