February 2006
VOL XIV Issue 2, Number 154
Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Heather Ferguson;
European Editor: Moshe Benarroch;
Contributing Editors: Pedro Sena; Michael Collings;
Jack R. Wesdorp; Oswald LeWinter
ISSN 1480-6401
INTRODUCTION
Dan Gallik
All The Old Times Within The Waters
CONTENTS
Papa Osmubal
CONVERSATION
2:30 PM SUPER TYPHOON ANNOUNCEMENT. MACAO
RIVER
DAEDALUS LAMENTS
SUICIDE NOTE OF A POET
Jarod Anderson
Hitchhiker
Grounded
Florida
Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
A Fence
Brain Storming For Zilya
Railroad Avenue
Arun Gaur
1. Chemist-Girls
2. Child behind the Glass
3. Night-Scene
DAVIDE TRAME
ARENA
DOWN THERE
LAGOON, SUNRISE
LEAVING
Ashok Niyogi
MORNING
NEWS
I AM TRYING FOR POETRY SCHOOL
BATTLE CRY
DIVORCE
ENGINEERED
VODKA & ANNYA - MY PUGS
FALL
FROZEN BEANS
NIGHT TIDE
Durlabh Singh.
OBTAKA-THE MAGICIAN.
SHAMANIC DANCE.
GREEN GREEN.
POST SCRIPTUM
Tomas Solano
WHITE HANDKERCHIEFS OF SEPTEMBER 11
Translation of POR EL 11 DE SEPTIEMBR by Julio Hurtado.
Dan Gallik
All The Old Times Within The Waters
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the shore of the common lake
she touched my hand. With her hand.
I did not melt. I was getting old.
I did look into her eyes. Saw
her insecurities. Saw mine. Had
had enough and left her for
another lake. There I noticed
the water dirtier. And the birds
funny looking. And I wept. Not
for her. Or the lake. Or
the wildlife. I wept for myself.
I had found nothing in life
except its sadness. I found it
was wearing me down. I found it
was making me too thoughtful.
Un-alive. Finally, I wished
I was all over. The lake looked
forboding. As I walked out into it.
It opened to me. Wider and deeper.
Soothing were its reeds. Fish.
Its depths. I had done this before.
In a past death. I had found
it was fine. I was relieving
worlds of myself. &. That was fine.
Papa Osmubal
CONVERSATION
~~~~~~~~~~~~
He sipped his wine, closing his eyes
while swallowing it.
I asked him something
but I can't remember now
what it was about.
He did not speak.
He did not answer.
He just looked into my eyes.
Then he left.
The screech of that old door
was louder than his footfalls.
The light breeze from outside
echoed in my mind, on my face.
He was always eloquent.
He was always understood.
2:30 PM SUPER TYPHOON ANNOUNCEMENT. MACAO
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A quick exodus of cars, mopeds, buses, worried faces:
the city's bridge, Ponte de Amizade, pulsates, trembles.
Nam Van lake tells the wrath of the wind:
waves are furious fangs, pouncing paws.
From where I sit now I see rat-gray thick rain
draping the city, erasing the city from my sight.
Where are the vilas, casinos, pubs, saunas, pawnshops?
Neon lights will all be blind tonight. Perhaps. Perhaps.
RIVER
~~~~~
And tell the quiet river
to sing the betrayal of the mirror
Its countenance may be clear and lamb-like
yet let it sharpen and intensify its hidden shards
Then we would be all proud Narcissi
whose faces glide away
In fragments
so bitter and so tiny
DAEDALUS LAMENTS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tonight I shall gather and pick Icarus
I will dig a pit for him and bury him
And cold and murk
will be his pall and bed forever
All this I'll do unknown and secret
to the sun that stole his youth
And then made off to the far
where even dream is forbidden to go
SUICIDE NOTE OF A POET
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The cigar is growing short, so fast,
faster than the beating of my heart.
There is not a word on the paper,
but scattered ashes:
image of my shattered soul!
I am alone, and afraid:
no, not of the future but of the past,
because the past is an aborted time.
That is why we are still here,
looking for something we can never find,
facing the monotony of yet another day.
There is no difference between the past
and the future: everything happened already,
we just did not pay attention.
I look out the window
and see people walking.
I wonder where they head for.
If they would just talk and listen to their soul
they would feel pain,
but they are without language.
Back to my seat, I am again before a knife
whose blade is like an eye, like an alluring eye.
Jarod Anderson
Hitchhiker
~~~~~~~~~~
The stranger with the knife is no cliche
when seated beside you
in the dashboard's blue glow.
After the attack my car became a celebrity,
its interior a photo essay
of every smudge, the abandoned shoe.
Flash after flash I stared through the glass,
watched blood dry on vinyl.
He was drunk on freedom; I sobered him.
Grounded
~~~~~~~~
The late afternoon sparrow cocks
an eye earthward (some inner-working
taken for granted), loosens and falls still.
A muddy streak of denim still
madly in love with his Christmas bee-bee gun
follows a mother's voice homeward
while a well-traveled Siamese,
not the least fortunate of its breed,
thinks the undergrowth
particularly generous today.
Florida
~~~~~~~
I remember pelicans like feathered ladles
confirming the existence of ocean life
next to the dock where I failed at fishing.
I think there was swimming, but not much.
My uncle said "everything in the ocean has teeth"
and reeled in the proof, nothing like Ohio bluegill.
When my cousins came north to visit
they wore winter coats on spring afternoons.
We fed white-tailed deer from our back porch;
I told them frostbite could kill in seconds.
Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
A Fence
~~~~~~~
A fence
ashes
liberated thinkers
dreamers
cookie-cutter individualists
cane-pole weaponry
pointless scribbles
droplets of bliss
wash bowls of virtue
scrubbing away grief
clinched fists
believe
simulated flesh
prisoner's sleeve
breathe
grinded teeth
imagination's slave
the palace of fear
mocking angels descending
farther
near
feathers
laughter
reflection
lucky failing conception
no sense
reality
running into the sun
eyes collapsed
salty surprise
time
flies
a fleeting glimpse of genius
a buffoon flying a kite
taste of the ocean
nervous strangers
gothic chic chain-smoking
cloves
decaffeinated coffee
soft voice
anger
deceit
imperfection
ocean foam
happier than mad
waves crashing
violent swirls of sand
a castle
tidal wave
shell remnants
bread crumbs
feasting seabirds
hungry bums
birds scatter
a broken shark's tooth
and a desperate stranger's hand
drinking with the homeless
a gothic chic
and frenzied birds
I lit the filter
and laughed like
a lap dancer
dry-humped into oblivion
Brain Storming For Zilya
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
reflection
tainted
imperfect
me
bodies mangle in crystal gleaming fury
step aside
I can't see
what
it is a canvas breathing and clinching
avoiding a lynching by several multitudes
secret but glued
raise another tree to grow old with me
lessen the burden of longevity
we mutants of the golden beggar's sun
have returned to the gallery
and its shower of sarcasm
now we burn
and spread ashes on our canvas
after frequent spasm
limited life has them
I'm the deviant who hurls impurity
seeds sowed by evil erections
a door to unreality
the blemish of imperfection
a stain on the palette of life
a blue-eyed Jesus impaled with knives
a vision filtered thru brainwashed eyes
we are all beautiful beneath spurious skies
that bring tides of lies
and simple truth unrecognized
recreating ourselves along the way
what is more trivial than today
only tomorrow
or maybe a realm in absence of sorrow
minds bedazzled
ideas swirl crimson-hued
another blue-eyed Jesus to the rescue
the products of our own buffoonery
we have got no clue
in the lean hour
shadows recede
and skies darken
memories empty into scatter gardens
unable to feel of flesh
unable to come
to exist forevermore in absence of the sun
no mansion in the sky
no more reasons
no more wondering why
no more sleep
no more drugs to keep me high
I would probably sit and sigh
when you contemplate the ideal
this life is not that bad
and much more real
encompassed in brains
we are electric energy surging insane
walking a high wire between pleasure and pain
the ordinary and deranged
I am one in the same
a life so beautiful
a sky so strange
an avid listener
an oblivious ear
be certain
nothing is clear
I wish I knew not
fear
emptiness
nor despair
until I imagine a world consumed by happiness
too involved to care
deeply oblivious
unbroken stare
I would rather be anywhere but there
gripping her warm
abysmal swirls
drowning in a sea of hair
Railroad Avenue
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was the first Saturday in August 1971, in Pumkinsville, Virginia. It was
six O'clock in the morning when Kathy woke from a dream about Mark Lindsay.
She imagined him holding her in his arms, and the image in her mind made
her feel like she was flying. Kathy absolutely loved Paul Revere and the
Raiders. Her walls were covered with cutouts of the group, especially her
dream guy, Mark Lindsay. After the dream momentarily lingered, she realized
that she was alone in her warm bed. She embraced herself and fell fast asleep.
Kathy finally rolled out of bed about noon. Her parents were arguing as usual.
Her mom was smoking a Kool Filtered King and standing over the stove. Her
cigarette had burned nearly to the filter when the ashes fell into the skillet.
No one noticed, so Gladys continued frying hamburgers. Kathy had to be at
work by one, so she headed for the bathroom to do her makeup.
The phone in the kitchen rang several times before Kathy's father Bill finally
got off of the couch to pick it up. He answered the phone rudely as he often
did. Kathy's mom Gladys stood at the stove remembering the man whom she had
loved so deeply prior to getting stuck with Bill. Gladys had been madly in
love with a man from Rhea Valley, but her mother didn't approve of him because
he was poor. Bill on the other hand had a steady job, but he didn't have
Gladys' heart.
When Kathy entered the kitchen for lunch, Gladys asked if she had any plans
for the weekend. Kathy told her mom that she and Dorkus would probably go
to the Drive-In. Gladys immediately started in on Kathy about being overly
promiscuous. Kathy tried to eat her burger, but suddenly lost her appetite.
She told her mom that she didn't even have a boyfriend, so there was nothing
for her to worry about.
Kathy walked into the den where her father Bill was watching television. He
yelled into the kitchen, "hey old woman, where's my lunch? I'm tired of
waiting. Stop puffing on that cigarette, and bring me my plate. "Kathy just
shook her head. She imagined being anywhere but home. As Gladys walked with
Bill's plate into the den, she envisioned him choking to death. This put a
smile on her face as she bent down to give Bill his dinner. "Here you go old
man," said Gladys. Bill looked at his burger, and got angry because there was
no bun. Gladys had put Bill's burger on two slices of light bread, both of
which were heels. Bill began yelling, "what the hell is this on my burger?
You know I hate mustard. Old woman, you can't do anything right...you're
fired." Gladys shot back quickly, "well if you don't like my cooking, you
can just leave...see if I care". Bill threw his plate on the coffee table as
he headed toward the front door. Kathy got up and followed her father to his
car. Bill was talking under his breath, "how I ever got stuck with that crazy
old woman...it's beyond me."
Bill got into his Impala and lit a cigar. Bill noticing that Kathy seemed
down said, "what's the matter Catbird?" Kathy looked at the ground before she
made eye contact." I just don't like listening to you and mom fight, that's
all. "Bill started laughing and said, "that's all your old mammy lives for...
she ain't never gonna change! You should know that by now." Kathy nodded her
head in agreement as Bill got out of his car to embrace his daughter.
Kathy told her dad that she loved him, and she headed to the Cavalier
Restaurant where she worked on the cash register. At work, Kathy was
noticeably absent-minded. Twice in the first hour, two customers complained
that she had short-changed them. Again Kathy began to think of Mark Lindsay.
She stood at the counter lost in her head. She imagined herself running her
hands through Mark's hair. A customer had approached the counter to order,
but Kathy was staring into the register. The drawer had been open for several
minutes. The customer tried to get Kathy's attention, but was unsuccessful.
The owner now noticing Kathy's blank expression tried to get her to snap out
of the daydream, but it became obvious that she was gone.
The restaurant owner sat Kathy down in a chair, and put a rag on her forehead.
It was obvious that something was terribly wrong. When Kathy's parents
arrived, Gladys tried to get Kathy to snap out of it, but she never did.
Soon thereafter, Kathy was committed to an asylum. The thought of being in
the big house alone with Bill was more than Gladys could stand. On a brisk
morning three months after Kathy was left in the Asylum, her mother jumped
into the Holston River. Her body was never found.
Bill on the other hand found solace in the bottle, and drank himself into
oblivion. He died of alcohol poisoning shortly after Gladys hurled herself
into the river.
For thirty years, Kathy sat staring at a wall in the Marion Asylum. No one
ever visited her until the day she died. She was buried on Graveyard Hill on
a cold wintry morning as eerie clouds blanketed the sky. As her casket was
lowered into the frozen ground, a car sped around dead man's curve with the
radio blaring a song by Paul Revere and the Raiders. A small child stared out
of the car's passenger window...he would soon be lost forever.
The Osborne house still sits on Railroad Avenue. Their initials carved into
the sidewalk where only birds now venture. Children nervously pass the house
en route to the trestle. The track is gone too. Only bicycles and tourists
cross the trestle that faces the old Osborne house that once sneered from the
hill.
Arun Gaur
1. Chemist-Girls
Those chemist-girls sitting behind their desks
do not know what they sell
but know how to prune up betel-nuts
all the time.
And if you ask them for some life-saving drug
they would dismiss you--awm lo awm lo.
Muddy water gushes down the side-alley
on the steps
and across the road on the bill-board
is pasted the Zarkawt beauty
in all her spring splendor,
her colors washed in the freshening rain.
She is rested on one elbow
and asked to smile like some last duchess
who should be half-drowned in Celtic dusk
of an impressionistic painting.
Someone has even taken trouble
to mark in ink
a mole on her breast
just above her rain-washed color-strip.
But she does not know what to do
with her irregular shoulder blade
that threatens to rip out of flesh
to spoil her well maintained model role
any time.
2. Child behind the Glass
What's this child doing behind the glass
in a black dress
eyes softening up with the curtained mist?
All alone
in the gray and black window frame
he sits
by the medical spread of
charts and timings: 9 a.m. to 5.30 p.m.
With his head leaning against the bar
he peels the paint off the sill.
His eyes dark open and mildly frozen
turn with me
like a kitten-orbs
moving with the waning moon.
Sometimes he looks beyond.
What billboard
of an aids-addicted Zarkawt beauty does he see
or understand
frozen in this time-piece?
3. Night-Scene
Shadows do not prolong here.
They come as a whole
in big chunks and jagged triangles.
Sun was carried to clouds
big golden diaphanous beings
invading.
A locomotive invisible in its huge steam.
When crimson-white tufts of clouds sank black
power of city-lights
forced through clouds a new projection.
Skeletons of trees rose
in oval waves of green auras
breaking the white kernel-shells.
Gabled roofs, pyramids of tin
in soft blues.
Window-holes with slim iron-rods
in huge blankness
appeared as embossed scripts.
DAVIDE TRAME
CLOSE
~~~~~
Early autumn sea's breath,
a world rounded up, the sand's
ginger eyes staring huge, salt
and grit of crushed shells stuck
on your skin, up on your tongue,
in sparkles corralling your teeth,
the drowsiness so familiar after the swim,
in the widespread, lingering grey air
under a sun disk in the travelling dim
smoky clouds you can almost touch,
all distances left far behind,
the present its own pillow quietly pulsing here
and no tearing gusts, no tears in the irises,
no fierce unknown of tiger's spears,
the horizon a balm on your pores,
you are granted once more
child's fingertips reaching out
grabbing with no effort the displayed
realm of waves-jewels
so tame and close at hand for now.
ARENA
~~~~~
There's this roof straight out of our window
that is not a roof really, a tarmac floor rather
of a house they have long ago stopped building,
it's now where they throw food for the birds,
a few sparrows soon overwhelmed by pigeons
and gulls, which are the strongest and noisiest,
you hear their shrieks as they fiercely wallop
their morsels, two beaks often thrashing,
tearing the same scrap, while all around
there's a hell of wings flapping, feathers floating,
in a bustle of feet ticking.
At sunrise you are not startled by it, you are
almost lulled instead and wake up slowly,
it's a tantrum you welcome, you feel it
on your side, a glad, fulfilling heaven's rage
plummeting down and stroking your premises.
It gives you miles for stirring in a broad sun
and tells you the arena is ready for the pullulating
trimmings of the day.
DOWN THERE
~~~~~~~~~~
As a child you enjoyed
lingering on that picture of a winter plain,
a dazzling stretch of white
and a sledge coming from the horizon
at full speed, men lashing
at dogs pulling and howling
by a few skinny, dishevelled trees;
it was an old photograph on the cover
of a record album, your fingers
loved touching the snow
and the glossy grey, violet
bruised sky,
but it was the unknown you sensed beyond
that you loved more,
the long echoing, enduring
trail of wilderness
where it was too daring even to think to go.
You imagined a roar from afar,
or the frown of severe clouds,
you scrutinized the dots of the sky
with joy and fear,
the vast countenance that could tear
all apart
but didn't budge from down there,
you relished the reverence you sensed
for the depths of that dark
and its threat
miraculously kept at bay
in the bounty of the distance.
LAGOON, SUNRISE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brisk breeze on the railway bridge,
leaving the station you are plunged
in a still dim, cleansed blue,
over little scythe-waves.
Silence like a stare from the window
and gulls gliding on, weightless,
criss-crossing in the mute air.
There, on the horizon, the rosy wall
of a lightened airport building
and a light pulsing on the alert
breath of the landing strip.
Grey, indigo clouds behind
and the veiled outlines
of dark, lilac mountains.
You gaze at the depths
of both an airy and solid calm.
Now the train slides
into the brambles of the mainland
while on your right the first sunbeam bathes
the sheds and pipes of the factories'
busy maze.
You are entering the earth of the day
and once more you sense you're leaving
heaven in its widespread
unfathomable meaning,
its taste will stay with you
in between memory and desire
like a constant, teasing
brushing blade.
LEAVING
~~~~~~~
Crisp bloom of early morning
after the storm,
just outside the door
the air has the gaze of a quietened
blue marvel,
the line of the horizon is indented and frank,
the sun aslant on the sea wall,
orange like the cupped cloisters
of the oleander flowers,
leaves pointing up like gentle swords,
you have an errand, nothing unusual
but the acacias' breath invades you,
a swarm in a swinging orange vault
and the wish of starting the journey is here:
although you wouldn't really like leaving for good,
just leaving would be more than enough,
the way to be able to rest
with all these far shores stuck on your side,
their alluring without telling why,
their scent of unrestrained buds.
Ashok Niyogi
MORNING
~~~~~~~
Yellow-brown leaves on the grass
Wet with night time dew
Low rain filled cloud
Smashed rear car window
Propped up with duct tape
Ash tray on the porch
Overflowing with butts
A rent of pink on the horizon
The sun must be rising over Martinez Bay
Yellow-brown leaves detach from the branch
And float onto the grass
Towards the sunrise I will make my home run
Over slippery yellow-brown leaves
Wet with night time dew
No birds as yet
Only noisy old-model cars
NEWS
~~~~
Yesterday night
They doused a homeless man with gasoline
And set his clothes on fire
When they see my festering sores
I am afraid for them
They are afraid of me
Their fright will propel them
To beat me to death
Let me bathe and shave
Let me confuse them with a coat and tie
It will not matter
For the pavement corner at Market Street
It will not matter to the garbage dump
It matters to me
And so I wear Roman robes
To prop me up in my ceremonial hunt
Of the half eaten hamburger bun
And so I throw poems
At imaginary shadows on the ether
They travel from chip to chip
And festoon some imaginary sky
Largely unsung
I AM TRYING FOR POETRY SCHOOL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have decided to take this aptitude test
For aspiring poets
Like GRE SAT GMAT
Let's call it PAT
If you rhyme
You will make a dime
But to rhyme
Is a crime
So you can
a. chime
b. mime
c. wallow in grime
You must comprehend the following
"Ecstasy potions from a frog's warts
lead on to the sublime"
Is the poet referring to
a. nature
b. god
c. perfume
If five people and one dim wit
Read a two hundred twenty page poetry book
How much of his wits
Does the fool gather
Depending on my grade point score
On Chaucer's "Fairy Queene"
My PAT score
And my verse essay- "Why I want to become
A Poet" they will teach me
At some University
And then give me tenure
And I will propagate
This crime against the rhyme
In paid time
BATTLE CRY
~~~~~~~~~~
She brought his armor
For him to don
Shining sword
Into his scabbard slid
Adjusted the helmet
Just so
Polished his sunglasses
On her night gown
And with nary a tear
Send him forth
To battle the Bedouins
In his armored Hummer
On someone else's desert sand
He caught a sniper's bullet
And lay on his belly
Incapacitated
She sat in her office
Painting her nails
Children in day school
Enough time on her hands
To worry
About how to get rid
Of her preposterous double chin
Before her husband wins
DIVORCE
~~~~~~~
Having crossed the river
And uncrossed it then
I wait for fresh waters to flow
And erase the swathes
I cut across the river's chest
In alien city in a foreign land
I sit apart in gloom
Even as my shadows confront me
With all the naivete of fresh flowers
Proudly spewing forth axioms
From the limited waters of a vase
Wanton destruction
River changing course
Meandering across corridors
Only to settle and flow
While bathed in my own blood
I try to make new sense
Of a new life
With a new red-hot iron
Beneath the skin
Of my decadent chest
ENGINEERED
~~~~~~~~~~
Abandoned railroad signal shed
Roof caved in on shoulders
Walls imploded
No air
No freedom to breathe
To act to dream to fly
The railroad travels
From east to west
Parallel track from west to east
Changing topography of the breast
Bloodline flows into water hydrants
From an unmitigated past
Even as bush gives way to forest
To hills and meadows
City sprawls and vineyards
You must break free of the tracks
The locomotives sits back on its haunches
And knows the story of the sleepers
And the cinder blocks
The children know at the railroad stops
And yet you chose this monitored travail
So as to hide in the tallest grass
Bridge over water
A loop to gentle the incline
A star to follow on a moonless night
Different noises on different tracks
Like the eerie howling of wolf packs
On the flats the hyena will win
Because scavenging is the need
Of this momentous hour
When you decide to shed the walls
Throw off the ceiling
And stare at the sky
From the rubble of
The ruined signal shed
With eyes embedded in
A patchwork of opaque lead
VODKA & ANNYA - MY PUGS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's three
Time for their afternoon walk
Come let me put you on the leash
Don’t pick and prance
I have to unlock the front door
And double lock it after us
On our way out we check the mailbox
For credit card bills I want to hide
Electricity bills and phone bills
And Diwali greetings from sari shops
Don’t pull at your leash
See how Annya heels
How can it be interesting to sniff at what
Another dog has left behind
And Annya sees how nonchalant Vodka is
Why do you chase after turbaned Sikhs
And other dogs and stray cats
Vodka ignores even the dragonflies
Between your ablutions
Time for pranks
A little adventure
Some memory to hoard
In your doggy head
Until it is time for the evening meal
No guilt no long-term memory
No falling in illicit love
No ostracism from off-spring
No need to get ahead
To move on
How candid
How stark
How poetic can
An afternoon stroll be
FALL
~~~~
To diarize
Distance from a changing sky
Is some kind of relative movement
Some disturbance
Of molecules within a personal cosmos
To record the thousandth falling leaf
From an autumn tree
Hummingbird what hymn do you hum
In your fury
Amidst the mercurial rise and fall
Of fortunes that enthrall
Some kind of movement
In the everyday of life
What death do you stall
I can hear the trumpeter
I can hear the clarion call
FROZEN BEANS
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday
I entered the Concord Safeway
In my shirtsleeves
The frozen vegetable shelves
Were cold
Vaporizing tear-drops
In the neon lit air
I bought a packet of French cut beans
Back in the apartment
I forgot to refrigerate the frozen beans
Today I opened the packet
To cook myself a mixed vegetable
And lentil soup
Indian style
Spiced
The beans had rotted
They reminded me of a corpse
Awaiting cremation
In India's sweltering summer heat
A queue
In a overcrowded crematorium
NIGHT TIDE
~~~~~~~~~~
Mirrored walls
Mirrored ceiling
Mirrored floor
Reflecting the convexities
And the concavity of days
And nights
When I curl up
On the sofa-cum-bed
And cuddle the light
From the first floor window
Across Laguna street
Through venetian blinds
Silent TV
In the pitter-patter of
The winter rain
Behind my head
A refrigerator starts up
The dishwasher sighs and
Goes to sleep
They key open a door
Across the corridor
Evens as night settles down
By my side
With the tide
Durlabh Singh.
OBTAKA-THE MAGICIAN.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Moon goddess came to visit the forest last night
Riding on chariots driven by the velvet monkeys
Guarded by hornets and the armies of wasps
Beleaguered in obscurities by Obtaka the magician.
A maker of charms for the thieves and the lovers
Talisman of skies from paled skins of foreheads
Nail maker hooved webs of the antelopes
Shifter of the sharp swords for the reddish ants.
Striding solid at the hour of the midnight
Giving way to doorways to enter the corridors
Illuminated by the translucent light of the moon.
Tender are the dreams under the wider skies
Where buffalos roam in mud staked stripes
Conversing with mirrored spirits of golden ghosts
Witches, wizards, nymphs or other watery sports.
The chameleon on converse with the blizzards
Obeying the command to put spur on the lizards
The crocodiles, hippopotamus, ibis and the lion
Drinking at water holes under direction of wizard
Rocked white, stone turned hatches for the rabbits
Skin rigged, log wooded dug outs for the jackals
The eel of the deep laughing on its trailed dance
And Obtaka the magician roams in rugged stance.
SHAMANIC DANCE.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sing
With watchwords in skies
Sway
With plants of high plateau
Converse
With shamanic powers
Communicate
With spirits of circles
Confront
Hallucinatory destinations
Death, desires, disorientations.
Magical modes
Of spinning wheels
Processed in stones
Meditated in winds
Quescha! cocarna! Quenchensa!
Glossed intoxications in lunar pain
Opening gateway for receptive brain.
Flute drums and cymbals
Da, dadedum, durkum!!
Linked that will join
To unknown sources
Shadows of eagles
scrawled up forces
Engaged in flights
Of the condor bird
Conversing in songs
Spaced in muted verse.
GREEN GREEN.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Green green the colour of the sea
Walking with shadows of the yellow
Corn flowers gone in guise of blue
Keeping pace with waters in narrow.
Silent silent the turbulent tales
Under wayward motioned twilights
Listening to calmed rippled disruptions
Tracing maps in situ for twinkling fireflies.
Red red rocks staid under the sun
Structures wrought by the serene cores
Breaking up restrictions of castered confines
By the blatant blossoms on the chalky shores.
Tomas Solano
WHITE HANDKERCHIEFS OF SEPTEMBER 11
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The giant was caught asleep.
We are indifferent and self-assured
One could see people trapped
as if in vertical tombs waving
white handkerchiefs like silent screams
of those calls for help that didn't arrived
Charred time-flames devouring time
That yearning for life that moved
the handkerciefs was also a
harsh reproach to our advanced technology
capable of perpetuating horrible images,
a walk on the moon. But
unable to save those lives
Flames in macabre dances swallowed
the handkerciefs and their owners
without the slightest distinction
The Statue of Liberty cried
in impotence unable to prevent
the sacrifice of innocent lives
spoiled by messengers of hate and barbarism
Damn those phantom seekers
who want to hasten death
for those who cultivate progress and springtime
White handkerchiefs: tears
prevent me from seeing you
and ire prevents me from screaming
And it is a shame I was not blind
during those moments, so as not to see
the Handkerchiefs, the barbarism
But now I feel a ray light
hope coming to my eyes
wide open and alert giving me conviction.
It will not be repeated.
*
Translated from the original Spanish by Julio Hurtado.
All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is
prohibited.
YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2006 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
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