Poets of the 21st century, do you realize a new millenium is upon us? Time has changed it's name, the winds blow with a fresher vibrancy, and the mediterrenean whispers new prophecies.Who has noticed? Is there anything to notice, though, really? This question must have been asked so many times before: Romans, Franks, Tuscans, Victorians, all must have pondered it.And because they have done so, look at what they where able to create! If you look well enough, one would notice that when a certain society was at it's peak, it's Art was also at it's height.Did Art make the society prosper, or did society make Art bloom? Historians may argue one way, Poets another.Both, however, would agree, that Art of any kind, can change worlds.They can endow, or destroy, unlock or bury.
How?
Is not society, and everything in it a product of, and dominated by the human mind, the human psyche? Art, especially poetry endowed as it is with the power of words, can change the way people think.Thus can it not change the way a society functions?
You, who linger pleasantly in your office chair, you who wallow drunkenly in the myre of your feasts, and you who celebrate the morning after...you will tell me "Why should society change?" You ask this, for you know nothing of what man's true purpose is, what his true heart is.You don't know for you never cared to know.All the while decedance takes root.Not the decedance of morality, but the decedance of the flesh and all it shelters.It is a fact I do not claim to know what man's true purpose is, nor do I believe that Fate will ever allow us to know.But, I do know what man is! And I'm sure there are so many others like me who can see that man's true self is being shackled by the pyschological poison of a society that is anything but human.Other Artists, who express themselves through their own words and ideas, not once they were made to borrow.
There are sensations which have not been experienced for centuries, and their emptiness leaves us empty and false.Artists have the power to help the public feel these sensations, and what's more to inspire them to seek others.With these new sensations, we can feel our every feeling in every way.And to do this we first need, a new conscience.A conscience free from religious morality, free from social restrictions; we need a conscience which echoes to us with Nature's divine voice.As Artists, and Men, we need to re-establish our bonds with Nature, for we are after all, part of her kingdom.We need to follow her rules, which are simple,golden, and pure.Then we can engrave her voice in our hearts, and be free to seek ourselves, without ever harming her providence, and those of her true kin.
Thus endowed we can proceed to our true goal, the unison of our personal trinity: body,mind, and soul.Only when these three are in unison, and sharing the same desires can we truly own our bodies.Once we own our bodies (Bodies which after all have been merely loaned to us) there is no limit to what we can achieve.We can truly know our feelings and what we desire, and have the knowledge how to acquire it, we could even travel through time through our feelings: be able to keenly feel what we felt in the past, or what we would feel in the future.This could endow us with a common sense that could save lives, for as Ernesto "Che" Guevara De la Serna stated "let the world change you, before you can change the world."
Let us hope to find, in the midst of this decadence, a refuge.
Poets, extend your arms! Embrace a new reality. Seek a state in which peace of mind and reflection are not troubled by the weariness of noise, the futility of chatter. A place where the rumbling of machine and the empty laughter of television cannot harm us; A place where the night is quiet, where only slight whispers are heard; and where the day is filled with the song of birds and the calls of Nature’s children.
Only here, in this newfound haven, shall we find the strength to explore, to perceive.
It is time to escape the dark fog which keeps us cruelly at bay; let the doors be opened for those who seek sight in a world of blindness.
Life lies just beyond this cemetery of degradation, awaiting those who yearn for her light.
What does Art and Poetry have to do with this one might ask? They are so important to the human psyche that if they don't progress, neither will humanity.Art needs to reflect the needs of the time, so it's words and ideals can be reflected back to the world and thus: Alter.And this is the new Art this generation, this young millenium needs.
So far it has not surfaced in an open way, which does not mean there are no Artists who feel this need, and express it.Thus we are proposing a movement that brings together all these Artists, and which will also attract other, new, Artists to this new style.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Poems By Sofia Rossi
Creation
Perhaps it is among the whispers of the trees, where the lilacs bloom in spring; where the currents of the air guide the flying of the birds; Where life sleeps, quite enamored, under the branches of an oak; that is where this story seems to begin.
When the morning shows its eyes, on the east of the nighttime sky, that the time it starts.
For the dawn of all creation, in its splendor and its grace, was now just beginning. Life chased itself in land and sea; the coral reefs, the caves, the bright green of canopies was filled with life, and the earth was immersed in sound.
The movements of the ocean were like powerful rhythms of an ancient energy, and all sea creatures beat to its same tune.
And thus, from chaos sprang order, and the laws of nature placed themselves in a cycle of pattern. All was in perfect coordination and efficiency. Every species had such countless advantages, means of life, and vast ways of reproduction that the schedule of life and death was seldom altered. Life was in a mathematical balance few eras have seen.
But then, to the world’s surprise, from a new sunrise came the dawn of mankind. And man was not like the rest of life’s creatures. He was alive, but in a way which no other creature had ever experienced. His depth and complexity made him a creature indefinable by the laws of nature.
Each animal had the spark, the energy of life in them, but only man had enough to form a soul; a fully functioning divinity in all its splendor. This, which no other animal had acquired, was the only tool necessary, and the most powerful of weapons in the confines of our reality.
And thus, man came, and he towered above all other creatures. He had a weapon which animals perceived as celestial, something capable of defeating all their defenses. And man saw that he was much stronger than all of life, and used his strength for his prospering.
He used the soil of the earth to grow the means of quenching his hunger, and used its waters to dissipate his thirst. He built homes with the branches of forest trees, and warmed his body with the furs of mighty animals. Man was wise, and he understood many things. He felt a oneness with the earth, a closeness now long forgotten.
As man’s cities grew, and reason affined, cancerous thoughts began to plague him. He wished only for self gratifications; he felt small in the world. He sought happiness, for the hustle of organized structure left him no room for wandering. And thus man became a weak, helpless being, victim to petty gratifications and useless desires. This was the downfall of earth’s mighty creature, whose possibilities were once infinite.
He has not learned to control his great instruments, and let his will be dominated by chaos. These creatures will never return to their great ancestry. With the difficulty and complexity of structure, also comes our own complexity and the difficulty of controlling it. Men have failed to maintain balance. However, the seedlings of truth are yet found buried in our minds, and it is once again our duty to grow them into mighty trees.
Thus far has life come in its path,
Though its stories are countless and dark,
For few can see life’s boundaries,
And where our shadows are marked.
Reflection
A face shines from the cracks in the mirror…could it be? Was it I, who smiled so curiously, enthralled by the woman of this reflection? And how could it be then…that I had for so long missed this face in the mirror. Surely, I had gazed in her eyes distractedly, on mornings and afternoons, in light and half-light, years after years…
Surely, then, I must have before seen! The pale glint which moonshine glows on her lips, the desperation of her eyes (perhaps tired, perhaps barely alive?)…and this fierceness! This difficult dreamer’s sigh, which escapes from her cheeks, from the half-frown of her lips…what is it?
I near the reflection. I extend a palm, graciously, touching upon this unearthly reality. What lies just behind this image? And her eyes…they seem to study me so. I have seen her face so much, yet so little. This creature, I see her, from the depth of my own, distracted eyes. Her smile, malignant, beautifully alluring, stares back from the pools of her pupils. I look intently, for I see a beginning there. A beginning, perhaps to an infinite hole, a darkness more impenetrable than the cold of desert nights. A darkness so unknown, its very enfolds quiver with fear of its presence. Have I truly known myself?
Why, then, does this child of enchantment startle me so?
The secrets of her silence seem so familiar. The stories, the emotions, I have known them. They were the moments of my life. Fractured, indistinct, through pain and ecstasy, this creature knows every twist of my soul. She accompanied me, when I thought even the darkness had turned her head. She whispered to me, when I thought only silence could fill the catacombs of my despair. And now, I recognize her. She knows too much.
Ah, this creature is the reverberation of my soul! How I love thee, strange face, how I love thee…With a love boundless as only infinity, for you are mine own infinity.
Only a love so unknown to mortals could shake me now; for how can I not love what is but a part of myself? The whole of myself! Only one creature knows the deep secrets of my being; that which is unspeakable by human thoughts; that which is only seen through eyes of sensation. And this creature, alas, my reflection.
I can no longer dream, idly, stupidly, about the nothingness which fills my days. I can no longer walk by this reflection, as it sits so immobile, studying, wondering, seeing.
Now, for only now I see; Eternity. In me.
Dead Poet
The memory of the piano lingered in his thoughts; the glide of small hands on the keys brought back the call of past days. Yet, now, how the piano sat so somberly; draped in a sleeping film of dust, rusting in its silence. He gazed longingly towards the window. Thick grime had settled on it, rendering the shapes outside blurred and indistinct. There, the shape of a half-smiling moon was barely distinguishable; it sat, like a judging God, almost peeking through the glass, staring back at him.
His soft hands rested, clutched together, on his lap. His fingers arched, almost in prayer formation, his back curved, like a horse being burdened by heavy loads. In the half-light of the oil lamp, only a shadow of his appearance could be perceived. The flicker of the small flame left dark marks under his eyes, and sombered the creases in his cheeks. Yes, he was no young man. The footsteps of age had trodded on his hopes and wishes; the promise of serenity was now only the stale memory of a childhood smile. He sat in his chair, immobile.
Was it contemplation which left a light frown on the lines of his mouth, or was it a hint of remorse?
Was it perhaps shame for his condition, or mockery for his delusions?
And who is to know.
His desk was cluttered with ancient books and crumpled paper. His head, once filled with the sensations of youth, was empty; only a silent chill rang in its pathways. Ah, how he’d dreamed of her. His companion, who had inspired in him so many breathtaking flames. His muse, alas, had departed from his arms! She, who alone carried his heart; she, whom he loved most dearly and passionately, whose smile was a flash of excitement, a word of beauty, a story of both sadness and ecstasy.
Now, if he tried, he could only recollect blurredly his memory of her; for she was fugacious, like the currents of the wind; she hovered like song in the air, for a second, and then was gone. She neither had patience nor calm; she was a thunderstorm, and the slight chill of March. She was the butterflies gently resting on spring’s flowers, the scent of jasmine in the hair of a lover. Oh, she was! But now, only her shadow lurked the hallways of his wishes. That she may, for one last time, pay a visit to his forlorn spirit, whom in anger and frustration all life had forsaken.
His eyes are cold, and aloof; in the semi-darkness, he does not care to see, he does not care to feel. His lips are shut, his hands, delicate from the handling of fine paper. His teeth are yellowed, bathed in the scent of tobacco, and he reaches, day after day, for the pipe on his bedside table. The fog of smoke help his features disappear; he no longer must show his face to the world; the face which he is so deeply ashamed of. The face which has tormented him from the looking-glass, every day of his life; the face which he can no longer stand, for it disgusts him. To know that he was nothing without his muse; nothing but a quill, dried up from the lack of ink. His muse was the poet, not he; he was nothing but a clumsy tool, and she had replaced him with a more efficient one.
Surely, somewhere, among the dark streets of London, or in the green pastures of the countryside, his muse had flown to; she had found a young man, perhaps eager and full of spirit, whom to delight with her verses. And he, like an eager schoolboy, had flirted with her brilliance and diverted her into playing his games.
Oh, but she was right. He had become too obsessed with his writing. It was no longer a game, no longer an idle fantasy; and that the muse could not be burdened with; seriousness cannot find resting place in the true heart of poets.
Perhaps that is what he had been once; a poet of youth, unmarked by the solitude of life, the scars of age’s blows; yes, once, he had been like a wave blown aback on the sea, drifting without promise of rest, rising and falling with the wind’s sighs, crashing with fragrance upon an unknown shore.
But alas, the carefree love of fresh minds withers, as even the brightest of flowers. The muse, with its gentle smile, and everlasting beauty, does not fold its wings to man’s inevitable repose; she does not wait to push those who have bent their heads to strife, nor wishes to play with those that have lost passion for game. She moves on, from the dead lilacs to the blossoming rose, wavering from life to life like the kiss of first summer’s dawn.
Alas, for me, she's gone!
Death of a soul
A daunting flower lends its wings,
Parting with light as the nightingale sings.
Her pale hair shines with dying light,
Weary autumn eyes meet her sight,
Creases of age line the memories of her cheeks,
And softly with tired lips she speaks.
Time spins a web of dying regrets,
Among the curling smoke of her cigarettes;
A shadow flows with her silent steps,
Carrying unknown burdens, forgotten debts.
She clings with sorrow to life’s hands,
Drowning with silent lips in time’s wastelands;
Her head bowed, she sits in stone,
Forgetting the light her love once shone.
And the clock hands turn, like winter’s seasons,
Among the broken symphonies, a million reasons
Weep silently with the morning’s chill;
The roses resting on her windowsill
Have withered in the frost of her goodbyes;
And softly, inside her heart, an angel cries.
On the tide by the sea
On days dark, with sorrow weak,
When wind, with anger, shouts and shrieks,
I found myself, alone inside, sitting by the tide.
The sea then shook, with mighty screams;
Its roaring sound perturbed my dreams.
For I was weary, on that day,
On I walked, bleak and gray.
I stood, quite still, by the frigid waves;
As, on the sand, they met their graves.
Like mighty soldiers, on they fight,
But all they fall, like weary knights,
Washed up on the shore.
And to the dark and murky sea,
I rang, with sorrow, a silent plea.
From its strange depths, where spirits nest,
I wished for a truth with which to rest;
I sought an answer which no man knows,
The depth of life with which all glows.
I wished to find, on water’s dance,
My reflection, a single glance,
For high and low I searched life’s peaks,
Never to find what all souls seek,
Never to taste what no man finds,
That wish which lights all mortal minds;
For once to find, on waves by the sea,
Our soul’s reflection, wild and free.
Memories
The gowns swept across the polished heartwood of the ballroom, twirling amidst cries of joy and laughs of cheer, waltzing to popular and lively melodies at a typical party of the late eighteen hundreds. There were hundreds of guests, each eye twinkling excitedly and expectantly, each mouth joyfully chattering away with old friends and new acquaintances alike. And amidst all of this joy and festivity, what shall we find but a negative source of black light? Someone whose soul was unsettled, rampant, and in its turbulent nature could not relax and let itself drift comfortably amidst the evening’s social circle. An old woman, perhaps, spiteful to all the young, jealous of her own faded youth? Or perhaps, a worried mother, who must make sure her daughter doesn’t engage in too much sexual promiscuity? Who may it be? Certainly, you would not guess the blossom of this turbulent soul. A child, no older than eight, whose angelic features and pale eyes seemed to infuse purity, whose small painted lips were like a cherry on a white blossom, was the very fountain from which this strange mixture of emotions flowed. And no one, in their cheer and bliss, could see the bubbling chemicals inside the pools of her pale eyes. Not her mother, who was enjoying the social circle and joining in for the latest gossip, and certainly not the aunt that was supposed to be watching her, pleasantly engaged with a man much younger than she. So who can see into your eyes, Annabel Beth? Who sees the intricate pattern of thoughts which engage your imagination? So many strange, deep passages run within your mind; can no one see them, Annabel Beth? Annabel, sing me a song. Sing me a song that has rhythm and flow, and a whispering quality to it. Yes, Annabel, sing me, I know you can…you sing in your sleep, to calm down your monsters. Oh, Annabel Beth, I know sometimes you get frightened, I know you twist and turn, but the calming singing pleasantly rocks you back to sleep. But Annabel Beth, you have overcome terrible monsters, and they have made you wise. So many things you know now, and through the crystals of your eyes you perceive even subtle thoughts. You are troubled, yet serene. In control, yet still a child in want of play. You, Annabel Beth, are what men are afraid of. Someone deceiving, whose nature is not easily understandable. Someone who rocks between evil and good, between crazy and normal, between monster and angel. That is who men fear, because they are not able to understand such split motivations. But you can, can’t you Annabel Beth? Can’t you! Fire, Annabel Beth, I know the figure of fire hypnotizes your desires. Fascinating substance fire, it can mold and create, but also murder and devour. It can bless frigid bodies with everlasting warmth, or burn them in unbearable agony. Fire is two natured, and that is why you like it so much, don’t you Annabel Beth. Yes, I feel a connection with it. Ah…Annabel, why are you afraid of birds? They’re not going to hurt you, they’re not! Stop being so frightened, Annabel Beth!! Their little beaks seem sharp and treacherous, but their eyes are curious and kind, and their song relieves pain from men’s hearts. Do not fear its calls, or its flights, or how it looks at you, curious. Do not run away! And do not touch it with thought of murder; do not harm its fragile colors. Annabel Beth, you must understand things. You cannot cry, expect people to treat you as the only suffering being. I know your suffering, Annabel Beth, it is deep maze of deceptions and burning fires; it is something which devours you, creating a monster without feeling for pain or regret. I know it…but in this ballroom, your soul is alone. These men and women. So joyfully winding away and forgetting, whose eyes only barely scratch the surface of emotion, are nothing but mere shadows of you. And they seem distant…they are like slow echoes from the other side of a canyon. They are foggy and unclear, while you, you have many colors, don’t you? Many sides, many things you hate, many that you are pleased with; certainly many you are afraid of. Annabel, you are simply so pretty! Your locks are like fine pearl silk, so blonde almost white, and your porcelain skin is soft and smooth. The curiosity of a child shines in your sky gray eyes. Yes. You hear that often. Do you not Annabel Beth? You are a fine pretty blossom, with not a petal flawed! Do you like what they say? Or does it disgust you. It is shameful to be judged by these low creatures, isn’t it Annabel Beth? I know it, they swarm the oceans of life polluting its waters. They destroy the foundation for towers, and burn crops in the field of becoming. They hinder us. And slow our progress. Yes. Yes I know Annabel Beth…that is why you are so uncomfortable. These men are on a different plane. Their problems need not concern you, don’t boil your emotions like a toxic volcano inside your head. You must, Annabel Beth, you know you must. You must do it for the sake of releasing these tensions, it’s important you do Annabel Beth! It’s alright to think these thoughts, men are the ones who made it impure. Yes, Annabel, there is the woman. She is particularly annoying is she not? She has no great talent, is not extraordinarily pretty. In fact, the one thing which makes her repulsive is that she is absolutely like every other woman in the room. So ordinary and so compellingly useless. So gray…and who ever uses gray when having to make a beautiful work of art? It is alright on her, Annabel Beth, it is alright. Don’t think about your fears. Don’t think about the grass, and the birds and the monsters in your dreams. They are watching now, they will no longer hinder you. They want you to, can’t you hear their voices? Yes, Annabel Beth, their voices are quite soothing now, aren’t they? You no longer need to fear them. But that woman’s voice, her voice is so high pitched, it ruins the subtle chatter of the room. There, Annabel Beth, she’s not far is she. No, she’s so very close, you can smell the perfume on her dress, can’t you? What does it smell like, Annabel Beth? She smells of lavender and geraniums, doesn’t she? Oh, she’s leaving now, retreating into a dark corner towards a bathroom. Now is the time, Annabel Beth. Don’t worry, I will guide you, it is all very simple. The human body is quite fragile you know, it is very easy to suspend life permanently. So easy, yes, quite so easy. Yes, the blade on that knife must go right through her neck, for a neither fast nor clean death. Hugging her, you feel uncomfortable, don’t you Annabel Beth? You do not like the touch of skin upon yours, it gives you a fastidious feeling of repulsion. Ah…Annabel you have done it. Blood has a very vivid color, doesn’t it? A beautifully oh so vibrant red, a paint of war and passion, bravery and marvel. But you must leave Annabel Beth, you must go to an adult and cry tears, and say that you found her there. And who will ever doubt you, Annabel Beth? And as they all rush to see the dead woman, and ponder who the murdered may be, tens of ladies crouch around you, comforting you for the traumatizing sight you had to behold. It was quite easy, wasn’t it Annabel Beth? Yes, a piece of cake for a child so young. You can always trust me, I will lead you, Annabel Beth. Your fears, and the cold of your memories shall not harm you, if you listen to me. Annabel Beth, you are a beautiful miracle of deception, of strength and weakness, blessing and curse. Don’t shy away Annabel Beth…let my voice guide you, because it feels so very pleasant in your head. I never have to leave, and show you the paths you have to take in life. Listen, Annabel Beth, always listen. To me.
A Moment’s Eternity
The night I first saw her, a bright moon was shining. Everyone on the ship had been asleep, but the erratic motion of the waves had awoken me. I had tried to fall again in slumber, but we were traveling new waters, and my spirit was restless. 1
I cursed in the darkness; my spirit was that of a worn sailor, always anxious for new wonders, traveling only to escape the feelings of imprisonment that firm land aroused in me. I could not stay in one place for very long; my wishes ached to be renewed; I longed for new shores to explore, new storms to conquer.
My escapes were, after all, my imprisonment; my free spirit kept me in chains; I was his slave to follow, to whatever treacherous escapade he yearned for next. I often though of a family. I longed for a woman, always at my side, but I knew I could only be poison for her. Never home, never lending a helping hand, unable to offer a shoulder for protection.
That night, my restlessness was giving me particular trouble; the rumbling of water outside gave me no hope for peace. With resignation, I quietly got out of bed, wishing for a breath of fresh sea air. It would surely ease my rumbling spirit.
Outside, the night was beautifully clear; a thousand stars shone from their celestial thrones; the moon, queen of all, sat in splendor among them. I gazed longingly at her fair beauty; how many poets had written about her mysterious presence!
I sighed, closing my eyes. I let the rhythmic sweeping of water lull me in a strange trance; back and forth, back and forth, the waves crashed on the shore of my thoughts, washing away my disquiet emotions…I breathed deeply, letting the pungent smell of salt soothe my tired body.
And then, just as I opened my weary eyes, there she was. A silhouette outlined by a silver thread of moonlight; There, walking on the ocean waves. I gasped in amazement; her features were blurred, indistinct; a mass of long curls trailed behind her in the wind, rising and falling with the water. I could not see her face in the darkness, but the rhythm of her walk aroused in me an unknown passion; I was transfixed with her figure; I could not move my eyes from her gentle body. For no woman had I ever longed so deeply, with a yearning far beyond mortal love.
And then, just as instantly as she had appeared, she was gone. I stared for a long moment at the very place where she’d been standing, overtaken by speechless amazement.
I trembled; I felt an unquenchable thirst in my heart;
What had I just seen? I could not come to terms with the swarms of questions which now raced in my thoughts; who was she? Surely, nothing so indescribable could be human; my heart had jumped in my throat, my hands were sweating; I felt as if I’d stolen a view of something forbidden, magical.
There was not a moment in which her moonlit silhouette was not with me; I stared for hours at the sparkling waves of the sea, wherever I went. I became increasingly quiet and irascible. My already uncontrollable spirit was now bursting with wonder and strange passions; her sight tormented my every dream; I would vision her beauty, see her hypnotizing sway…only to awake, startled, in a dirty hammock, surrounded by sleeping sailors.
No matter how I yearned; no matter how I pleaded the heavens, they would not grant me a second glimpse.
Many years later, I found myself on a journey to the coast of Africa. The black continent had still never been seen by my eager spirit; its untamed wilderness allured my wishes; and I, like an obedient puppy, followed my impulsive passions, following my heart to whatever corner of reality it pushed me. Africa was a dangerous, unexplored land. We traveled close to the coast, and only went on land for provisions or upon sighting a British camp. On one of these occasions, after a long stretch of wild land, our ship came across a small camp waving the English flag. Exhausted, dehydrated, and hungry, we quickly took refuge in the small cove of civilization. We spent the night there, regaining strength to pursue the rest of our treacherous journey.
As it often was, on this very night I awoke, startled, from a terrible nightmare. All around, my mates were soundly sleeping. Sweat dripped down my face; the suffocating heat of the night left me breathless; it crashed on my body like the strong waves of a storm, leaving me helpless. I twisted and turned for hours in my bed, trying to regain sleep, but, as always, it eluded me; it left me, crushed by heat, to rot on my dirty straw mattress.
Insufferable and aching, I left my bed, favoring the outside air, like I often did in my insomniac nights. The air outside was not crisp and refreshing, like the cool breeze of the water, but it was not as suffocating as the tent.
I made my way slowly to the beach. It was an intensely moonlit night; clear, untamed. Only in the heart of darkness could the moon shine so brightly.
As my feet finally sunk in the sparkling sand, there, she appeared like a vision. My heart suddenly stopped. Time seemed to hover, immobile, for an infinite second.
Her silhouette…I would have recognized her curves in any light; excitement and terror both overtook me. I was powerless to move; I sunk to my knees; I could see her hair, waving back and forth, with the rhythmic motion I was so familiar with. I wanted to call to her, whisper softly, but the sounds were trapped in my screaming heart.
She was so close…a few meters, and I could have caressed that perfection. She was simply standing, just where the sea kisses the sand, staring into the never- ending waves.
Suddenly, she turned to face me. I could not see her distinctly; once again, just her features were outlined. My mind was exploding with millions of thoughts; the moment she met my gaze, it seemed as if reality crumbled away. I could feel the intensity of her eyes as she studied me; I looked helplessly towards her; I was but a speck of dust in the hands of a goddess.
To my mounting disbelief, she slowly began walking towards me. Every second that she inched closer, a new wave of strange emotions overtook my throbbing soul; I belonged to her; my heart, my soul, my every wish rested solely in her hands. I was a puppet to her desires, and I fully wished for her to guide me. She stopped in front of where I was kneeling, and gracefully got down to her knees. And there, in the darkness, I met her eyes; they were crystalline, transfixing, hypnotizing; they were inhumane, breathtaking; they were neither good nor evil, creation or destruction; perhaps they were the soul itself.
I could feel her breath on my skin; every wave of air was a soft, electrical tingle.
And then, in a moment, she pressed her lips on mine. Truly, no expression can do justice to that moment; no description could fulfill my desires to tell it in all its magnificence. No kiss, not from queens, not from alluring oriental dancers, not from the beautiful ladies of Paris, Rome, London…no kiss will ever compare to that moment.
As her soft lips warmed my own, trembling ones, I came to contact with myself; everything in her reminded of my soul. In short, she was; everything present in creation was her artifice.
All beauty and splendor became clear in that second; every horror, every twist of deceit seemed to unfold plainly in front of my eyes. The secret of everything was shared with that soft brush of lips; I remained immobile, wondering why I had never seen reality; for indeed, those secrets were simple. The confused myths we had for so long trusted were a construct of imagination; truth was, indeed, a simple matter.
That second was, and forever will be, the whole summarization of my life purpose; but as soon as it came, thus it went, like a breath of wind. I opened my eyes, and she was gone. Only the memory of her silhouette remained; I sat, in deep contemplation, until the morning. I was trying to sort out reality from dream, fantasy from truth; all my convictions had evaporated, dissolved like cigarette smoke. That second had shown me all things; and she had given me the gift of knowledge.
Needless to say, she never left my thoughts. She was everything in my vision; no other woman could possibly have my love now; for my love was locked up in the immensity of an angelic creature. Since that night, though I have searched for her in my every voyage, she has never again appeared to me. She both blessed and tormented me; I long for her touch more than my own existence.
Oh, how meaningless my life! How selfish men, who think they can understand!
Not all the journeys in the world could make them free; How foolish, to ponder, day after day, what reality may be.
Only a kiss from a goddess could make them see.
Perhaps it is among the whispers of the trees, where the lilacs bloom in spring; where the currents of the air guide the flying of the birds; Where life sleeps, quite enamored, under the branches of an oak; that is where this story seems to begin.
When the morning shows its eyes, on the east of the nighttime sky, that the time it starts.
For the dawn of all creation, in its splendor and its grace, was now just beginning. Life chased itself in land and sea; the coral reefs, the caves, the bright green of canopies was filled with life, and the earth was immersed in sound.
The movements of the ocean were like powerful rhythms of an ancient energy, and all sea creatures beat to its same tune.
And thus, from chaos sprang order, and the laws of nature placed themselves in a cycle of pattern. All was in perfect coordination and efficiency. Every species had such countless advantages, means of life, and vast ways of reproduction that the schedule of life and death was seldom altered. Life was in a mathematical balance few eras have seen.
But then, to the world’s surprise, from a new sunrise came the dawn of mankind. And man was not like the rest of life’s creatures. He was alive, but in a way which no other creature had ever experienced. His depth and complexity made him a creature indefinable by the laws of nature.
Each animal had the spark, the energy of life in them, but only man had enough to form a soul; a fully functioning divinity in all its splendor. This, which no other animal had acquired, was the only tool necessary, and the most powerful of weapons in the confines of our reality.
And thus, man came, and he towered above all other creatures. He had a weapon which animals perceived as celestial, something capable of defeating all their defenses. And man saw that he was much stronger than all of life, and used his strength for his prospering.
He used the soil of the earth to grow the means of quenching his hunger, and used its waters to dissipate his thirst. He built homes with the branches of forest trees, and warmed his body with the furs of mighty animals. Man was wise, and he understood many things. He felt a oneness with the earth, a closeness now long forgotten.
As man’s cities grew, and reason affined, cancerous thoughts began to plague him. He wished only for self gratifications; he felt small in the world. He sought happiness, for the hustle of organized structure left him no room for wandering. And thus man became a weak, helpless being, victim to petty gratifications and useless desires. This was the downfall of earth’s mighty creature, whose possibilities were once infinite.
He has not learned to control his great instruments, and let his will be dominated by chaos. These creatures will never return to their great ancestry. With the difficulty and complexity of structure, also comes our own complexity and the difficulty of controlling it. Men have failed to maintain balance. However, the seedlings of truth are yet found buried in our minds, and it is once again our duty to grow them into mighty trees.
Thus far has life come in its path,
Though its stories are countless and dark,
For few can see life’s boundaries,
And where our shadows are marked.
Reflection
A face shines from the cracks in the mirror…could it be? Was it I, who smiled so curiously, enthralled by the woman of this reflection? And how could it be then…that I had for so long missed this face in the mirror. Surely, I had gazed in her eyes distractedly, on mornings and afternoons, in light and half-light, years after years…
Surely, then, I must have before seen! The pale glint which moonshine glows on her lips, the desperation of her eyes (perhaps tired, perhaps barely alive?)…and this fierceness! This difficult dreamer’s sigh, which escapes from her cheeks, from the half-frown of her lips…what is it?
I near the reflection. I extend a palm, graciously, touching upon this unearthly reality. What lies just behind this image? And her eyes…they seem to study me so. I have seen her face so much, yet so little. This creature, I see her, from the depth of my own, distracted eyes. Her smile, malignant, beautifully alluring, stares back from the pools of her pupils. I look intently, for I see a beginning there. A beginning, perhaps to an infinite hole, a darkness more impenetrable than the cold of desert nights. A darkness so unknown, its very enfolds quiver with fear of its presence. Have I truly known myself?
Why, then, does this child of enchantment startle me so?
The secrets of her silence seem so familiar. The stories, the emotions, I have known them. They were the moments of my life. Fractured, indistinct, through pain and ecstasy, this creature knows every twist of my soul. She accompanied me, when I thought even the darkness had turned her head. She whispered to me, when I thought only silence could fill the catacombs of my despair. And now, I recognize her. She knows too much.
Ah, this creature is the reverberation of my soul! How I love thee, strange face, how I love thee…With a love boundless as only infinity, for you are mine own infinity.
Only a love so unknown to mortals could shake me now; for how can I not love what is but a part of myself? The whole of myself! Only one creature knows the deep secrets of my being; that which is unspeakable by human thoughts; that which is only seen through eyes of sensation. And this creature, alas, my reflection.
I can no longer dream, idly, stupidly, about the nothingness which fills my days. I can no longer walk by this reflection, as it sits so immobile, studying, wondering, seeing.
Now, for only now I see; Eternity. In me.
Dead Poet
The memory of the piano lingered in his thoughts; the glide of small hands on the keys brought back the call of past days. Yet, now, how the piano sat so somberly; draped in a sleeping film of dust, rusting in its silence. He gazed longingly towards the window. Thick grime had settled on it, rendering the shapes outside blurred and indistinct. There, the shape of a half-smiling moon was barely distinguishable; it sat, like a judging God, almost peeking through the glass, staring back at him.
His soft hands rested, clutched together, on his lap. His fingers arched, almost in prayer formation, his back curved, like a horse being burdened by heavy loads. In the half-light of the oil lamp, only a shadow of his appearance could be perceived. The flicker of the small flame left dark marks under his eyes, and sombered the creases in his cheeks. Yes, he was no young man. The footsteps of age had trodded on his hopes and wishes; the promise of serenity was now only the stale memory of a childhood smile. He sat in his chair, immobile.
Was it contemplation which left a light frown on the lines of his mouth, or was it a hint of remorse?
Was it perhaps shame for his condition, or mockery for his delusions?
And who is to know.
His desk was cluttered with ancient books and crumpled paper. His head, once filled with the sensations of youth, was empty; only a silent chill rang in its pathways. Ah, how he’d dreamed of her. His companion, who had inspired in him so many breathtaking flames. His muse, alas, had departed from his arms! She, who alone carried his heart; she, whom he loved most dearly and passionately, whose smile was a flash of excitement, a word of beauty, a story of both sadness and ecstasy.
Now, if he tried, he could only recollect blurredly his memory of her; for she was fugacious, like the currents of the wind; she hovered like song in the air, for a second, and then was gone. She neither had patience nor calm; she was a thunderstorm, and the slight chill of March. She was the butterflies gently resting on spring’s flowers, the scent of jasmine in the hair of a lover. Oh, she was! But now, only her shadow lurked the hallways of his wishes. That she may, for one last time, pay a visit to his forlorn spirit, whom in anger and frustration all life had forsaken.
His eyes are cold, and aloof; in the semi-darkness, he does not care to see, he does not care to feel. His lips are shut, his hands, delicate from the handling of fine paper. His teeth are yellowed, bathed in the scent of tobacco, and he reaches, day after day, for the pipe on his bedside table. The fog of smoke help his features disappear; he no longer must show his face to the world; the face which he is so deeply ashamed of. The face which has tormented him from the looking-glass, every day of his life; the face which he can no longer stand, for it disgusts him. To know that he was nothing without his muse; nothing but a quill, dried up from the lack of ink. His muse was the poet, not he; he was nothing but a clumsy tool, and she had replaced him with a more efficient one.
Surely, somewhere, among the dark streets of London, or in the green pastures of the countryside, his muse had flown to; she had found a young man, perhaps eager and full of spirit, whom to delight with her verses. And he, like an eager schoolboy, had flirted with her brilliance and diverted her into playing his games.
Oh, but she was right. He had become too obsessed with his writing. It was no longer a game, no longer an idle fantasy; and that the muse could not be burdened with; seriousness cannot find resting place in the true heart of poets.
Perhaps that is what he had been once; a poet of youth, unmarked by the solitude of life, the scars of age’s blows; yes, once, he had been like a wave blown aback on the sea, drifting without promise of rest, rising and falling with the wind’s sighs, crashing with fragrance upon an unknown shore.
But alas, the carefree love of fresh minds withers, as even the brightest of flowers. The muse, with its gentle smile, and everlasting beauty, does not fold its wings to man’s inevitable repose; she does not wait to push those who have bent their heads to strife, nor wishes to play with those that have lost passion for game. She moves on, from the dead lilacs to the blossoming rose, wavering from life to life like the kiss of first summer’s dawn.
Alas, for me, she's gone!
Death of a soul
A daunting flower lends its wings,
Parting with light as the nightingale sings.
Her pale hair shines with dying light,
Weary autumn eyes meet her sight,
Creases of age line the memories of her cheeks,
And softly with tired lips she speaks.
Time spins a web of dying regrets,
Among the curling smoke of her cigarettes;
A shadow flows with her silent steps,
Carrying unknown burdens, forgotten debts.
She clings with sorrow to life’s hands,
Drowning with silent lips in time’s wastelands;
Her head bowed, she sits in stone,
Forgetting the light her love once shone.
And the clock hands turn, like winter’s seasons,
Among the broken symphonies, a million reasons
Weep silently with the morning’s chill;
The roses resting on her windowsill
Have withered in the frost of her goodbyes;
And softly, inside her heart, an angel cries.
On the tide by the sea
On days dark, with sorrow weak,
When wind, with anger, shouts and shrieks,
I found myself, alone inside, sitting by the tide.
The sea then shook, with mighty screams;
Its roaring sound perturbed my dreams.
For I was weary, on that day,
On I walked, bleak and gray.
I stood, quite still, by the frigid waves;
As, on the sand, they met their graves.
Like mighty soldiers, on they fight,
But all they fall, like weary knights,
Washed up on the shore.
And to the dark and murky sea,
I rang, with sorrow, a silent plea.
From its strange depths, where spirits nest,
I wished for a truth with which to rest;
I sought an answer which no man knows,
The depth of life with which all glows.
I wished to find, on water’s dance,
My reflection, a single glance,
For high and low I searched life’s peaks,
Never to find what all souls seek,
Never to taste what no man finds,
That wish which lights all mortal minds;
For once to find, on waves by the sea,
Our soul’s reflection, wild and free.
Memories
The gowns swept across the polished heartwood of the ballroom, twirling amidst cries of joy and laughs of cheer, waltzing to popular and lively melodies at a typical party of the late eighteen hundreds. There were hundreds of guests, each eye twinkling excitedly and expectantly, each mouth joyfully chattering away with old friends and new acquaintances alike. And amidst all of this joy and festivity, what shall we find but a negative source of black light? Someone whose soul was unsettled, rampant, and in its turbulent nature could not relax and let itself drift comfortably amidst the evening’s social circle. An old woman, perhaps, spiteful to all the young, jealous of her own faded youth? Or perhaps, a worried mother, who must make sure her daughter doesn’t engage in too much sexual promiscuity? Who may it be? Certainly, you would not guess the blossom of this turbulent soul. A child, no older than eight, whose angelic features and pale eyes seemed to infuse purity, whose small painted lips were like a cherry on a white blossom, was the very fountain from which this strange mixture of emotions flowed. And no one, in their cheer and bliss, could see the bubbling chemicals inside the pools of her pale eyes. Not her mother, who was enjoying the social circle and joining in for the latest gossip, and certainly not the aunt that was supposed to be watching her, pleasantly engaged with a man much younger than she. So who can see into your eyes, Annabel Beth? Who sees the intricate pattern of thoughts which engage your imagination? So many strange, deep passages run within your mind; can no one see them, Annabel Beth? Annabel, sing me a song. Sing me a song that has rhythm and flow, and a whispering quality to it. Yes, Annabel, sing me, I know you can…you sing in your sleep, to calm down your monsters. Oh, Annabel Beth, I know sometimes you get frightened, I know you twist and turn, but the calming singing pleasantly rocks you back to sleep. But Annabel Beth, you have overcome terrible monsters, and they have made you wise. So many things you know now, and through the crystals of your eyes you perceive even subtle thoughts. You are troubled, yet serene. In control, yet still a child in want of play. You, Annabel Beth, are what men are afraid of. Someone deceiving, whose nature is not easily understandable. Someone who rocks between evil and good, between crazy and normal, between monster and angel. That is who men fear, because they are not able to understand such split motivations. But you can, can’t you Annabel Beth? Can’t you! Fire, Annabel Beth, I know the figure of fire hypnotizes your desires. Fascinating substance fire, it can mold and create, but also murder and devour. It can bless frigid bodies with everlasting warmth, or burn them in unbearable agony. Fire is two natured, and that is why you like it so much, don’t you Annabel Beth. Yes, I feel a connection with it. Ah…Annabel, why are you afraid of birds? They’re not going to hurt you, they’re not! Stop being so frightened, Annabel Beth!! Their little beaks seem sharp and treacherous, but their eyes are curious and kind, and their song relieves pain from men’s hearts. Do not fear its calls, or its flights, or how it looks at you, curious. Do not run away! And do not touch it with thought of murder; do not harm its fragile colors. Annabel Beth, you must understand things. You cannot cry, expect people to treat you as the only suffering being. I know your suffering, Annabel Beth, it is deep maze of deceptions and burning fires; it is something which devours you, creating a monster without feeling for pain or regret. I know it…but in this ballroom, your soul is alone. These men and women. So joyfully winding away and forgetting, whose eyes only barely scratch the surface of emotion, are nothing but mere shadows of you. And they seem distant…they are like slow echoes from the other side of a canyon. They are foggy and unclear, while you, you have many colors, don’t you? Many sides, many things you hate, many that you are pleased with; certainly many you are afraid of. Annabel, you are simply so pretty! Your locks are like fine pearl silk, so blonde almost white, and your porcelain skin is soft and smooth. The curiosity of a child shines in your sky gray eyes. Yes. You hear that often. Do you not Annabel Beth? You are a fine pretty blossom, with not a petal flawed! Do you like what they say? Or does it disgust you. It is shameful to be judged by these low creatures, isn’t it Annabel Beth? I know it, they swarm the oceans of life polluting its waters. They destroy the foundation for towers, and burn crops in the field of becoming. They hinder us. And slow our progress. Yes. Yes I know Annabel Beth…that is why you are so uncomfortable. These men are on a different plane. Their problems need not concern you, don’t boil your emotions like a toxic volcano inside your head. You must, Annabel Beth, you know you must. You must do it for the sake of releasing these tensions, it’s important you do Annabel Beth! It’s alright to think these thoughts, men are the ones who made it impure. Yes, Annabel, there is the woman. She is particularly annoying is she not? She has no great talent, is not extraordinarily pretty. In fact, the one thing which makes her repulsive is that she is absolutely like every other woman in the room. So ordinary and so compellingly useless. So gray…and who ever uses gray when having to make a beautiful work of art? It is alright on her, Annabel Beth, it is alright. Don’t think about your fears. Don’t think about the grass, and the birds and the monsters in your dreams. They are watching now, they will no longer hinder you. They want you to, can’t you hear their voices? Yes, Annabel Beth, their voices are quite soothing now, aren’t they? You no longer need to fear them. But that woman’s voice, her voice is so high pitched, it ruins the subtle chatter of the room. There, Annabel Beth, she’s not far is she. No, she’s so very close, you can smell the perfume on her dress, can’t you? What does it smell like, Annabel Beth? She smells of lavender and geraniums, doesn’t she? Oh, she’s leaving now, retreating into a dark corner towards a bathroom. Now is the time, Annabel Beth. Don’t worry, I will guide you, it is all very simple. The human body is quite fragile you know, it is very easy to suspend life permanently. So easy, yes, quite so easy. Yes, the blade on that knife must go right through her neck, for a neither fast nor clean death. Hugging her, you feel uncomfortable, don’t you Annabel Beth? You do not like the touch of skin upon yours, it gives you a fastidious feeling of repulsion. Ah…Annabel you have done it. Blood has a very vivid color, doesn’t it? A beautifully oh so vibrant red, a paint of war and passion, bravery and marvel. But you must leave Annabel Beth, you must go to an adult and cry tears, and say that you found her there. And who will ever doubt you, Annabel Beth? And as they all rush to see the dead woman, and ponder who the murdered may be, tens of ladies crouch around you, comforting you for the traumatizing sight you had to behold. It was quite easy, wasn’t it Annabel Beth? Yes, a piece of cake for a child so young. You can always trust me, I will lead you, Annabel Beth. Your fears, and the cold of your memories shall not harm you, if you listen to me. Annabel Beth, you are a beautiful miracle of deception, of strength and weakness, blessing and curse. Don’t shy away Annabel Beth…let my voice guide you, because it feels so very pleasant in your head. I never have to leave, and show you the paths you have to take in life. Listen, Annabel Beth, always listen. To me.
A Moment’s Eternity
The night I first saw her, a bright moon was shining. Everyone on the ship had been asleep, but the erratic motion of the waves had awoken me. I had tried to fall again in slumber, but we were traveling new waters, and my spirit was restless. 1
I cursed in the darkness; my spirit was that of a worn sailor, always anxious for new wonders, traveling only to escape the feelings of imprisonment that firm land aroused in me. I could not stay in one place for very long; my wishes ached to be renewed; I longed for new shores to explore, new storms to conquer.
My escapes were, after all, my imprisonment; my free spirit kept me in chains; I was his slave to follow, to whatever treacherous escapade he yearned for next. I often though of a family. I longed for a woman, always at my side, but I knew I could only be poison for her. Never home, never lending a helping hand, unable to offer a shoulder for protection.
That night, my restlessness was giving me particular trouble; the rumbling of water outside gave me no hope for peace. With resignation, I quietly got out of bed, wishing for a breath of fresh sea air. It would surely ease my rumbling spirit.
Outside, the night was beautifully clear; a thousand stars shone from their celestial thrones; the moon, queen of all, sat in splendor among them. I gazed longingly at her fair beauty; how many poets had written about her mysterious presence!
I sighed, closing my eyes. I let the rhythmic sweeping of water lull me in a strange trance; back and forth, back and forth, the waves crashed on the shore of my thoughts, washing away my disquiet emotions…I breathed deeply, letting the pungent smell of salt soothe my tired body.
And then, just as I opened my weary eyes, there she was. A silhouette outlined by a silver thread of moonlight; There, walking on the ocean waves. I gasped in amazement; her features were blurred, indistinct; a mass of long curls trailed behind her in the wind, rising and falling with the water. I could not see her face in the darkness, but the rhythm of her walk aroused in me an unknown passion; I was transfixed with her figure; I could not move my eyes from her gentle body. For no woman had I ever longed so deeply, with a yearning far beyond mortal love.
And then, just as instantly as she had appeared, she was gone. I stared for a long moment at the very place where she’d been standing, overtaken by speechless amazement.
I trembled; I felt an unquenchable thirst in my heart;
What had I just seen? I could not come to terms with the swarms of questions which now raced in my thoughts; who was she? Surely, nothing so indescribable could be human; my heart had jumped in my throat, my hands were sweating; I felt as if I’d stolen a view of something forbidden, magical.
There was not a moment in which her moonlit silhouette was not with me; I stared for hours at the sparkling waves of the sea, wherever I went. I became increasingly quiet and irascible. My already uncontrollable spirit was now bursting with wonder and strange passions; her sight tormented my every dream; I would vision her beauty, see her hypnotizing sway…only to awake, startled, in a dirty hammock, surrounded by sleeping sailors.
No matter how I yearned; no matter how I pleaded the heavens, they would not grant me a second glimpse.
Many years later, I found myself on a journey to the coast of Africa. The black continent had still never been seen by my eager spirit; its untamed wilderness allured my wishes; and I, like an obedient puppy, followed my impulsive passions, following my heart to whatever corner of reality it pushed me. Africa was a dangerous, unexplored land. We traveled close to the coast, and only went on land for provisions or upon sighting a British camp. On one of these occasions, after a long stretch of wild land, our ship came across a small camp waving the English flag. Exhausted, dehydrated, and hungry, we quickly took refuge in the small cove of civilization. We spent the night there, regaining strength to pursue the rest of our treacherous journey.
As it often was, on this very night I awoke, startled, from a terrible nightmare. All around, my mates were soundly sleeping. Sweat dripped down my face; the suffocating heat of the night left me breathless; it crashed on my body like the strong waves of a storm, leaving me helpless. I twisted and turned for hours in my bed, trying to regain sleep, but, as always, it eluded me; it left me, crushed by heat, to rot on my dirty straw mattress.
Insufferable and aching, I left my bed, favoring the outside air, like I often did in my insomniac nights. The air outside was not crisp and refreshing, like the cool breeze of the water, but it was not as suffocating as the tent.
I made my way slowly to the beach. It was an intensely moonlit night; clear, untamed. Only in the heart of darkness could the moon shine so brightly.
As my feet finally sunk in the sparkling sand, there, she appeared like a vision. My heart suddenly stopped. Time seemed to hover, immobile, for an infinite second.
Her silhouette…I would have recognized her curves in any light; excitement and terror both overtook me. I was powerless to move; I sunk to my knees; I could see her hair, waving back and forth, with the rhythmic motion I was so familiar with. I wanted to call to her, whisper softly, but the sounds were trapped in my screaming heart.
She was so close…a few meters, and I could have caressed that perfection. She was simply standing, just where the sea kisses the sand, staring into the never- ending waves.
Suddenly, she turned to face me. I could not see her distinctly; once again, just her features were outlined. My mind was exploding with millions of thoughts; the moment she met my gaze, it seemed as if reality crumbled away. I could feel the intensity of her eyes as she studied me; I looked helplessly towards her; I was but a speck of dust in the hands of a goddess.
To my mounting disbelief, she slowly began walking towards me. Every second that she inched closer, a new wave of strange emotions overtook my throbbing soul; I belonged to her; my heart, my soul, my every wish rested solely in her hands. I was a puppet to her desires, and I fully wished for her to guide me. She stopped in front of where I was kneeling, and gracefully got down to her knees. And there, in the darkness, I met her eyes; they were crystalline, transfixing, hypnotizing; they were inhumane, breathtaking; they were neither good nor evil, creation or destruction; perhaps they were the soul itself.
I could feel her breath on my skin; every wave of air was a soft, electrical tingle.
And then, in a moment, she pressed her lips on mine. Truly, no expression can do justice to that moment; no description could fulfill my desires to tell it in all its magnificence. No kiss, not from queens, not from alluring oriental dancers, not from the beautiful ladies of Paris, Rome, London…no kiss will ever compare to that moment.
As her soft lips warmed my own, trembling ones, I came to contact with myself; everything in her reminded of my soul. In short, she was; everything present in creation was her artifice.
All beauty and splendor became clear in that second; every horror, every twist of deceit seemed to unfold plainly in front of my eyes. The secret of everything was shared with that soft brush of lips; I remained immobile, wondering why I had never seen reality; for indeed, those secrets were simple. The confused myths we had for so long trusted were a construct of imagination; truth was, indeed, a simple matter.
That second was, and forever will be, the whole summarization of my life purpose; but as soon as it came, thus it went, like a breath of wind. I opened my eyes, and she was gone. Only the memory of her silhouette remained; I sat, in deep contemplation, until the morning. I was trying to sort out reality from dream, fantasy from truth; all my convictions had evaporated, dissolved like cigarette smoke. That second had shown me all things; and she had given me the gift of knowledge.
Needless to say, she never left my thoughts. She was everything in my vision; no other woman could possibly have my love now; for my love was locked up in the immensity of an angelic creature. Since that night, though I have searched for her in my every voyage, she has never again appeared to me. She both blessed and tormented me; I long for her touch more than my own existence.
Oh, how meaningless my life! How selfish men, who think they can understand!
Not all the journeys in the world could make them free; How foolish, to ponder, day after day, what reality may be.
Only a kiss from a goddess could make them see.
Poems by Justin Fenech
Salute Of The Saints
The street is sewn with my tears.It pulsates with the noise of the brilliant children.Neon nymphs scamper through the alleys and scatter light: rainbow without sky, darkness beneath every light.A tower of words - a Babel without languages - slithers through the immense air, winding to and fro behind the solitary tree.
A mold of threads and curls, plow through the pulsebeat, as a seagull pierces the wave to snatch its prey.I am here.I am not here.I remember everything.I have never seen it.I am a prayer, of no one, floating nowhere.My sight is not my own.Where can it go?
As I turn the corner,melting into the burning arms of the small central square (square without crosses, nor anyone to bear them),I see Saint Paul dressed in police uniform, standing idle by the police truck.His halo muffled by his hat, which took the shape of his dark head.Beneath his badge he had a line from one of his letters to Corinth.I could not read it for he crossed his arms, diligently.On top of his shoe-laces, dirty sea-weed cling.The mediterrenean never abandons the Fate it decrees.How he has changed since the shipwreck.No longer Roman, nor Italian.He just lives, like someone who does not know he lives.
Why do the people not recognize him?
How I enjoy having someone to love! That sweet taste of getting excited by someone different - learning about her, making up fantasies of the both of us - and time: Waits.This is where I find my passion, never in loving but dreaming of loving.And oh there are so many fantasies to create! So many hearts to imagine...I want to know them all.
There, up ahead, is Saint Publius closing up his shop for the night.How those shutters screech when they descend! What made him abandon the altar sheltered by the soft breeze of the granaries, to own a little shop of trinkets? Could he not bear, the arguing over the technicalities of his title, thus he decided to give himself a new title? Oh to be the first, but not be a pioneer.To be remembered only for what you were given! Those who love him, do so because, he is them.
Why do the people not recognize him?
Sex is the only thing she could give me, she wouldn't give it to me, so I've left her.Nothing to question, nothing to answer.I saw so many men in doomed relationships, doomed for they suffer and I decided I was not to be one of them.What manner of beast depraves something as pure as love? It is a sickness to kiss lips that bite your heart, to embrace arms that suffocate your lungs, and to look into eyes that blind your thoughts! Utter sickness and madness! Be done with it.Cast it out.Let the plague not drag on.
Finally, coming up to the small gardens, there I saw Saint Cajetan, waiting on the bus stop.I grew up with him, but he doesn't know me: we never speak.His eyes glimmering like the steel of a guillotine's blade, now look wearied.The night has done its worst.His fatigue was like Lucifer's vengeance, crawling up and down his dark skin.I never danced for him, nor sang his name: could he be grateful for my silence? I will go wait on the bus stop with him, we'll catch the same bus, get off at the same stop.But I will never speak to him.
Why am I the only one to recognize him?
There is such poetry in friendship: the smiling metaphors, laughing rhymes, heartfelt similies, quiet voltas.But really, I abuse it! I use it, hoping it is a prelude to something else.I use friends as skipping stones that will take me to the other side of the river, where golden Venus awaits, naked.How horrible! I should renounce it...but how can I?
Oh gargoyles watching me pass the black horizon: Give me sleep.
Scene From A Nightclub
Crazy,blind,frenzy...why? Hammocks without stars rest in the eyes of writhing lizards, crawling.And I, a fiend, silent, protecting heaven and hell for myself.Dancers in the corner carry the burden of their vices on their backs.A thin weight...they are so young.One of them pushes his friend into the arms of an anxious girl.As he tumbles into her arms he grabs her from the back and exiles every shadow in the universe between them.Negative looks draw positive thoughts: to stand idle hoping to attract attention, it will come if you're Venus' kin.The barman walks across to the other bar, walking over glass that pierce the humble sins, sliding across what's left behind of the burning punishments.The mocking speakers distress the reality of the loud words thrwon into ears without balance: they mute the atmosphere of emotion around the earhtly words.A couple familiar to each other from the lies that binds them, kiss slowly,indifferently,eternally, in the middle of the dancefloor.Their friends' encouragements slide off them like rain.Her purgatorial wait has led him to his streaming paradise.The morning after shall steal their memories.A man with a white shirt, naps on the crystalline table.Damned to sorrow by his celebration.What makes him, unmade him, but he will not remember...a cycle of sielnce, moth of flames.Everyone looks at him as one looks at the child swimming in the shallow as one swims further out into the depths.One girl, like a nymph, glides along,to and fro.She goes up to everyone: hugging, kissing, holding, thanking.Always with a smile as wide as a rainbow.She is like the angels' consolation.As the rains on occasion fall upon the barren desert to refresh and relieve, so she lightens everyone's burden here with her virginal vigour.She sees me sitting on top a flight of stairs and comes to take me by the hand.She takes me to the table of the dancing lovers and begs me look into their faces, and then says: "Do you not see, in their living for the sake of nonliving, the reflection of your existence?" After a pause I wept, disguising my tears with poses.I then asked the oracle of her ear: "Do you mean to say, I belong to this exile of the most personal tortures?" She then replied: "You belong to whom you belong to.This your thoughts know and your feelings accept.Choose wisely the ones you belong to and you will have divine guides, always, through every inferno."
Looking Over The Coastal City
Looking over the coastal city,
Backwards into the future,
Cars run up and down its veins, black lifeline,
Never finding the beating heart
Which hides behind the widow's prayer at the last pew.
It looks like a mirage in the desert of sky and sea:
If a mirage is a waking dream, then who weaved
That city's skyline? If someone can sew: steeples,
Deathless towers, lifeless apartments, then can't we not sew Fate?
Idle sand hides beneath walkways without silhouettes
Benches: naked and taunting, ignored and silenced
By the morality of the next street.
A universe of aluminium: astronomy of the open or closed,
No eyes could navigate the sea of reflections,
Hall of mirrors inside a labyrinth of iron.
From this distance, and height, no people can be seen.
The city is like a bed without lovers.Useless:
Defying existence by non living.Inevitable.
Everyone has loved and been loved in that city,
So everyone loves it.But seeing it from up here,
Without the possibility of love nor its memories (people)
It is a cemetery of life: tombstones of spittle
Epitahs of drunken words, and coffins of rusted iron.
The night soon comes, a giant body, immense.
The dancing moon and swinging stars will shine their light
Upon the now awakening city.Star-lit and moon-kissed
As it now is: Still I look at it in knots.
If one were to look upon a corpse for hours
When it woke up and returned to life, one would still see a corpse.
Inside me, small, gentle, curses were rising.
They make me dream of what I would be seeing now
If man never was man, but something quiet,
Content, if progress were a deification and not a descent.
Voices/ New Conscience
I
The new year has come, (The wave has receded
Another end, another beginning Without question or answer
What tranquil joy Stars infuse with death
To add mystery to all our years. And the year is not real.
We have done good The year gives day names
We have done wrong: To memories of right and wrong
Now all that is felt But it severes your
Is the eternal goodness of righting our wrongs. Geneology to the stars.
Long live our friendships,our loves Games pawns dawns
May we forever kiss life Oblivious to the life
As we kiss each other now. That bore you.
All the people of the world Fables of whispered lies
Are now united, all awaiting the same moment: Taunt you.
May all our hopes come true this year. A you without We.)
II
All my dreams of adoloscence (Flames surrounded by planets
I have sought- for nothing. Yet to be created,
I tire of this fatigue Sensations lost in perceptions
Napping in its own sobs. Never in first person.
Every dream I lived A dreamer without dreams
I lived, in seconds. Is the role you chose
Emptiness stings more severely With a flamboyancy
Amidst all these Which now stings.
Aluminium successes. Dreams of brother's elegies
Oh dreams of smoke... Never your heart's odes.)
III
From the first moment (Expanding the truth of flesh
Oh little girl, Into the silence of the dust,
Your land set eyes on you Pours burning water like oil
It longed for you. Unto the naked body dreaming.
And you didn't deserve No-one has a right,
Embracing it for so brief a time. It is never deserved.
Now, my little girl, A pain easily understood
The angels enjoy you Which savours the flavour
In some obscure corner of heaven Of the posing wreaths
As I never could. Colorful like a rainbow of sorrow
Let them kiss gently You don't know where she's gone
The cheeks that never bloomed. But you know what she's avoided.
As you leave this plane Do you think
Do not look back She shares your sorrow?
To see the rain falling down Do you think, she can?
Your mother's face like tears. If not, does she not own
Just know your morning laugh A bliss your tears
Shall never leave my arms. Could never allow?
How could You take her I will weep with you,kind mother
After having known so little Until you can see
Of the love I wanted That the golden fields
To give her? Would not exist without
The passion of my tears The quiet splendour
Shall know no rest. Of the withered roses.)
IV
Gentle sparrow, upon the tiny branch (Little sacrifice
What Hand brings you Everyday running up and down
Outside my fragile window? The altar, leaving your blood
Do the church bells On the hollow pedestal;
Bring harmony to your voice? Do you not know
Or do they sing lullabies The blood you waste in your hours
To your chicks Is the sparrows voice?
When you are away? The life that crushes you
May the rainbow of saints Is a river, severed
Keep you safe in winter From the oceans.
And thirsty in summer. A lake without sun.
Only, The sparrow sings with
I wish to ask one thing, His own voice.
Of you tiny sparrow: You live a life
After the late end Belonging to him, her, them, us,
Of my crushing day And it deafens the I
Could you and your golden chicks That belongs to what
Not sing your elegies The sparrow belongs.
To the setting sun; Raping the joys that bore you
Chirping chirping chirping Incest in the womb.
Without end You know you wil never
Outside my pale window. Be content
Tell them I need to If you renounce the
Dream sleep dream sleep Chirping chirping chirping
In peace. Sparrow.)
V
My world will crumble (What do you feel inside you:
If I love her. The world, or love?
I can feel her with me What do your senses feel:
But she is always distant. Her, or her status?
She desires me, and I her, When internal desires overflow
But she is not mine. All external promises must drown.
If we were to be together Fate dances or reclines
We would have to cheat Fate. At your finger tips.
We can never love There are no punishments
Without punishment. Or consequences - only events.
And we will suffer in our events.
(And we will live in our events.)
Sunday Market
Before ending the day
I go, speaking words
Without reflection,
To the market.
Loud voices welcome me
As if I were a diminutive god,
To their wives
It seems I am.
Their first word is their last.
(Begging, louder than
Their hearts.)
A hundred, fatherless, feet search
For what they already own:
Flip-flops that reverbarate
In the midnight haven
Of the faceless goddess.
Sandals
Lose their hearts
To the soliquily
Of coinless prayers.
If a thought hits me, like lightning
It is stolen
By the haunting children, clinging,
To their father's arms
Crying, with Mary's heart
For anything they set their eager eyes on.
Weeping
Tears
Inside out:
Longing obscured
By infancy.
A sorrow suddenly strikes me
Flamboyantly
Upon seeing
The frail antiquities laid out
Randomly, on a dusty rag.
If Venus had left her heart
Inside a bronze vase
She would have been lost
To some wrinkled hand eager to clutch anything;
I am reminded of the helplessness of our limbs
Under the soil.
Mother of Mercy
Keep warm Your new
Companion:
Silver heart of the
Golden lover.
The columns of tents:
A sea of linen,
Live and die
Their short hours, at the foot
Of the ageing fortifications
Surrounding the outskirts
Of the city of grids.
(Are they here
As an act of worship?
Or wistful indifference?
Would Jesus
Lay waste to this market?
Or make it his Golgotha?)
So many clothes hanging,
Shivering at the mention
Of the demon that blows.
From every town and village
Their curious suitors come.
(Still amazed by
What they know so well.)
Saturday's music, lies down
On Sunday's rug:
Soft hands of red, white, brown,
Soothe the pulsating voice.
There is a peaceful wind blowing through
The narrow passageways.
Like all we pray for, walks amongst us.
I exit where the trees
Offer their silhouettes of shelter.
I leave behind the promised celebration
Knowing
When I see the naked square tomorrow
It will be silent...dead.
For everyone will be
Busy.
Canary
I made a mortal enemy
My dreams hunt me down
With quivering voraciousness.
I bared a silver mace into their burning face
(On the mace
Were inscribed
In ashes:
"My mind
My blows.")
And they turned on me,
With an anger
That is impassive under any torture.
Yellow canary,
Darling of all ancient goddesses
Can your voice not soothe them?
Your soft songs
Are my dreams' anthems:
New anathema.
It would calm them,
Entrance them into prestene stillness
And make them turn away.
Diamond boats
Return
Them to their mule.
Little canary
Your faceless cage
Is a green cross.
(Poppy of incense
In an abstract space.)
But how can you know
What a cross is?
I've made you believe
In an idea of mine
For you are the backdrop
To every scene
Of every idea.
Claw of dew
Over a dry bone.
Fallen star in the muddy water,
Dead sun in the frail seeds.
Pretty, so pretty, and endless
Lost in the empty opals of girls
Who drench your plumage in the bloodstains
Of their naked fathers.
Piece of clay, permeating tears:
Unheard, drama of nothingness.
A dynamite is laced with iron into yout Fate,
Going off every second of every minute
Fireworks of parasols, lingering fantastically
In the giant stalactites of the damp air.
Boiling blood
Trapped, soil
Wet with night
Lost.
Dance rigid like a stone in the fools dawn
Psalm upon a still stone where hope replies
A promise from the stone beneath the altar
A gentle over the stone of afternoon.
One chilly morning
Safe from my dreams
I heard you sing
Thinking you were alone
And I could see why
You are the poetry
Of our island.
Yellow canary:
In your harmony is an Ave Maria
In your breaks a mid-August gale
In your metaphor a sunrise over the sand
In your melody a warm Communion.
(The farmer listens to you
When his only sun sets.
The widow listens to you
When saying her Hail Mary's.
The shepatd listens to you
When the dawn breaks over the cliffs.
The priest listens to you
When he is one with God.)
Oh little canary
Your rolling voice of gold
Makes me one with everyone.
You make all men my brothers
For I listen to you, as they do.
We are united: In silence, at heart.
A religion is born from your innocence
Let no one take it away from us.
So let the dreams come,
With gums spewing metallic spittle
Bearing all the Furies, like a flood:
I will wait for them
With my brothers by my side
As we listen to the little, yellow
Canary.
Blood To Blood
I come, hand deep in my blood,
Like a pulse, star reaping star.
I have a hunger with an amber hue.
The feast of red is my solitude,
My destiny, luckless, humbled god.
To fall now would be to renounce the music.
The masses hide in the individual:
The saint witness to the empty sermon.
To him they dedicate, their anger, grudges, blood,
Whilst keeping to themselves their scorched soul.
The brushstroke of the wind,
Invisible to my existence,
Paints the drifting, quiet trees
Into fired-up angels of silver,
Enflaming the all-seeing balconies
To reveal the colour of their wounds.
I came with my ivory knife
Wet with love's remains, and I waited.
At the corner which suckles the bitter milk of the moon,
And my senses were enticed by the paganism,
By the gods of life, death, and rebirth;
Now I can no longer love, like a waterfall
Now I love like a little god...a poet!
Saints and fireworks, martyrs and executioners,
Hunt down the night.
Every summer, a star is born
With the name of the Virgin,
All the women are dressed like star-lit lillies
...I come, blood to blood.
Tubas reflecting the pegeantry of fire
Give voice to the pounding songs, pulsating in the veins.
Drumming, drumming, the drummer declares
The next anthem of the lips of the will-o'-wisps.
I have no prayers to give
Making me another wave in the crimson ocean.
The bubbles holding my delicate satisfaction
Shall never float in this mythical air.
Bull-like shouting, deafening praises,
They are blunted sickles in the fields of our lives.
All my failures
Lie in wait for me:
In the marbled halls
Introducing the windless yard,
Secrets, stalactites, days,
All are there for me; hungry and bold,
A hidden melancholy.
My anger fades every time,
My defiance fades every time,
The lure gets greater and madder,
Every time I see the streets freed from solitude,
I wished my heart were stronger.
The air is empty save for the grey smoke,
The only peace in the clutched rosaries,
A handful of children burst into passion:
My soul is slowly emptied of all I have needed.
Ah, foaming blood
Ah, roaring purple flow,
In your silent lapping shall be decided
What dreams my ennui shall shout!
Been Without Being
The sparrows sing with voices of blood and gold.
I am not here.
The shelters beckon their children to return.
I am not here.
Men of the streets dream of murder in the canopes.
I am not here.
The conquest of flags
Give way
To the conquest of the senses
With the delibarance of an unthrown word.
To suffer is to be affected,
To suffer is to see.
Hardship
Of an untested age
Fills the fields with confessions of seers,
Truth.(Subjective to the years.)
No-one sees
Because they try to see.
Black pathways go through
White gardens
Always hearing of what should be done
Never seeing it done.
Words without reflection
Do not bring change,
Summoning the gods
Does not bring fairness.
"How are you living now?"
(Its always 'now'
Crimes are always modern
Glory is always past)
I have no right to have my say
For I have not been here
Since an old mistress cried.
"Can you not see my hand withered,
By effort...
For nothing."
Hands are to be kept warm.
I see nothing but:
Love bathed in the sun of novelty
Seen from stars sleeping discreetly,
Uncommited, thoughtful.
I see a tree crossing the universe
Erect when conquering
Straight when victorious,
Infinite as the declaration.
I am the sole witness
To the creation of silhouettes.
My body is a dream
A dream dreamt by a soul
A thousand miles away.
No-one can live in dreams
So my reality is far away
From the sparrows singing with voices of blood and gold.
Bouquet Of Stars
Millions of feet have travelled this road, that ends the night, before me.How could this be, when behind and ahead of me there are only two hundred feet treading on the dead greyness? They must have walked it more than once, they must have died here a hundred and three times, and were always resurrected by the sunrise.
I walk this narrow road alone, having left behind my everyone in the pages of that wordless book.The book has aspiration as an introduction but its body is made of ineligible scribbling as if written by a shivering hand.Shadows of the dead branches ran up and down a crumbling wall.Are the shadows the ghosts of the branches that once blessed here? The road is empty, the hoarse wind plays its violin from atop the low wall.
To fear is to exile all the senses of the body and give way to the senses of imagination.And I could not bring myself to abandon my physical senses, for I want to save them for the day I can see, feel, taste, hear and smell the body that was made for me.So I walked like a regular in the strangest of raods.
As I was halfway through the road I saw a distant silhouette that had all the traits evolution had endowed humanity with.I kept my head down for I felt a large hand burdened with tranquility force me to look down upon the kingdom of forgotten rain.So I could not see this lonely figure but I could hear its footsteps; the silence made it sound like he was wearing spurs that jangled across the grease of the tarmac.They drew closer and closer until they obstructed the heavy air I was breathing.Suddenly the hoarse wind stopped and I felt a thick arm push me harshly against the wall.The ghosts of the branches fleed at my loud crash, they took their search for love's carcass elsewhere.
The strong arm held me up against the wall, and I could feel the cold caress of a knife against my shivering throat.His face was within arm's reach of mine: I could see his eyes as blue as a waterfall, his hair as black as a mediterrenean night, he had rough cheek bones like that of a Phoenician god.I could tell he was not born here, but he has been made to live here; he wanted to escape the eternal songs of cities weeping under the hills.After regaining his composure he said to me :
"What have you done with the stars? Give them to me or I will leave you for dead!"
I glanced quickly at the sky and saw the awkward clouds had hidden all the stars from view.
"I don't have them anymore, I have given them away, but please do not shed my unrife blood, the earth would not take me."
"You have the stars, I know it! Give them to me or I will sacrifice your blood to the mediterrenean so it can release me!"
I began to tremble violently as I felt a new life enter me: that wonderful, brief, life, lived blissfully, minutes before death takes your hand.
"Please, I will give you my money, my clothes, take it all, just don't leave my body as prey to the wind."
I could see his thick brows bow with anger, he would not be sated by anything other than what he asked for.
Oh withered branches, your stillness I will soon borrow!
But before he could speak again, the clouds above us parted as if to sail away into the port of day.And at their disappearance, there they came: the stars.
He looked up at them, and stared for a few infinite seconds, as if he was lost in a dream.Then he looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes and the faint hint of a luminous smile.He then let me go and ran away, more with joy than haste.The road was once more still.
Prophecy Of The Mediterrenean
The pavements are dry; the crevices between them are drunk from de-hydration.They do not blame the sun, the sun revolves around itself, all the gods and insects follow it like a beetle clinging to flourescent dung.Who do they blame? Who can they blame? The high-heeled boots trampling all over their intestines.And the black banisters call these riders of dirt, angels? Dreams of snow flakes play tricks upon their brown eyes.Fall, fall, fall, little snow flakes upon our corridors, upon our columns so we can be what we are not.They look at me, the pavements look at me with parched eyes.Do you blame me as well? Don't look at me, I am not your tormentor, torment is for those who tread with a quick leap, I always tread lightly even when the world threatens to disappear.Slowly go the feet, slowly goes the mind, slowly goes time; Oh pavements you needn't look at me.
Around this gulf I go once more.A gulf without harbours, boats without a home.The rainbow has descended into the inlet and floats leasurely upon the water choaked with sea-weed, Oh my friend the sea-weed, do not hide your perfect body, let the eyes of the mortal rainbow see you.Countless times I have seen the coast of stone, but never did it give me one thought of its own.Would it disappear if I were to think of it? Would the lightning pierce its veins if I looked at is as something it is not? It is just a scene, a view, nothing sacred.Even the spirits that hide behind its eyes of war, they leave me to my devices.For they know the life I have is the life I make.I weave it thread by thread from a stuffy throne-room, bereft of servants and jesters.When I make a mistake I kill the thread with a snap so violent that it turns on me.The spirits have no thread to weave, they merely floar upon the wind: northsouth, eastwest, they go and the waves rise and fall as they pass by.
If the sea is a land in itself, then where are the peasants that reap what the drowned rocks sow? The tales under the sandy soil lie unheard: do they tell fables for the passers by or do they have prophecies to inspire the bloodless?
To listen to its prophecies, if they are indeed so, one would have to die to listen.For to listen to its promises is to forsake life.Not the life of years, but the life of flesh and bone encased in scaffolding of blood.This death at one's own hand is not a suicide; it is a letting go.Let the spirit depart from the physical senses, let it breeze out beautifully like rain from the clouds.To know what the flesh must have, what the flesh must do, we must abandon it and let the spirit communicate through the senses of the word.
But I, in this gulf that never looks at me, I shall not abandon this flesh as yet.For to abandon life is to abandon death, and if there isn't death to push us on, how can I love? My love is borne from death; and my death loves you and from this love for you, my dear, I weave the thread of life.
The first feeling I felt when I was once more left to the unawakened road was pity.I pitied him! For the happiness he has is an unfound one.For I knew that the stars he saw, the stars glistening in the night sky are not the real stars.I did not lie to him: I truly had given the stars away.I had given them in a bouquet to her whose heart was made for me.
Riding The Wet Scales Of Leather
A quiet river passing through a rainforest
Which the mosquitos call their home
Rented to them by the snakes.
I pass through the river,
On the river,
Riding a cayman.
A cayman whose scales glisten
From the purifying drops of water
Born after a forthnight
From the rivers womb.
I ride the cayman
Like the sane ride madness;
Gently.
Looking to my sides
I see the riverbank
To my eyes as gold
As the sun's caress.
But the alligator spirits lurking their know
The banks are putrid
For the tiamat ofl ogic underneath the pebbles
Murders all who tread Blindly.
But husshh
Ssshh
They won't tell me.
"Deeper
Let us go in deeper!"
So says I
The rider of the cayman.
As we go deeper we come to a place
Where all the long thick branches
Descend all the way down to the river
Making you feel as in a fog of leaves.
The cayman tells me to bend down
Lest I lose an eye on one of the sharp branches.
Control, control
This is what everyone desires!
This is what everyone loses sleep over!
I've never given a care
So I've always relinquished my control
But in doing so I have lost control of I
And I shall not surrender anymore
If I am to be trampled on
It will be at my pleasure!
We passed through the trees
(Eyes intact ahh)
So we go deeper, deeper, to reach the heart of the river.
("Rave on little one, rave on
Your theatre of miseries has no curtains:
Encore! Encore!
The gentle-lice in the audience will always implore.")
The sun was now at its highest
So I knew it must be noon.
In the water, coming towards us, I saw
Two naked carcasses, face down, hand in hand.
As they passed my mind was abducted by questions:
Which of them reeked the worst?
Were they male or female?
Which one was the most loved?
Which one was dead, which one was most un-alive?
I wept...Loudly!
Not for their fate
But for that of my mind.
Ah noon
Thou art a cruel God!
Further up the bank
We came across a patch of barren land:
No trees, no radiant flowers, just mud.
And scattered all around
Where stakes mounted by severed heads.
We drew slightly closer to them
And I could see that the heads,
Their faces
Were smiling...
Why?
Then further along we saw a small stone altar
So those men must have been sacrificed.
I have never seen such sincere smiles!
They must have believed their deaths
Would bring triumph not only to them
But to the the ones they left behind.
Such belief!
I did not know this world of "enlightenment"
Left room for such faith
Such blind happiness
Such raw happiness!
To have a reason to die...
Is to have a reason to live!
I started to get excited
Surely we must soon be arriving
To the very heart of the river!
On the caymans back
I danced a thousand dances
I sang a hundred songs
I punched the air a thousand-hundred times!
Looking to my sides
I see the riverbank
To my eyes as gold
As the sun's caresses.
But the alligator spirits lurking their know...
..."Rave on little one, rave on
Your theatre of miseries has no curtains:
Encore! Encore!
The gentle-lice in the audience will always implore."
Read My Lines
If the wind blows
Does that mean I'm alive?
When the wind stops
Will I still be here?
I know my dreams, I know them well
They keep me looking out of the blood-stained window;
The blood I see
Is the blood running through me
Where will I be
When it runs free?
Could I be more alive when it runs out of me?
Like a snake that looks into the eyes of its prey
I stare into a death that must soon come
And know my dreams will awake
When I sleep with the earth.
Friends that knew only my alligator smile;
Read my lines, that in the end recall
How whenever you spoke to me I dreamed
Of being somewhere you could never see.
O girls, I tried so hard to love
Read my lines, that sing the praises of what never happened
And read how I felt that which my eyes never saw
You will finally know me, your eyes will show me.
Read my lines
With the worms that feed me
I'll live the dreams
I never told.
Lost At The Horns Of Hattin
The sun of mid-day was like a curse of the desert, it beat against my skin, waiting to see my blood dried to the last pint.I had not come here through choice.I left the city on a journey to find myself and my place with God.I wanted to head west to the sublime shores of the mediterrenean.But I was told that the land between was too dangerous for it was at the mercy of the brutal raids of the Crusader Reynaud De Chatillon.
"His pirates devestate the sea
His raiders devestate the cities
His bandits devestate the passers by;
Ah, but the lord will slay him
With his own hands!"
Thus I evaded the westward journey and found myself in unmapped wilderness.My meditations become harder and harder in worsening conditions.God, why must You test so sternly he who seeks to find You? I am willing to give my life to You, when I come of age I will give myself to spreading Your name far and wide.But why must You hide from me? All I ask is for a little of Yourself, so I may have all of my life in the palm of my hand and with Your blessing I will know what to do with it.
Like the birds I would fly towards You, like the vultures I would feed on the scraps of Yourn enemy.Bloom beneath Your golden words, shine above the silver waves of morn.I am Your kingdom: Your name is my sword, your providence my shield.
Praise be to Allah!
The heat made mine a vision of waves: reality danced before my eyes.The little cactuses, so dry and sunburnt, where mere ripples of transparency.Scorpions black like the night ran callously into their prestene holes.Nothing left.Wisdom of acres imbued with fruitless melancholy; a stupor of madness, where the sand is adored by the angels that feed it.
Yonder comes the night
The shadow of a breeze
...Can I feel it?
I kept on walking, walking...mile after mile of sorrow.Over the sand dune ahead I could hear distant voices.Had I reached a city somewhere? Had I reached the walls of Aqaba?
I tried to hurry, but my feet wouldn't let me.My head ached, my body yearned, I could not...no...yonder.The sand is sick.The sand is the symbol of whores that tramp through the night while their husbands dream of virgins.Hah, putrid slaves they hunger for those whores, whores who take our blood and spit on it before they bury it in their burning flesh.Oh I see the harbour in the light of mid-day.Saracen transports are bringing in more prisoners of the cross, infidels of snow! Bring them to me captain, my body yearns, I shall feast on their eyes...poison of the gospel.Should I die? Tell me, priest warrior, should I die? So you may have your prize? Chase me and we will see how I die, bring your straight sword of iron and spittle.
The horse does not chase the camel
The curved sword pierces the horses' side
And the rider runs...
Run rider run,
Monastery burning, relics dismounted,
Horses' flesh litters your journey
...Run rider run.
My hands are incorporeal, I cannot see them, yet I feel their presence.They are shackled by the 5 o'clock shadow.They are in flames, O I see nothing but flames- Flames of crimson- the sea is on fire with the burning wood of galleons and skin.O God save the sea, save the sea! No, I do not wish to see it burn any longer,
no, ah the world is going black...the infidel has won...black...
Silence.
"Awake my friend, awake."
I opened my eyes and saw a man softly looking over me.Behind him I could see shade.Shade that escaped from the sun and lay its sheet over this dim domain.I lay on a bed whose sheets were as cool as the ocean breeze.
Where am I?
"You are in a camp, with friends."
Camp, what do you mean?
"A war camp, this is Lord Saladin's base at Hattin."
How did I get here?
"We found you lying half-dead in the desert, quite near here.Had we not found you, you would not have made it.God is kind."
I thank Him. And I thank you for helping me.
I awake from my bed and went to have a look around the camp.As I emerged from my tent I was instantly captivated by two large mountains on either side of the horizon.These must be the horns of Hattin! Inside the camp there were tents as far as the eye can see.To the north, right under one of the mountains, there was one that served as a makeshift mosque.I went in and saw a very scant interior, without arches and gold.Two men where praying in the middle, swords closely by their side.A man entered the mosque and I asked him: "Why is there a mosque in the middle of a war camp?" He replied: "God is everywhere, and the soldiers here need him more than ever."
In my innocence I had never heard the word 'need' used in reference to God.I found it stramge.If we 'need' Him does it mean we should use Him as we see fit? Even building Him a shoddy tent in the middle of a war camp? I saw it as degrading.But I kept it to myself.I suppose, I am young, I still have much to learn.
"In the twilight of the dawn
God is might!
In the tranquility of the mediterrenean morn
God is might!
As the swords rattle against stolen steel
God is might!
He is every sensation you feel
God is might!
I heard singing from a nearby quarter.When I went there I saw a group of men gathered round this poet, listening attentiveley to his every word.He sang with a beautiful voice that reminded me of the soft waves rustling against the breeze back in my hometown.And his words flowed in and out of time, bringing back syllables of divinity and rhymes that permeate the stars.He truly was a wonderful poet! And here he was with his swords by his side, and his horse in the stables ready to ride into death.I wondered how many poets must have died in this desert fighting for something they never started.A tear couldn't help roll down my cheek.
"I left my lines in the streets of Medina,
Every morning the angels paint them in gold:
Prayer made eternal by the eastern winds."
I could listen to him no longer, for I couldn't help see deat descending from his turban.I wandered further inward into the camp, and I came across a group of men talking loudly.I went closer to hear what they were arguing about.And I heard one of the men extolling the virtues of Abu Bakr al-Razi.
"If his words were heeded, at this moment we would have been at home with our wives.For it is no secret we are here because of our faith.This long drawn out war is because religion is being abused by blind men to take advantage of us humble men.The soul does not know what it needs, it faulters.Thus it lusts after material things.And the religion we have is another material vice! Our soul turns to it, out of blindness because it lusts for anything.And religion brings war, and war brings wealth and plunder.But God is fair.He lets the soul have all it desires and thus becomes one with the body and all its suffering and sorrows."
"You are mad."
"Sick!"
"In the end you will fight and die alongside us!"
They drove him away.But he left with head held high.I was captivated by what he said so I went to speak with him."Ah, you are the one they rescued from the jaws of the desert this morning."I asked him why do they have a camp in the middle of nowhere, what are they fighting for?
"Come with me I shall show you,
Leave faith behind,
Leave your innocence behind,
And I will show you...everything."
He led me to the other side of the camp, and as we emerged from the forest of tents I gazed upon a lake as large as a small house in Bukhara."This is what they fight for.The Christians want this lake, this oasis in the heart of the sun, so they may use it as a foothold into the rest of Saladin's lands."He looked to the lake as if it were the symbol of all he stood for.All he lived for and against.I couldn't help slowly pull away.But what I had heard him say will stay with me for a long time to come.
Night fell on the camp.Everyone was gathered round a small fire.They all hold their swords and their bows close to them.The night winds let no one slumber.Everyone was split into pairs and clicks, talking to whom they cared for the most.I knew no one, so I wandered around hoping to be invited to a conversation.I sat down by the fire and I could overhear a conversation between three men barely a stone's throw away from me.
One of the men was re-telling the story of when he was invited to Saladin's palace after having written an important book on medicine.
"The night had turned the palace arches
Into gateways of heaven
Golden like the dreams of the prophets.
Wine pured from cups of majesty
I could hear the prayers of Muhammad
In the gurgling wine.
Beautiful women danced in front of us
As we sat on pillows of damasque.
Theirs were the movement of silent songs
Composed by the stars of Arabia.
From the enamoured window, you could see
A dream being born from crescent stones:
Mosques, hospitals, universities,
All an offering to God's grace!"
Such beautiful language! Such beautiful tales! I felt instantly inspired.I wanted to live and see the beauty of all God's lands.So I too may have such images to paint with my words.I set out from home to find myself.And here under the stars sheated in words of silver, I have! With God by my side I will see all the world has to offer.A life of adventure.A life lived in God's grace.This is the desert of my birth!
I stayed up a bit later, and spoke with some of the men.For the first time my tone of voice could match their own joviality.I retied to my tent feeling I have achieved enough for now.As I went deeper into my sleep I had dreams of blood.Blood of poets and philosophers ran into the lake...symbol of everything.
Lament Of The Cliffs
Dawn fell luminously
Over the dry cliffs.
Little sparrows sang
From the olive tree.
Thirsty shrubbery
Where do you hide the girl?
Does the sunflower know
Maria?
She left her beads
Under her bed.
Tears dedicated to her,
Run away.
The cliff-face collects
Little dolls of fear.
Thirsty shrubbery
Where do you hide the girl?
Velvet, Velvet
Velvet, velvet
The sky burns
Velvet!
The sea is no doomed God
The moon not a raped Virgin,
But sweet one, your sorrow
Has prostituted the white thighs.
"When you focus on the pain
It feels like a slowly beating drum.
I listen sensously to its rythms."
Swim into the dark contours of the pure flower.
The sea is no damned God
Oh sweet one.
Nor is the blunted knife a raped Virgin.
Velvet, velvet
The sky burns
Velvet!
Under The Violet Moon
Under the violet moon
Of the fresh lovers,
Her ring whispers.
Little coastline of shadows
What is it you want to hide from her?
The cold ring
Of the motionless heart,
With tearless memories.
Chilly coastline of shadows
Thirteen roses in her wet palm.
Semen trickled the side of the hill,
Shivering, kissing the dark blades of grass;
The ditches keep it from reaching her.
Little coastline of shadows
What is it you want to hide from her?
She is eloquently cold, now,
Her white clothes sewn by the wide ocean
Cannot keep her warm.
Chilly coastline of shadows
Thirteen roses in her wet palm.
Under the violet moon,
A sigh! echoing silently
Into the bonfire of night.
Ivory Rose
Rose, ivory rose, swimming
In the hissing waves of night:
Do you see us beneath Zachary's tree?
A hand touches us with nails of honey,
It gives us laighter
For it take away laughter
And places it in our silence.
Like a sweet grape I taste the words
Of the silver summer: their breeze flows
Through the roof of my mouth
Like a fresh waterfall, light,
Glimmering in its own gentle frost.
A boy passes by the clanging toy stall,
His mother promises to buy him, a bright yellow mask
Only if he behaves himself in the night's festivities.
Under the rose, ivory rose,
I give to you the same promise:
If you are strong in the nightly feast,
Your heart will be rewarded with its desire.
The street is sewn with my tears.It pulsates with the noise of the brilliant children.Neon nymphs scamper through the alleys and scatter light: rainbow without sky, darkness beneath every light.A tower of words - a Babel without languages - slithers through the immense air, winding to and fro behind the solitary tree.
A mold of threads and curls, plow through the pulsebeat, as a seagull pierces the wave to snatch its prey.I am here.I am not here.I remember everything.I have never seen it.I am a prayer, of no one, floating nowhere.My sight is not my own.Where can it go?
As I turn the corner,melting into the burning arms of the small central square (square without crosses, nor anyone to bear them),I see Saint Paul dressed in police uniform, standing idle by the police truck.His halo muffled by his hat, which took the shape of his dark head.Beneath his badge he had a line from one of his letters to Corinth.I could not read it for he crossed his arms, diligently.On top of his shoe-laces, dirty sea-weed cling.The mediterrenean never abandons the Fate it decrees.How he has changed since the shipwreck.No longer Roman, nor Italian.He just lives, like someone who does not know he lives.
Why do the people not recognize him?
How I enjoy having someone to love! That sweet taste of getting excited by someone different - learning about her, making up fantasies of the both of us - and time: Waits.This is where I find my passion, never in loving but dreaming of loving.And oh there are so many fantasies to create! So many hearts to imagine...I want to know them all.
There, up ahead, is Saint Publius closing up his shop for the night.How those shutters screech when they descend! What made him abandon the altar sheltered by the soft breeze of the granaries, to own a little shop of trinkets? Could he not bear, the arguing over the technicalities of his title, thus he decided to give himself a new title? Oh to be the first, but not be a pioneer.To be remembered only for what you were given! Those who love him, do so because, he is them.
Why do the people not recognize him?
Sex is the only thing she could give me, she wouldn't give it to me, so I've left her.Nothing to question, nothing to answer.I saw so many men in doomed relationships, doomed for they suffer and I decided I was not to be one of them.What manner of beast depraves something as pure as love? It is a sickness to kiss lips that bite your heart, to embrace arms that suffocate your lungs, and to look into eyes that blind your thoughts! Utter sickness and madness! Be done with it.Cast it out.Let the plague not drag on.
Finally, coming up to the small gardens, there I saw Saint Cajetan, waiting on the bus stop.I grew up with him, but he doesn't know me: we never speak.His eyes glimmering like the steel of a guillotine's blade, now look wearied.The night has done its worst.His fatigue was like Lucifer's vengeance, crawling up and down his dark skin.I never danced for him, nor sang his name: could he be grateful for my silence? I will go wait on the bus stop with him, we'll catch the same bus, get off at the same stop.But I will never speak to him.
Why am I the only one to recognize him?
There is such poetry in friendship: the smiling metaphors, laughing rhymes, heartfelt similies, quiet voltas.But really, I abuse it! I use it, hoping it is a prelude to something else.I use friends as skipping stones that will take me to the other side of the river, where golden Venus awaits, naked.How horrible! I should renounce it...but how can I?
Oh gargoyles watching me pass the black horizon: Give me sleep.
Scene From A Nightclub
Crazy,blind,frenzy...why? Hammocks without stars rest in the eyes of writhing lizards, crawling.And I, a fiend, silent, protecting heaven and hell for myself.Dancers in the corner carry the burden of their vices on their backs.A thin weight...they are so young.One of them pushes his friend into the arms of an anxious girl.As he tumbles into her arms he grabs her from the back and exiles every shadow in the universe between them.Negative looks draw positive thoughts: to stand idle hoping to attract attention, it will come if you're Venus' kin.The barman walks across to the other bar, walking over glass that pierce the humble sins, sliding across what's left behind of the burning punishments.The mocking speakers distress the reality of the loud words thrwon into ears without balance: they mute the atmosphere of emotion around the earhtly words.A couple familiar to each other from the lies that binds them, kiss slowly,indifferently,eternally, in the middle of the dancefloor.Their friends' encouragements slide off them like rain.Her purgatorial wait has led him to his streaming paradise.The morning after shall steal their memories.A man with a white shirt, naps on the crystalline table.Damned to sorrow by his celebration.What makes him, unmade him, but he will not remember...a cycle of sielnce, moth of flames.Everyone looks at him as one looks at the child swimming in the shallow as one swims further out into the depths.One girl, like a nymph, glides along,to and fro.She goes up to everyone: hugging, kissing, holding, thanking.Always with a smile as wide as a rainbow.She is like the angels' consolation.As the rains on occasion fall upon the barren desert to refresh and relieve, so she lightens everyone's burden here with her virginal vigour.She sees me sitting on top a flight of stairs and comes to take me by the hand.She takes me to the table of the dancing lovers and begs me look into their faces, and then says: "Do you not see, in their living for the sake of nonliving, the reflection of your existence?" After a pause I wept, disguising my tears with poses.I then asked the oracle of her ear: "Do you mean to say, I belong to this exile of the most personal tortures?" She then replied: "You belong to whom you belong to.This your thoughts know and your feelings accept.Choose wisely the ones you belong to and you will have divine guides, always, through every inferno."
Looking Over The Coastal City
Looking over the coastal city,
Backwards into the future,
Cars run up and down its veins, black lifeline,
Never finding the beating heart
Which hides behind the widow's prayer at the last pew.
It looks like a mirage in the desert of sky and sea:
If a mirage is a waking dream, then who weaved
That city's skyline? If someone can sew: steeples,
Deathless towers, lifeless apartments, then can't we not sew Fate?
Idle sand hides beneath walkways without silhouettes
Benches: naked and taunting, ignored and silenced
By the morality of the next street.
A universe of aluminium: astronomy of the open or closed,
No eyes could navigate the sea of reflections,
Hall of mirrors inside a labyrinth of iron.
From this distance, and height, no people can be seen.
The city is like a bed without lovers.Useless:
Defying existence by non living.Inevitable.
Everyone has loved and been loved in that city,
So everyone loves it.But seeing it from up here,
Without the possibility of love nor its memories (people)
It is a cemetery of life: tombstones of spittle
Epitahs of drunken words, and coffins of rusted iron.
The night soon comes, a giant body, immense.
The dancing moon and swinging stars will shine their light
Upon the now awakening city.Star-lit and moon-kissed
As it now is: Still I look at it in knots.
If one were to look upon a corpse for hours
When it woke up and returned to life, one would still see a corpse.
Inside me, small, gentle, curses were rising.
They make me dream of what I would be seeing now
If man never was man, but something quiet,
Content, if progress were a deification and not a descent.
Voices/ New Conscience
I
The new year has come, (The wave has receded
Another end, another beginning Without question or answer
What tranquil joy Stars infuse with death
To add mystery to all our years. And the year is not real.
We have done good The year gives day names
We have done wrong: To memories of right and wrong
Now all that is felt But it severes your
Is the eternal goodness of righting our wrongs. Geneology to the stars.
Long live our friendships,our loves Games pawns dawns
May we forever kiss life Oblivious to the life
As we kiss each other now. That bore you.
All the people of the world Fables of whispered lies
Are now united, all awaiting the same moment: Taunt you.
May all our hopes come true this year. A you without We.)
II
All my dreams of adoloscence (Flames surrounded by planets
I have sought- for nothing. Yet to be created,
I tire of this fatigue Sensations lost in perceptions
Napping in its own sobs. Never in first person.
Every dream I lived A dreamer without dreams
I lived, in seconds. Is the role you chose
Emptiness stings more severely With a flamboyancy
Amidst all these Which now stings.
Aluminium successes. Dreams of brother's elegies
Oh dreams of smoke... Never your heart's odes.)
III
From the first moment (Expanding the truth of flesh
Oh little girl, Into the silence of the dust,
Your land set eyes on you Pours burning water like oil
It longed for you. Unto the naked body dreaming.
And you didn't deserve No-one has a right,
Embracing it for so brief a time. It is never deserved.
Now, my little girl, A pain easily understood
The angels enjoy you Which savours the flavour
In some obscure corner of heaven Of the posing wreaths
As I never could. Colorful like a rainbow of sorrow
Let them kiss gently You don't know where she's gone
The cheeks that never bloomed. But you know what she's avoided.
As you leave this plane Do you think
Do not look back She shares your sorrow?
To see the rain falling down Do you think, she can?
Your mother's face like tears. If not, does she not own
Just know your morning laugh A bliss your tears
Shall never leave my arms. Could never allow?
How could You take her I will weep with you,kind mother
After having known so little Until you can see
Of the love I wanted That the golden fields
To give her? Would not exist without
The passion of my tears The quiet splendour
Shall know no rest. Of the withered roses.)
IV
Gentle sparrow, upon the tiny branch (Little sacrifice
What Hand brings you Everyday running up and down
Outside my fragile window? The altar, leaving your blood
Do the church bells On the hollow pedestal;
Bring harmony to your voice? Do you not know
Or do they sing lullabies The blood you waste in your hours
To your chicks Is the sparrows voice?
When you are away? The life that crushes you
May the rainbow of saints Is a river, severed
Keep you safe in winter From the oceans.
And thirsty in summer. A lake without sun.
Only, The sparrow sings with
I wish to ask one thing, His own voice.
Of you tiny sparrow: You live a life
After the late end Belonging to him, her, them, us,
Of my crushing day And it deafens the I
Could you and your golden chicks That belongs to what
Not sing your elegies The sparrow belongs.
To the setting sun; Raping the joys that bore you
Chirping chirping chirping Incest in the womb.
Without end You know you wil never
Outside my pale window. Be content
Tell them I need to If you renounce the
Dream sleep dream sleep Chirping chirping chirping
In peace. Sparrow.)
V
My world will crumble (What do you feel inside you:
If I love her. The world, or love?
I can feel her with me What do your senses feel:
But she is always distant. Her, or her status?
She desires me, and I her, When internal desires overflow
But she is not mine. All external promises must drown.
If we were to be together Fate dances or reclines
We would have to cheat Fate. At your finger tips.
We can never love There are no punishments
Without punishment. Or consequences - only events.
And we will suffer in our events.
(And we will live in our events.)
Sunday Market
Before ending the day
I go, speaking words
Without reflection,
To the market.
Loud voices welcome me
As if I were a diminutive god,
To their wives
It seems I am.
Their first word is their last.
(Begging, louder than
Their hearts.)
A hundred, fatherless, feet search
For what they already own:
Flip-flops that reverbarate
In the midnight haven
Of the faceless goddess.
Sandals
Lose their hearts
To the soliquily
Of coinless prayers.
If a thought hits me, like lightning
It is stolen
By the haunting children, clinging,
To their father's arms
Crying, with Mary's heart
For anything they set their eager eyes on.
Weeping
Tears
Inside out:
Longing obscured
By infancy.
A sorrow suddenly strikes me
Flamboyantly
Upon seeing
The frail antiquities laid out
Randomly, on a dusty rag.
If Venus had left her heart
Inside a bronze vase
She would have been lost
To some wrinkled hand eager to clutch anything;
I am reminded of the helplessness of our limbs
Under the soil.
Mother of Mercy
Keep warm Your new
Companion:
Silver heart of the
Golden lover.
The columns of tents:
A sea of linen,
Live and die
Their short hours, at the foot
Of the ageing fortifications
Surrounding the outskirts
Of the city of grids.
(Are they here
As an act of worship?
Or wistful indifference?
Would Jesus
Lay waste to this market?
Or make it his Golgotha?)
So many clothes hanging,
Shivering at the mention
Of the demon that blows.
From every town and village
Their curious suitors come.
(Still amazed by
What they know so well.)
Saturday's music, lies down
On Sunday's rug:
Soft hands of red, white, brown,
Soothe the pulsating voice.
There is a peaceful wind blowing through
The narrow passageways.
Like all we pray for, walks amongst us.
I exit where the trees
Offer their silhouettes of shelter.
I leave behind the promised celebration
Knowing
When I see the naked square tomorrow
It will be silent...dead.
For everyone will be
Busy.
Canary
I made a mortal enemy
My dreams hunt me down
With quivering voraciousness.
I bared a silver mace into their burning face
(On the mace
Were inscribed
In ashes:
"My mind
My blows.")
And they turned on me,
With an anger
That is impassive under any torture.
Yellow canary,
Darling of all ancient goddesses
Can your voice not soothe them?
Your soft songs
Are my dreams' anthems:
New anathema.
It would calm them,
Entrance them into prestene stillness
And make them turn away.
Diamond boats
Return
Them to their mule.
Little canary
Your faceless cage
Is a green cross.
(Poppy of incense
In an abstract space.)
But how can you know
What a cross is?
I've made you believe
In an idea of mine
For you are the backdrop
To every scene
Of every idea.
Claw of dew
Over a dry bone.
Fallen star in the muddy water,
Dead sun in the frail seeds.
Pretty, so pretty, and endless
Lost in the empty opals of girls
Who drench your plumage in the bloodstains
Of their naked fathers.
Piece of clay, permeating tears:
Unheard, drama of nothingness.
A dynamite is laced with iron into yout Fate,
Going off every second of every minute
Fireworks of parasols, lingering fantastically
In the giant stalactites of the damp air.
Boiling blood
Trapped, soil
Wet with night
Lost.
Dance rigid like a stone in the fools dawn
Psalm upon a still stone where hope replies
A promise from the stone beneath the altar
A gentle over the stone of afternoon.
One chilly morning
Safe from my dreams
I heard you sing
Thinking you were alone
And I could see why
You are the poetry
Of our island.
Yellow canary:
In your harmony is an Ave Maria
In your breaks a mid-August gale
In your metaphor a sunrise over the sand
In your melody a warm Communion.
(The farmer listens to you
When his only sun sets.
The widow listens to you
When saying her Hail Mary's.
The shepatd listens to you
When the dawn breaks over the cliffs.
The priest listens to you
When he is one with God.)
Oh little canary
Your rolling voice of gold
Makes me one with everyone.
You make all men my brothers
For I listen to you, as they do.
We are united: In silence, at heart.
A religion is born from your innocence
Let no one take it away from us.
So let the dreams come,
With gums spewing metallic spittle
Bearing all the Furies, like a flood:
I will wait for them
With my brothers by my side
As we listen to the little, yellow
Canary.
Blood To Blood
I come, hand deep in my blood,
Like a pulse, star reaping star.
I have a hunger with an amber hue.
The feast of red is my solitude,
My destiny, luckless, humbled god.
To fall now would be to renounce the music.
The masses hide in the individual:
The saint witness to the empty sermon.
To him they dedicate, their anger, grudges, blood,
Whilst keeping to themselves their scorched soul.
The brushstroke of the wind,
Invisible to my existence,
Paints the drifting, quiet trees
Into fired-up angels of silver,
Enflaming the all-seeing balconies
To reveal the colour of their wounds.
I came with my ivory knife
Wet with love's remains, and I waited.
At the corner which suckles the bitter milk of the moon,
And my senses were enticed by the paganism,
By the gods of life, death, and rebirth;
Now I can no longer love, like a waterfall
Now I love like a little god...a poet!
Saints and fireworks, martyrs and executioners,
Hunt down the night.
Every summer, a star is born
With the name of the Virgin,
All the women are dressed like star-lit lillies
...I come, blood to blood.
Tubas reflecting the pegeantry of fire
Give voice to the pounding songs, pulsating in the veins.
Drumming, drumming, the drummer declares
The next anthem of the lips of the will-o'-wisps.
I have no prayers to give
Making me another wave in the crimson ocean.
The bubbles holding my delicate satisfaction
Shall never float in this mythical air.
Bull-like shouting, deafening praises,
They are blunted sickles in the fields of our lives.
All my failures
Lie in wait for me:
In the marbled halls
Introducing the windless yard,
Secrets, stalactites, days,
All are there for me; hungry and bold,
A hidden melancholy.
My anger fades every time,
My defiance fades every time,
The lure gets greater and madder,
Every time I see the streets freed from solitude,
I wished my heart were stronger.
The air is empty save for the grey smoke,
The only peace in the clutched rosaries,
A handful of children burst into passion:
My soul is slowly emptied of all I have needed.
Ah, foaming blood
Ah, roaring purple flow,
In your silent lapping shall be decided
What dreams my ennui shall shout!
Been Without Being
The sparrows sing with voices of blood and gold.
I am not here.
The shelters beckon their children to return.
I am not here.
Men of the streets dream of murder in the canopes.
I am not here.
The conquest of flags
Give way
To the conquest of the senses
With the delibarance of an unthrown word.
To suffer is to be affected,
To suffer is to see.
Hardship
Of an untested age
Fills the fields with confessions of seers,
Truth.(Subjective to the years.)
No-one sees
Because they try to see.
Black pathways go through
White gardens
Always hearing of what should be done
Never seeing it done.
Words without reflection
Do not bring change,
Summoning the gods
Does not bring fairness.
"How are you living now?"
(Its always 'now'
Crimes are always modern
Glory is always past)
I have no right to have my say
For I have not been here
Since an old mistress cried.
"Can you not see my hand withered,
By effort...
For nothing."
Hands are to be kept warm.
I see nothing but:
Love bathed in the sun of novelty
Seen from stars sleeping discreetly,
Uncommited, thoughtful.
I see a tree crossing the universe
Erect when conquering
Straight when victorious,
Infinite as the declaration.
I am the sole witness
To the creation of silhouettes.
My body is a dream
A dream dreamt by a soul
A thousand miles away.
No-one can live in dreams
So my reality is far away
From the sparrows singing with voices of blood and gold.
Bouquet Of Stars
Millions of feet have travelled this road, that ends the night, before me.How could this be, when behind and ahead of me there are only two hundred feet treading on the dead greyness? They must have walked it more than once, they must have died here a hundred and three times, and were always resurrected by the sunrise.
I walk this narrow road alone, having left behind my everyone in the pages of that wordless book.The book has aspiration as an introduction but its body is made of ineligible scribbling as if written by a shivering hand.Shadows of the dead branches ran up and down a crumbling wall.Are the shadows the ghosts of the branches that once blessed here? The road is empty, the hoarse wind plays its violin from atop the low wall.
To fear is to exile all the senses of the body and give way to the senses of imagination.And I could not bring myself to abandon my physical senses, for I want to save them for the day I can see, feel, taste, hear and smell the body that was made for me.So I walked like a regular in the strangest of raods.
As I was halfway through the road I saw a distant silhouette that had all the traits evolution had endowed humanity with.I kept my head down for I felt a large hand burdened with tranquility force me to look down upon the kingdom of forgotten rain.So I could not see this lonely figure but I could hear its footsteps; the silence made it sound like he was wearing spurs that jangled across the grease of the tarmac.They drew closer and closer until they obstructed the heavy air I was breathing.Suddenly the hoarse wind stopped and I felt a thick arm push me harshly against the wall.The ghosts of the branches fleed at my loud crash, they took their search for love's carcass elsewhere.
The strong arm held me up against the wall, and I could feel the cold caress of a knife against my shivering throat.His face was within arm's reach of mine: I could see his eyes as blue as a waterfall, his hair as black as a mediterrenean night, he had rough cheek bones like that of a Phoenician god.I could tell he was not born here, but he has been made to live here; he wanted to escape the eternal songs of cities weeping under the hills.After regaining his composure he said to me :
"What have you done with the stars? Give them to me or I will leave you for dead!"
I glanced quickly at the sky and saw the awkward clouds had hidden all the stars from view.
"I don't have them anymore, I have given them away, but please do not shed my unrife blood, the earth would not take me."
"You have the stars, I know it! Give them to me or I will sacrifice your blood to the mediterrenean so it can release me!"
I began to tremble violently as I felt a new life enter me: that wonderful, brief, life, lived blissfully, minutes before death takes your hand.
"Please, I will give you my money, my clothes, take it all, just don't leave my body as prey to the wind."
I could see his thick brows bow with anger, he would not be sated by anything other than what he asked for.
Oh withered branches, your stillness I will soon borrow!
But before he could speak again, the clouds above us parted as if to sail away into the port of day.And at their disappearance, there they came: the stars.
He looked up at them, and stared for a few infinite seconds, as if he was lost in a dream.Then he looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes and the faint hint of a luminous smile.He then let me go and ran away, more with joy than haste.The road was once more still.
Prophecy Of The Mediterrenean
The pavements are dry; the crevices between them are drunk from de-hydration.They do not blame the sun, the sun revolves around itself, all the gods and insects follow it like a beetle clinging to flourescent dung.Who do they blame? Who can they blame? The high-heeled boots trampling all over their intestines.And the black banisters call these riders of dirt, angels? Dreams of snow flakes play tricks upon their brown eyes.Fall, fall, fall, little snow flakes upon our corridors, upon our columns so we can be what we are not.They look at me, the pavements look at me with parched eyes.Do you blame me as well? Don't look at me, I am not your tormentor, torment is for those who tread with a quick leap, I always tread lightly even when the world threatens to disappear.Slowly go the feet, slowly goes the mind, slowly goes time; Oh pavements you needn't look at me.
Around this gulf I go once more.A gulf without harbours, boats without a home.The rainbow has descended into the inlet and floats leasurely upon the water choaked with sea-weed, Oh my friend the sea-weed, do not hide your perfect body, let the eyes of the mortal rainbow see you.Countless times I have seen the coast of stone, but never did it give me one thought of its own.Would it disappear if I were to think of it? Would the lightning pierce its veins if I looked at is as something it is not? It is just a scene, a view, nothing sacred.Even the spirits that hide behind its eyes of war, they leave me to my devices.For they know the life I have is the life I make.I weave it thread by thread from a stuffy throne-room, bereft of servants and jesters.When I make a mistake I kill the thread with a snap so violent that it turns on me.The spirits have no thread to weave, they merely floar upon the wind: northsouth, eastwest, they go and the waves rise and fall as they pass by.
If the sea is a land in itself, then where are the peasants that reap what the drowned rocks sow? The tales under the sandy soil lie unheard: do they tell fables for the passers by or do they have prophecies to inspire the bloodless?
To listen to its prophecies, if they are indeed so, one would have to die to listen.For to listen to its promises is to forsake life.Not the life of years, but the life of flesh and bone encased in scaffolding of blood.This death at one's own hand is not a suicide; it is a letting go.Let the spirit depart from the physical senses, let it breeze out beautifully like rain from the clouds.To know what the flesh must have, what the flesh must do, we must abandon it and let the spirit communicate through the senses of the word.
But I, in this gulf that never looks at me, I shall not abandon this flesh as yet.For to abandon life is to abandon death, and if there isn't death to push us on, how can I love? My love is borne from death; and my death loves you and from this love for you, my dear, I weave the thread of life.
The first feeling I felt when I was once more left to the unawakened road was pity.I pitied him! For the happiness he has is an unfound one.For I knew that the stars he saw, the stars glistening in the night sky are not the real stars.I did not lie to him: I truly had given the stars away.I had given them in a bouquet to her whose heart was made for me.
Riding The Wet Scales Of Leather
A quiet river passing through a rainforest
Which the mosquitos call their home
Rented to them by the snakes.
I pass through the river,
On the river,
Riding a cayman.
A cayman whose scales glisten
From the purifying drops of water
Born after a forthnight
From the rivers womb.
I ride the cayman
Like the sane ride madness;
Gently.
Looking to my sides
I see the riverbank
To my eyes as gold
As the sun's caress.
But the alligator spirits lurking their know
The banks are putrid
For the tiamat ofl ogic underneath the pebbles
Murders all who tread Blindly.
But husshh
Ssshh
They won't tell me.
"Deeper
Let us go in deeper!"
So says I
The rider of the cayman.
As we go deeper we come to a place
Where all the long thick branches
Descend all the way down to the river
Making you feel as in a fog of leaves.
The cayman tells me to bend down
Lest I lose an eye on one of the sharp branches.
Control, control
This is what everyone desires!
This is what everyone loses sleep over!
I've never given a care
So I've always relinquished my control
But in doing so I have lost control of I
And I shall not surrender anymore
If I am to be trampled on
It will be at my pleasure!
We passed through the trees
(Eyes intact ahh)
So we go deeper, deeper, to reach the heart of the river.
("Rave on little one, rave on
Your theatre of miseries has no curtains:
Encore! Encore!
The gentle-lice in the audience will always implore.")
The sun was now at its highest
So I knew it must be noon.
In the water, coming towards us, I saw
Two naked carcasses, face down, hand in hand.
As they passed my mind was abducted by questions:
Which of them reeked the worst?
Were they male or female?
Which one was the most loved?
Which one was dead, which one was most un-alive?
I wept...Loudly!
Not for their fate
But for that of my mind.
Ah noon
Thou art a cruel God!
Further up the bank
We came across a patch of barren land:
No trees, no radiant flowers, just mud.
And scattered all around
Where stakes mounted by severed heads.
We drew slightly closer to them
And I could see that the heads,
Their faces
Were smiling...
Why?
Then further along we saw a small stone altar
So those men must have been sacrificed.
I have never seen such sincere smiles!
They must have believed their deaths
Would bring triumph not only to them
But to the the ones they left behind.
Such belief!
I did not know this world of "enlightenment"
Left room for such faith
Such blind happiness
Such raw happiness!
To have a reason to die...
Is to have a reason to live!
I started to get excited
Surely we must soon be arriving
To the very heart of the river!
On the caymans back
I danced a thousand dances
I sang a hundred songs
I punched the air a thousand-hundred times!
Looking to my sides
I see the riverbank
To my eyes as gold
As the sun's caresses.
But the alligator spirits lurking their know...
..."Rave on little one, rave on
Your theatre of miseries has no curtains:
Encore! Encore!
The gentle-lice in the audience will always implore."
Read My Lines
If the wind blows
Does that mean I'm alive?
When the wind stops
Will I still be here?
I know my dreams, I know them well
They keep me looking out of the blood-stained window;
The blood I see
Is the blood running through me
Where will I be
When it runs free?
Could I be more alive when it runs out of me?
Like a snake that looks into the eyes of its prey
I stare into a death that must soon come
And know my dreams will awake
When I sleep with the earth.
Friends that knew only my alligator smile;
Read my lines, that in the end recall
How whenever you spoke to me I dreamed
Of being somewhere you could never see.
O girls, I tried so hard to love
Read my lines, that sing the praises of what never happened
And read how I felt that which my eyes never saw
You will finally know me, your eyes will show me.
Read my lines
With the worms that feed me
I'll live the dreams
I never told.
Lost At The Horns Of Hattin
The sun of mid-day was like a curse of the desert, it beat against my skin, waiting to see my blood dried to the last pint.I had not come here through choice.I left the city on a journey to find myself and my place with God.I wanted to head west to the sublime shores of the mediterrenean.But I was told that the land between was too dangerous for it was at the mercy of the brutal raids of the Crusader Reynaud De Chatillon.
"His pirates devestate the sea
His raiders devestate the cities
His bandits devestate the passers by;
Ah, but the lord will slay him
With his own hands!"
Thus I evaded the westward journey and found myself in unmapped wilderness.My meditations become harder and harder in worsening conditions.God, why must You test so sternly he who seeks to find You? I am willing to give my life to You, when I come of age I will give myself to spreading Your name far and wide.But why must You hide from me? All I ask is for a little of Yourself, so I may have all of my life in the palm of my hand and with Your blessing I will know what to do with it.
Like the birds I would fly towards You, like the vultures I would feed on the scraps of Yourn enemy.Bloom beneath Your golden words, shine above the silver waves of morn.I am Your kingdom: Your name is my sword, your providence my shield.
Praise be to Allah!
The heat made mine a vision of waves: reality danced before my eyes.The little cactuses, so dry and sunburnt, where mere ripples of transparency.Scorpions black like the night ran callously into their prestene holes.Nothing left.Wisdom of acres imbued with fruitless melancholy; a stupor of madness, where the sand is adored by the angels that feed it.
Yonder comes the night
The shadow of a breeze
...Can I feel it?
I kept on walking, walking...mile after mile of sorrow.Over the sand dune ahead I could hear distant voices.Had I reached a city somewhere? Had I reached the walls of Aqaba?
I tried to hurry, but my feet wouldn't let me.My head ached, my body yearned, I could not...no...yonder.The sand is sick.The sand is the symbol of whores that tramp through the night while their husbands dream of virgins.Hah, putrid slaves they hunger for those whores, whores who take our blood and spit on it before they bury it in their burning flesh.Oh I see the harbour in the light of mid-day.Saracen transports are bringing in more prisoners of the cross, infidels of snow! Bring them to me captain, my body yearns, I shall feast on their eyes...poison of the gospel.Should I die? Tell me, priest warrior, should I die? So you may have your prize? Chase me and we will see how I die, bring your straight sword of iron and spittle.
The horse does not chase the camel
The curved sword pierces the horses' side
And the rider runs...
Run rider run,
Monastery burning, relics dismounted,
Horses' flesh litters your journey
...Run rider run.
My hands are incorporeal, I cannot see them, yet I feel their presence.They are shackled by the 5 o'clock shadow.They are in flames, O I see nothing but flames- Flames of crimson- the sea is on fire with the burning wood of galleons and skin.O God save the sea, save the sea! No, I do not wish to see it burn any longer,
no, ah the world is going black...the infidel has won...black...
Silence.
"Awake my friend, awake."
I opened my eyes and saw a man softly looking over me.Behind him I could see shade.Shade that escaped from the sun and lay its sheet over this dim domain.I lay on a bed whose sheets were as cool as the ocean breeze.
Where am I?
"You are in a camp, with friends."
Camp, what do you mean?
"A war camp, this is Lord Saladin's base at Hattin."
How did I get here?
"We found you lying half-dead in the desert, quite near here.Had we not found you, you would not have made it.God is kind."
I thank Him. And I thank you for helping me.
I awake from my bed and went to have a look around the camp.As I emerged from my tent I was instantly captivated by two large mountains on either side of the horizon.These must be the horns of Hattin! Inside the camp there were tents as far as the eye can see.To the north, right under one of the mountains, there was one that served as a makeshift mosque.I went in and saw a very scant interior, without arches and gold.Two men where praying in the middle, swords closely by their side.A man entered the mosque and I asked him: "Why is there a mosque in the middle of a war camp?" He replied: "God is everywhere, and the soldiers here need him more than ever."
In my innocence I had never heard the word 'need' used in reference to God.I found it stramge.If we 'need' Him does it mean we should use Him as we see fit? Even building Him a shoddy tent in the middle of a war camp? I saw it as degrading.But I kept it to myself.I suppose, I am young, I still have much to learn.
"In the twilight of the dawn
God is might!
In the tranquility of the mediterrenean morn
God is might!
As the swords rattle against stolen steel
God is might!
He is every sensation you feel
God is might!
I heard singing from a nearby quarter.When I went there I saw a group of men gathered round this poet, listening attentiveley to his every word.He sang with a beautiful voice that reminded me of the soft waves rustling against the breeze back in my hometown.And his words flowed in and out of time, bringing back syllables of divinity and rhymes that permeate the stars.He truly was a wonderful poet! And here he was with his swords by his side, and his horse in the stables ready to ride into death.I wondered how many poets must have died in this desert fighting for something they never started.A tear couldn't help roll down my cheek.
"I left my lines in the streets of Medina,
Every morning the angels paint them in gold:
Prayer made eternal by the eastern winds."
I could listen to him no longer, for I couldn't help see deat descending from his turban.I wandered further inward into the camp, and I came across a group of men talking loudly.I went closer to hear what they were arguing about.And I heard one of the men extolling the virtues of Abu Bakr al-Razi.
"If his words were heeded, at this moment we would have been at home with our wives.For it is no secret we are here because of our faith.This long drawn out war is because religion is being abused by blind men to take advantage of us humble men.The soul does not know what it needs, it faulters.Thus it lusts after material things.And the religion we have is another material vice! Our soul turns to it, out of blindness because it lusts for anything.And religion brings war, and war brings wealth and plunder.But God is fair.He lets the soul have all it desires and thus becomes one with the body and all its suffering and sorrows."
"You are mad."
"Sick!"
"In the end you will fight and die alongside us!"
They drove him away.But he left with head held high.I was captivated by what he said so I went to speak with him."Ah, you are the one they rescued from the jaws of the desert this morning."I asked him why do they have a camp in the middle of nowhere, what are they fighting for?
"Come with me I shall show you,
Leave faith behind,
Leave your innocence behind,
And I will show you...everything."
He led me to the other side of the camp, and as we emerged from the forest of tents I gazed upon a lake as large as a small house in Bukhara."This is what they fight for.The Christians want this lake, this oasis in the heart of the sun, so they may use it as a foothold into the rest of Saladin's lands."He looked to the lake as if it were the symbol of all he stood for.All he lived for and against.I couldn't help slowly pull away.But what I had heard him say will stay with me for a long time to come.
Night fell on the camp.Everyone was gathered round a small fire.They all hold their swords and their bows close to them.The night winds let no one slumber.Everyone was split into pairs and clicks, talking to whom they cared for the most.I knew no one, so I wandered around hoping to be invited to a conversation.I sat down by the fire and I could overhear a conversation between three men barely a stone's throw away from me.
One of the men was re-telling the story of when he was invited to Saladin's palace after having written an important book on medicine.
"The night had turned the palace arches
Into gateways of heaven
Golden like the dreams of the prophets.
Wine pured from cups of majesty
I could hear the prayers of Muhammad
In the gurgling wine.
Beautiful women danced in front of us
As we sat on pillows of damasque.
Theirs were the movement of silent songs
Composed by the stars of Arabia.
From the enamoured window, you could see
A dream being born from crescent stones:
Mosques, hospitals, universities,
All an offering to God's grace!"
Such beautiful language! Such beautiful tales! I felt instantly inspired.I wanted to live and see the beauty of all God's lands.So I too may have such images to paint with my words.I set out from home to find myself.And here under the stars sheated in words of silver, I have! With God by my side I will see all the world has to offer.A life of adventure.A life lived in God's grace.This is the desert of my birth!
I stayed up a bit later, and spoke with some of the men.For the first time my tone of voice could match their own joviality.I retied to my tent feeling I have achieved enough for now.As I went deeper into my sleep I had dreams of blood.Blood of poets and philosophers ran into the lake...symbol of everything.
Lament Of The Cliffs
Dawn fell luminously
Over the dry cliffs.
Little sparrows sang
From the olive tree.
Thirsty shrubbery
Where do you hide the girl?
Does the sunflower know
Maria?
She left her beads
Under her bed.
Tears dedicated to her,
Run away.
The cliff-face collects
Little dolls of fear.
Thirsty shrubbery
Where do you hide the girl?
Velvet, Velvet
Velvet, velvet
The sky burns
Velvet!
The sea is no doomed God
The moon not a raped Virgin,
But sweet one, your sorrow
Has prostituted the white thighs.
"When you focus on the pain
It feels like a slowly beating drum.
I listen sensously to its rythms."
Swim into the dark contours of the pure flower.
The sea is no damned God
Oh sweet one.
Nor is the blunted knife a raped Virgin.
Velvet, velvet
The sky burns
Velvet!
Under The Violet Moon
Under the violet moon
Of the fresh lovers,
Her ring whispers.
Little coastline of shadows
What is it you want to hide from her?
The cold ring
Of the motionless heart,
With tearless memories.
Chilly coastline of shadows
Thirteen roses in her wet palm.
Semen trickled the side of the hill,
Shivering, kissing the dark blades of grass;
The ditches keep it from reaching her.
Little coastline of shadows
What is it you want to hide from her?
She is eloquently cold, now,
Her white clothes sewn by the wide ocean
Cannot keep her warm.
Chilly coastline of shadows
Thirteen roses in her wet palm.
Under the violet moon,
A sigh! echoing silently
Into the bonfire of night.
Ivory Rose
Rose, ivory rose, swimming
In the hissing waves of night:
Do you see us beneath Zachary's tree?
A hand touches us with nails of honey,
It gives us laighter
For it take away laughter
And places it in our silence.
Like a sweet grape I taste the words
Of the silver summer: their breeze flows
Through the roof of my mouth
Like a fresh waterfall, light,
Glimmering in its own gentle frost.
A boy passes by the clanging toy stall,
His mother promises to buy him, a bright yellow mask
Only if he behaves himself in the night's festivities.
Under the rose, ivory rose,
I give to you the same promise:
If you are strong in the nightly feast,
Your heart will be rewarded with its desire.
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