Mehmet Sniffing a Rose

It is an unlikely pose:
    in this portrait, copied
       by Sinan from the lost original,
the Sultan, described by contemporaries
    as hawk-faced, red-haired,
       "of an aspect inspiring fear
rather than reverence,"

    is evaluating a rose:
       nostrils
delicately arched, lips
    pursed, eyes lost
       to the horizon —

this man, who favored
    careful decapitation of his victims,
       strangulation, impalement,
who had the son of Constantine's chief minister
    slaughtered before his father's eyes
       because he had refused to give the child over
to the Sultan's pleasure —

    is nevertheless
       holding the rose delicately,
between his fingertips,
    such a frail thing,
       but he appreciates its nature;
and in his mind makes a metaphor
    between this rose
       and the life of man:

kingdoms bloom and fall,
    releasing their perfumes:
       beauty, terror,
bloodshed,
    new palaces on top of the old,
       as the bones in the graveyards
stir — so the petals of history
    unfold, one by one,
       at the center,
a bare stalk:
    a few thorns, torn leaves.

       Mehmet,
bastard son
    of a slave girl and a sultan,
       who taught himself Greek,
Latin, Persian,
    who scribbled
       verses —

Mehmet, called
    Fatih, Conqueror,
       is sniffing a rose,
savoring its scent: that is to him
    like poetry, Greek logic,
       like the fields outside Vienna
in springtime,
    like Europe, like the sweet
       necks of princes.

Lillias Bever
Bellini in Istanbul
Tupelo Press Judge's Prize
Selected by Michael Collier
Tupelo Press

Copyright © 2005 Lillias Bever.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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