Travel poem number 2 about Istanbul.
Returning from drinking a sage tea in a cafe near some tombs I get off the tram;
the cars screech to a halt at the red light as I dodge by the man selling dancing mutant zebras.
People are buying clothes from a pile on the pavement as a salesman calls out the prices.
The humidity is high.
A stallholder presses fresh orange juice and the restaurant is still open;
men are sitting on wooden chairs on the pavement chatting as the traffic zooms by on the flyover.
Cats miaow and hiss over a discarded kebap and a dolmus is waiting to travel to a distant suburb.
The tour operator still wants me to go to Georgia tomorrow.
It is nearly midnight in Aksaray in Istanbul
One of the 20th century’s most influential poets, Eliot died 50 years ago this month. He often wrote of the fragility of memory, but much do you recall about his work?