Ottoman Arts

After noise,heat and dust,an enclosed garden,

A place of contemplation, cool, serene,

With watersound and treeshade to delight;

Austere exteriors hide glorious flourishes,

The sudden rich glow within grey walls.

Remember the Karatay Medrese in Konya,

The patterned porch of rippling stone

And then the interior,the pyrotechnic dome

Shimmering with stars and suns in a heaven

Of turquoise and black tiles,supported

On four fanning bursts of squinches.

The Sultan Han portal’s pounced and fretted

Framework of carved stone,its zigzag pillars

And stalactite niche,fantastical vision

After a day’s hard journey,the caravan

Arriving safe at last from perilous roads.


The small simple Hacı Özbek mosque

In Iznik,built in the reign of Orkhan,

A dome raised on a rectangle,quintessence

And oracle of Ottoman futures in stone.

In the reign of Süleyman the Magnificent,

The Iznik factories developed tiles

Never equaled in splendor,on fire

With a new viscous red,the wild tulip,

Shining out against white backgrounds,

Everywhere a new confidence

Possessed the arts; the surfaces of jugs,bowls

And plates flame with curling stems

Of carnation,hyacinth and tulip,

All supple line and exuberant hue.

Paradisal rooms designed with such skill

And intricacy that the baffled eye

Can scarcely comprehend it all,

As it jolts across walls,doorways,windows,

Never exhausting the patterns and tones,

The clambering and cascading plants

And flowers,green,red,black and blue

Against white gleam,supernatural forever.

The age was tensed like a bowstring;

Like the sultan’s calligraphic monogram,

Taut sweeps of the pen laying down lines

With delicate spiraling webs of tiny blooms

Around and between,executed with bravura,

Demanding blank space to resonate in.

In Venice a stupendous gold helmet

Was created for Süleyman,flaunting

Rubies,diamonds,emeraldsand pearls,

Topped by a multicoloured aigrette,

A wonder of uninhibited ostentation.


The Green Mosque in Bursa- a new style,

A new accord! Its designer,Ali,had been

To Samarkand,and studied its buildings;

On his way home he had stopped at Tabriz

And recruited craftsmen to execute

The ceramic glory of his planned masterpiece,

A grand concept, of harmonious proportion,

Its mosaic kiosks exuding luxurious repose,

Geometrical patterns composed like music,

And the mihrab’s shimmering expanse

Of vivid faience,like a Persian pavilion,

The blues,whites and yellows of the tiles

So intermingled in hallucinatory richness

That the eye can barely trace the motifs.

Up the steps, higher on the hillside, sits

The Green Tomb,where the Sultan’s coffin

Stands on a platform ablaze with blue

And yellow inscriptions,while the lamp

Hangs between twin tapers, the soul

Of Mehmed the First in state,imparadised

Amid profuse blooms,and pillared silence.


In Bursa Murad II built his garden-cemetery:

His stark creamcoloured tomb,open

To the sky,inviting rain to replenish the earth

In which he lay,surrounded by half-wild gardens,

The other tombs like open summerhouses,

Gracious amid cypresses,planes and oleanders,

Tangled shrubs and late-flowering roses.

In afternoon sunlight.


The four minarets of Edirne Mosque,

Each different in height and patterning

Of chequerwork,lozenges and twisting

Strips of reddish-pink stone,thrusting

Higher skyward than any building before,

Staking out the courtyard,its red and white arches

Reached through high exhilarating doorway.


With percipient eye,on Istanbul’s crests,

Mehmed the Conqueror,as judiciously as armies,

Set the domes and minarets of his capital:

In the grounds of the Seraglio Point palace

Stands the Tiled Kiosk,sensuous and elegant,

The warrior sultan’s secret oasis expressed

In bright rooms with high-arched windows,

Contrasted with dark glazed walls of tiles

Alternating blue and black,tone and undertone.


Carpets of rich luminous colour combined

With restricted angular motifs;prayer-rugs

Suggesting the lamp-lit mihrab niche;

How bold and simple the carpetmakers

Fashioned their works,lit from within

By deep lambent colour,a world away

From the efflorescence of the Persians.

So,too,with the miniatures made for Mehmed III,

Factual and earthy,full of harsh wit,

So unlike the Persians’ poetic refinement;

The pages glow bold,brilliant and direct,

Favouring nature over rarefied fancy.


The Süleymaniye mosque on high

Above the Golden Horn-colossus of Islam,

Supremely self-assured,never out of sight,

Four hundred domes ranged around

The central one,-from a military architect

Throwing bridges across rivers,

Sinan had come to this-the sheer cliffs

Of greywhite masonry,the austere

Courtyard so immense,and the doorways

So thrillingly lofty to walk through,

To enter the vertiginous plain void

And disappear at the centre

Of all things.

Yet never did Sinan build anything

Finer than the Selimye mosque

In Edirne:that warm yellow sandstone,

The fluting of the needle-thin minarets,

The tiers of light many-windowed walls,

And,inside,the pinkish scintillating light

Washing through,a titanic wave

That carries you up,exulting,

To the very dome,surrounded

By a serene crystal sphere,-

Tiles shimmer all over,from zigzags

To forests to individual trees,

Leaf and blossom exploding

In triumph,the entire profusion

As calculated as any single tile.