POETRY

Russian Poetry Dossier

The art of death ... beyond The death of art. Today the survival of poetry depends less on the whims of the state, but on the whims of a public narcotised by TV; the talking heads of media and big money. Physical repression is passé when life is good. The art of death...

THE ABANDONMENT OF POETRY

THE ABANDONMENT OF POETRY: LEIPZIG Scene1: Tracks ( There are two dialogues in scene 1. This, the first, takes place in the beginning and ends at approximately 00:00:55 or when the wind quiets. ) The voices in this part are refuges both past and present. A Those...

LA POESIA DELL’ ABBANDONO: L’ABBAZIA

THE ABANDONMENT OF POETRY To be recited rapidly with passion, remorse, anger and sadness. They are lost and confused. 1ST MAN: IT’S EMPTY ... HE’S GONE. 1° uomo: E’ vuoto... Egli se n’é andato. 1ST WOMAN: WHERE IS HE? 1° donna: Dov’é? 2ND MAN: HE’S NOT...

THE CHASE

THE POETRY OF ABANDANMENT: La Nave Va … I'm thrilled. The search is on. First the Tate Modern: a cappuccino, a blueberry muffin overlooking the Thames to fire me up, inspire lists of the...

DEPARTURE

A Meditation on Departure:The buzz in my ear A wise man is always in transit ... To grow one must travel, not necessary move ... I walk a narrow line, try to maintain balance. There is no rush, no traffic, just night-saturated silence; early...

Surveillance

THE ABANDONMENT OF POETRY Your angel is close by! You will do well... Perhaps .... Others are interested in You ...

From the Train…

The POETRY OF ABANDONMENT:The Journey Nosce te ipsum Know Yourself the Oracle Said: Bravo for her! If what you want is solitude, an intensely charged inner experience, well good-luck … Ultimately, it’s a state-of-mind, will-power an important component. Outside...

Atelier

Our train is delayed, we were set to leave Geneva at 9 AM, ten minutes have passed since the last announcement from the train manager. Everyone is fiddling with their phones, a few read newspapers purchased in the station but they're in the minority. Most are quiet ,...

SPRING

Snow covered hills in the distance ... Green in the valley. A ringing in my ears: It's Spring, Clouds of war Threaten the summer. We roll along. What's normal When priests bless men about to die Before their time?

FRIENDS

Friends spar. Perhaps it's boredom. After all it wasn't supposed to be like this. We were promised love. Love was to bring freedom.

THREE TALL WOMEN

TARA: ALEXANDRA FRANCESCA: Attempting To Measure-Up. ANDREA:

POEMS:

SO IT WAS

You wanted it
that way …
Only,
that way.
So it was.

Who am I to say,
how things will
turn out, if
those calculations
fail scrutiny.

What do you say?
Not much it seems.
You left in a hurry.
Commitments,
ruffled by reality.

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MOTHERS

Outside, it’s Fall, raining,
inside the sun shines.

Apple, Cherry, the White Birch tree
sway, as missiles sing above the clouds.

Overthere a boy kicks a ball.
His mother makes a pie.

Neighbours argue,
snuggle their dogs.

I put things together, watch the telly,
laugh at old jokes, hum a melody.

The tin roof rattles.
“Pitter-Patter, mom said,
The morrow will be bright,
Listen!
Birds singing in the rain”.

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GARDEN POEM

I meditate
outside our studio
watching the breeze
sway the foxglove,
admiring hibiscus
heavy endurance,
hoping to spot
a new species
of bird, a first-
time visitor.

On the quietest days
there is intense activity:
fly-by bees stashing pollen,
mice climbing dried stalks,
nibbling seeds;
marauding cats on
rodent control duty.

Wise birds choose their branches with care.

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TWIST

Crystal Starflakes flung from above
fall glittering in reflected streetlight.
Around and around,
twisting, turning, descending,
spilling from the dense grey sky,
handfuls of tiny diamond chips,
weightless, gliding. Now
in noongleam, sparkling when contrasted against
the solitary evergreen tree. Landing
gently on frozen earth, Like a captive Troubadour I
once spent my seasons searching for a song
in the landscape of the mind. Finding
only dissonance in my proportional world.
As a tired troubadour lately I ponder a
measure of content, surprised
to find melody in such lighthearted form.

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Solidarity

We prepared
our wardrobe,
finished manifestoes,
rallied friends,
studied the itinerary.

On the bus
we sang
marching songs,
patriotic tunes,
told resistance stories.

The King didn’t see us,
pressing family matters.
urgent business
with the hounds,
a brace of dead partridges.

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BUDDY SUN

Good morning,
Brother sun.
Blue again,
90 days straight,
no rain to spoil
our carefree holidays.

So bro?
What’s this chatter
about continuous
storms, ruined crops,
displaced peoples,
émigrées?

I thought all our
days would be harmonious.
Was it you who
changed the contract?
Certainly not I.
I’ve better things to do.

Who’s in Charge buddy?