For the love of...

taci
hai să negociem cu pistolul la tîmplă
să ne tragem frica peste genunchi
şi să aşteptăm lumina să ne deşire neputinţa

priveşte scaunele goale din noi
ceaţa dintre ele
sîntem inocupabili, my love!

ridică pocalul, dă ultima amintire peste cap
shhh!
promit să nu-mi amintesc viitorul
nici albul petalelor de magnolie înflorită iarna
într-o criză de amnezie

să numărăm invers anii
cu degete umezite de lacrimi
(pentru acurateţe)
sprijiniţi de pereţi ce colapsează
încet şi sigur


zîmbeşte
regina mea şi nebunul tău se plac

You better watch out!

Alex is dancing...

Merry Christmas and a Happy 2010!

Wishing all the readers of this blog a Merry Christmas and a fulfilling 2010! God bless...x

The tightrope walker

walking on this wire
eyes glued ahead
arms widely stretched
open hearted
feet poking the air
one in front of the other
I am doing it

if you’re close enough
you may also hear
me humming a tune
the public inside
is clapping
frenetically
what a marvellous act!
no net!
will she make it?

A quick glance in the mirror
glowing cheeks
!Love is evoL!

I am the perfect tightrope walker
ACHTUNG! ACHTUNG!
Do not try this a-lone!

from one to another...(to my good friend and rival Gunsel Djemal)

she was in love with bukowski
so she wrote him a poem
and poured another glass
while rain was flooding her thoughts
and nobody really cared
not even bukowski
who did not even stir
down in his grave
people are boring
he would have told her
women are predictable
same hair dos and make up and shoes
wherever you turn
same nagging and flip flops and scarfs everywhere
but she wouldn’t listen
she went to the off license
poured another glass
and wrote another poem
to bukowski
who she was in love with
just like I was..

to live is...

laying
on top of the world
or something big, anyway
I sit by the window
and my fingertips crawl
on cold glass
you’re on the other side
but most of the time you’re not
and my fingertips carry on crawling
minute by minute
another hour
most days

riding this black stallion I am
unsaddled
unhinged
unable to be stopped
and there’s
no peace embracing my thighs
his harness digging through flesh
keep riding
I say to myself
and let this wind show you mercy
blowing the hair of your troubled face
keep riding
and let this rain wash the burning desert
of your lips
and I ride
this stallion into the horizon and beyond
minute by minute
another hour
most days

sitting by the window
fingertips crawling on cold glass
people are staring through
let them

2 (a significant other)

honey,
tonight I shall disappear
at 12.00 am sharp.
I shall leave behind
both my crystal shoes,
the keys to your palace,
one vague sense of disbelief
a couple of unwatched sunsets
a few piles of neatly folded silences,
the red roses you nearly bought on my birthday
and the corkscrew
which you will
most probably
need.



x

Can you read my mind?

‘I don’t mind if you don’t mind
Cause I don’t shine
If you don’t shine’ – The Killers


don’t give up
on us
walking
down this road
with magic
stuffed in
our pockets


lay down
with me
on the edge
of this cloud
and let the stars
count
our
hopes


stick your
lucky coin
in the jukebox
it might just
play
our favourite
tune
on random


Can you read my mind?


round the corner
eternity awaits
plus/ minus
a life time
oh, let’s make it
another
minute


before we jump
we shall turn
to God
and ask
do you want
a mint?


Now put your back
on us...




to D...

Up the Line - a night of poetry and reflection

11th of November, 2009…
7.30 PM

A drizzly cold night…I pulled over by Brockley and Ladywell cemetery and for a split second I said to myself: ‘I could have been home, by the fireplace with a book in my hand’.
But I looked to my left and smiled: ‘Gunsel is as mad as I am…’

We approached the cemetery entrance and to our surprise we found lots of people gathered and waiting to go in.

‘So we are not the only ones’.

Police officers guarding the entry and several stewards greeted us in silence.

We joined the crowd, which has now started to move slowly through the gates.

The darkness embraced us one by one. Candles and lanterns carried by children were glowing softly throughout the cemetery and I could now just about make out the tombstones staring back at us quietly. ‘Do they know we are here? The dead?..’

A contemporary dance (choreography by Keren’Or Pézardhas) started the procession in the main alley, people gathered around watching their bizarre and silent moves.



In the distance we could hear the sounds of a piano so we moved along guided by shimmering lights and listened to Julian Jacobson playing Intermezzo op 117 no.1 in E flat and Intermezzo op 117 no.2 in B flat minor by Johannes Brahms.



And as this was not surreal enough we were invited to watch images of WW1 projected on a huge yew tree. (Line up for war – Film by Kai Clear (www.kaiclear.com). Projection: Declan McGill and Jon Lockwood)




Our steps wandered again and we came across poetry...
Poems by John McCrae, Robert William Service, Robert Freeman Trotter, Bernard O’Dowd, Vance Palmer, Leon Gellert, Judith Wright, Wilfred Owen, Isaac Rosenberg, Rifleman Donald S Cox, Joseph Lee, A P Herbert, Marc de Larreguy de Civrieux, Georg Trakl, Franz Janowitz, Gerrit Engelke, Géza Gyóni, Dimcho Debelyano, Katherine Tynan, Margaret Postgate, Miss G M Mitchell, May Wedderburn Cannan, Cecil Spring Rice, Wilfred Owen, Rupert Brooke, Robert Laurence Binyon.

Scattered all around the graveyards and read by poets from different backgrounds: American, Canadian, English, Australian, Scottish, Irish the verses flew one after another dragging us through the desperation and pain and hope of the soldiers who fought in the WW1.

I would like to point out that distinguishing a poet’s face that evening was a challenge. They had torches attached to their foreheads and were reading from papers held with frozen fingers.

From alley to alley we made our way to the chapel.



We were welcomed with a cup of such needed hot chocolate.
We stepped inside and sat for a while listening to First Movement of Sonata no.1 in G Minor by Johann Sebastian Bach, violin: Yuka Matsumoto.


By the end of the evening our senses have given in to the feel of shrapnel, the sound of canons, the taste of medals made of tin.

It was 8.40 pm, we were still wandering through the alleys towards the exit when we spotted in the graveyard a human figure surrounded by candles. It was Irish poet Joe Duggan





reading from A. P. Herbert: The German Graves.



So we wrapped up the night into the last words of Herbert’s poem:

‘They’ll give perhaps one humble thought
To all the “English fools”
Who fought as never men have fought
But somehow kept the rules”


pictures by Patrick Napier

She was here

..and tangled up in ivy
this tomb her humble home
no heartbeat to surrender to
so cold and so alone

a passing cloud of haven
she watches from above
you aching for her beauty
the lips you used to love

these tears of naked sorrow
are kisses that you long
days pass without tomorrow
and no one to belong

for she is now your memory
her laughter now asleep
lay alongside this marble
and weep for her
just weep

confessions...

I must confess, I am I guess addicted to Bukowski and for the last few days and nights I've been digging out his books, shredding my nerves trying to find interviews on the net, pictures and generally anything I can get my hands on...

I've been stalking him for a while in local libraries, at Waterstones or any bookstore I come across but the last few days I could not bare anymore so I am putting closure by rewarding myself to complete and utter abandon into him and his poetry.

He holds some sort of power that I crave, dead as he is and 6 feet under, he's so alive, so true to himself so brutally honest..His insights, experiences and life style define the libertine in me, define freedom and life with no boundaries.

I can't get over him..

don't try.. is written on his grave..

so I won't...I never will, tell them Hank, tell them...

Chester by John Koethe

Craft

"I call thee, beloved one,
To love me more than anyone
I bind thy heart and soul to me
As I do will, so let it be."
(annonymus)


pana înmuiată în sîngele meu
a picurat pe oglindă ultimul vers
şi gîndul de mîine
nu se va naşte creştin

atunci
aprind luna
deschid Aradia
şi strig cele patru colţuri
minţile se prefac în şerpi ce răscolesc
şi fluturi ce bîntuie
în grotele unde
nici ziua nici noaptea nu se ştiu

acolo te găsesc
cu fruntea în mîini
obrazul tău palid
lipit de faţa întoarsă a lumii

voi pedepsi lumina dăruită
cu întunericul ochilor tăi
şi goală voi dansa cu
glezne zdrelite în cioburile
lacrimilor tale

lichidul vieţii ţi-l voi soarbe direct din inimă
şi bucată cu bucată te voi hrăni jivinelor mele
cu venele voinţei descărnate te voi privi
neputincios si pur
destrămîndu-te-n mine
o ceară căutînd scăpare înaintea focului

otrava şi pumnalul
mă aşteaptă pe masă
alături, un poem cu gust de
dragoste neîncepută
ţi se zbate în glas
şi nu pot împinge sfîrşitul
pînă la capăt

Apology of a tsunami

I am a speed dialled emotion
an ex-employee from hell
my name
is
written in capitals
all over narrow alley walls
where blood traded its lingered beauty
in kind

the wind envies me
for the way I blow
into oblivion
the unforgettable truth
and its reason

disguised in a moment
of adorned power
a flightless bird
is flapping its wings out of instinct

this is the apology of a tsunami
on the peaceful shore
of a Sunday morning
my trail is a promise


but I will pass

Cardio

*please enter age and level desired

70/min
trec viaţa în fugă
fără să mă asigur
sînt lovită de două gînduri
din direcţii opuse
mă rostogolesc
pe parbrizul unuia

(celălalt nici măcar nu opreşte)

120/min
mă ridic
respir în zig-zag
fac un salt spre linia galbenă
deasupra cerul e negru
pe mine
şi plouă
cineva fluieră
sînt eu

(nici măcar nu sînt pe zebră)

160/min
ajung
mă lipesc
de sticla udă a ochilor tăi
înăuntru nimeni
doar un
‘renovare pînă luni’
mă aşez să aştept

(nici măcar nu ştiu ce zi e)

..am, October

I walk on cotton and cloud
or streets at random
and is nothing to do with autumn
(I’ve been thinking about this)

nights are thick
stretching like a duvet
over thin light
and flashbacks are drills
penetrating the walls of my fortress
(I am not going to talk about this)

...but your name is getting louder
and louder
in my head
and when I finally fall
asleep/ there’s an echo
and pass that
there are fields and fields
of lavender
that I’m rushing through
with senses rubbed against
each and every flower
that will never smell
the same again
(perhaps I want to talk about this)

it’s 7.00 am
a woman is walking her dog
and there are not enough fingers in the world
to count the dreams
testing positive of you

Russian roulette

you’re lost in the woods of fear
the paths inside splinter your skies
like a thunder
you look at your hands
they stink of victories
that will never be forgotten
can you hear the greyhounds
sniffing your footsteps?
can you smell the gun powder
in your soul?
take this bullet
and place it in the barrel
of your silence
now put your index
on the trigger

let the hunt begin

Pour Homme

de la uşă ţi-arunci paloşul,
scutul, biletul de tramvai
apoi haina cu umerii lăsaţi
ca doua bariere de tren întîrziat

azi ai pierdut o bătălie
cu tine însuţi
inamicul tău favorit
şi de ciudă
vei bea cu el
din cel mai mare pocal
găsit în dulap

veţi face contrabandă cu amintiri ilegale
(aparţinînd unor foşti colegi de birou)
şi veţi cînta împreună
imnuri şi cîntece de luptă
vă veţi privi victoriile trecute
cu mîndrie
ca pe nişte capete de cerbi împăiaţi
apoi vei adormi

în jilţul tău
în castelul tău
pe planeta ta
observat atent de organisme vii
cu gene lungi

Sunday logic

As words flutter in my head
into a Brownian motion
the meaning of that thought
waves good-bye to the second

(so
does
the
poem).

I am once more
forced to intoxicate myself
with the most deluding and reassuring fact
that it did not matter

(which
is
probably
nothing).

worth living for

one day I'll die
(probably young enough to remember)

and all those people
I never heard from
in years
will rush over
to say what a great person
I really was

that I used to be such
a laugh
that I liked to drink G&T
at the end of the day
Grolsch at weekends
and Baileys at Xmas

that I always found my way home
after long nights
in Tiger Tiger

that I was such a loving Mum
taking my kids to school
and McDonald’s
and never sending them out
to get cigarettes
after 10.30 PM

that I only cheated on my
significant others
a few times
and even then
I didn't really mean it

that I had beautiful eyes
which never cried but
always carried a glimmer
of hope

After the Lunch by Wendy Cope

crush

he knew how to sustain my gaze

(like a dissertation)

and every time he talked to me
my hands would caress each other
in hiding

(one of them pretending it was his)

I was quivering around each map,
year or name of a leader

you,

(pardon me),

you Sir
I loved more than chocolate

Bukowski's Blue bird

Nag

In this household there’s far too much noise!

...your mobile, your pager, your palmtop, your laptop, your desktop, your land-line, your radio, your plasma screen, your mp3, your screw driver, your GPS, your audio-books, your lawn-mower, your toothbrush, your stereo, your play-station, your VCR, your hairdryer, your podcasts, your DVD player, your digital clock, your analogue clock, your juicer, my vibrator, your drill...

Lithium (over the counter)

weather and society
bipolar cousins
hang out and
hand over leaflets to the masses
here you are, they say
it’s all in control
don’t panic

and we don’t

we drink Grolsch
buy lottery tickets
and breed

the government loves us

Ditto

lumea ne dădea fifty fifty

noi mototoleam adevăr după adevăr
şi aruncam cu ele în răsărituri de soare
ne păsa fix în coşul pieptului
de relaţia asta

rîdeam de lumina spartă în mii de raze
de oamenii cu riduri ce dădeau îngăduitor din cap
şi căutam mînă în mînă
un nou 100%
evitînd intrarea în sevraj


uneori mă făceam că trăiesc
ca o dîră de benzină prelinsă pe
asfaltul pe care călcai
tu te deghizai în chibritul
aruncat neatent peste umăr


alteori ne aprindeam
doar de la un gînd cu tivul rupt
de seara precedentă
ori de la o cută cu miros de trup în cearşaf


gravitaţia a fost singura lege care ne-a despărţit


şi-ntr-o luni dimineaţă
am găsit ca bilet de adio
tăcerea
un bărbat gol în casa scării
pe lîngă care treci repede
fără să-l poţi privi în ochi

Moya's 40th Birthday Party

* Warning: this is a true story. Some images may be disturbing for viewers younger than 40.

***

‘Two full English please’ he says..

and these are the first words that make sense the morning after the night before.

Is 11.00 am, I am sitting in The Wish Tower cafe and the sun glasses are dark but not dark enough…so I close my eyes, for another minute until a piercing sound hits from the left:
“Mummy, Alex is throwing stones at the fish..”
Then from the right:
“Mummy Nicky hit me in the head...”

***

Yes I am a parent of two and so is the man in front of me who looks ill but managed to somehow order and pay for a couple of brunches.

We are both quiet, we don’t move much, our bodies hurt and pain is written all over our faces. I cannot yet decide which part I would like to dispose of first: my head or my feet. Men are lucky, it must be only their heads taking the blame. For everything...

Food arrives.
Forget ‘mama’s specialite de la maison’ or oysters or Xmas pudding or brownies and cream. This is IT: it’s grease and we need it. The coffee is not great but is hot and probably black.

Something is pushing through, images behind my eye-balls are coming back to hunt me. Brain becomes the Enterprise (to infinity and beyond!) penetrating a field of flashbacks. There’s no ‘beam me up, Scotty’ button, and probably no alternative transport would allow a body saturated with alcohol to travel any distance, not a yard, not an inch. So I sink deeper in my chair and remember...

***





the night started really well (please notice people being friendly with each other, their eyes still open!)



people were gathering in small groups...



..and dancing



and dancing...



and laughing (for no reason!)



and dancing...




and clapping...



and maybe loosing it a bit...



some people did not miss a thing...



unlike others...



and this was only the beginning of the end...



we helped each other at times...



for some it was too late...



but the important thing was our iron will...




of being there, despite our ..(whoops, I was gonna say age) tiredness..



and maybe level of alcohol..



we smiled...



and smiled...



and held each other...



as only friends know how to when you turn 40...


Happy Birthday MOYA!

Lies

image by tomasutpen

...
they belong here
a nipple on our love’s chest
pierced by suspicion
smothered in dream
and silence
we lay on this rotten bed
of thoughts
day and night
alone/ restless/ unattended
watching it grow
between us
like a tumour

Missed

you weren’t there to see my life
open up with a right click
in a new window

you were out on a piss
playing pool in the pub round the corner
luck staring you in the face
like a torch

and all my posters
were screaming your name
and all I was wearing were T-shirts with
your unshaved face
on a Sunday morning

you stumbled in
stinking of unawareness
and carried on living
without me

to Anne

Alas, my love, you do me wrong

words of a king
demons of a man
seeking refuge into the heart of a woman

To cast me off discourteously

Anne
you truthful subject
yet only true to your desires

For I have loved you well and long

your grace enslaved a Tudor
changed a religion
delivered a bastard queen in waiting

Delighting in your company

and the clouds of history
rolled with the wind
a crowned head
into God’s lap

…And who but my lady greensleeves

Red

jealousy is the woman in red
Jimmy Choo and Dior
through her veins runs lava
she’s got double standards, big eyes
and one purpose

she crosses the street
through your shoulder blades
and stops between your lungs
with a lit cigarette

then cuts your patience in half
bites its lips and
hands over your blade

Poetry in public

in the pub across the road
men and women are drinking from
carefully polished glasses
and their beer is as cold
as the loneliness that makes them gather

their lips are practicing group discussion
lived with the euphoria of the man who doesn't want to know
but wants to belong
and above them airplanes and birds and clouds and other
accessories of the sky are passing by
but no one’s watching
but their well polished glass

I’d like to change something
I’d like to walk across
and read them a poem
but it would be so pathetic
so all I do is stare towards
my well polished glass with cold beer
and poetry hidden at the bottom

Glastonbury (...let go every June of your life)

music is filling me up slowly
particles of sound sinking
under my skin
in places I never knew
I existed

I’ll never make it!

I’ll die touched by the hand of a bunch of strings
holding tight to my air guitar
covered in layers of broken light

I see you!

and your hands
lost
in a ballet of utter abandon

and these people are my witness and I witness all these people die
a similar death

Unchained

numărăm pînă la 10
rupem din noi ultimele motive de-a merge mai departe
şi le aşezăm unul peste altul în
ordinea stabilită de tine
acute, cronice, fără nici o şansă

jocul acesta nu e nou
doar regulile s-au schimbat
axa noastra de rotaţie deviată
în jur acelaşi subiect

iubirea
şi-n umbra ei neiubirea şi ura şi alţii
ghemuiţi în noi într-un întuneric de calitate
generînd panică de cuvinte
ce cad se/ sparg le/ adun se/ sparg mă/ taie se/ sparg

pe masă un măr
şi calmul lui verde
e un ultim mers pe sîrmă
ori poate liniştea dinainte

pumnul tău se ridică
şi ochii
privesc mut înainte, deasupra lui, mereu
spre ceasul vechi din perete

"and time goes by so slowly"

Capacităţi

durerea îţi acoperă gura ca o palmă
şi-n spatele coastei
simţi forfota de ieri
dar tresărirea zilei de mîine n-o vei recunoaşte
din prima

vei călca sfios cu frica înainte
ca o făclie
cu trupul amorţit de timp
te vei întoarce în timp
să prinzi căderea acelei secunde

şi puterea va încolţi în tine
acolo unde nu încolţise nimic niciodată
şi din cînd în cînd sufletul îţi va plînge
ca un copil cu balon
pierdut de mama într-un parc de distracţii

Class 2009

aici stau toate sentimentele
cuminţi, aşezate pe fund de ghiozdan
în bănci vechi din care privim zilnic
în aceeaşi direcţie

n-am mai deschis demult o carte la pagina ta
şi seara mă culc pe gîndul vinovat
că tema semnată cu iniţialele mele şi numele tău
a fost făcută de mîntuială

la început scriam totul direct pe curat în lietere egale
aplecate în sensul ales doar de tine
coperţile de azi acoperă doar frînturi de notiţe
luate pe fugă

de ceva vreme visez
visez că sună clopoţelul şi că vine vacanţa mare
fără teme, fără ‘pe de rost’
cu frişcă, plajă şi activităţi extraşcolare

mă trezesc cu mîna ridicată
fără să ştiu răspunsul
fără să fi auzit întrebarea

doar cu dorinţa de-a mai păcăli un trimestru
de a trece mai repede peste unele subiecte
şi de a nu repeta anul

Pretence

“..to keep their love you keep pretending ” Jim Morisson



I squashed a butterfly in my hand
pretending
its blue was a sacrifice
to the sky

I killed a baby snail with my foot
pretending
my loose step was
its inevitable ending

I corrupted you
with a smile
and I stopped pretending

Sorry

all you have to do is stop
and breathe in truth from a different angle
allow the surge of our last togetherness
to buffer the poison

but there’s no strength left in your arms
to embrace
the power of forgiveness
no tears, no eyelids to cover my lie

I’m watching rage
spreading on your face
like death on a foreign battlefield
shredding the universe
of all the stars
we ever counted

I hear distance settling in the rhythm
of your galloping heart
and the growing of
my lust for yesterday

oh, there’s such glory in your silent eyes
and such retreat
I guess I’ll never find
the word to break it