Latest items:

poetry

Salvatore Ala, 9 december 2014

Journey of Life

You want balance, but this abandoned bicycle
In Amsterdam borders on paralysis.
It is Chaplin pretending to be the Fuhrer.
It is whoever survives, whoever escapes…
It is a flower cart that flowers in the same spot.
It is modern art, the unraveling of modes,
Picasso’s “Bull’s Head” reconstituted,
A bicycle trellis in European horticulture,
An instrument for the music of rarest days.
Someone left this bicycle and didn’t return.
Someone locked this bicycle here and died,
Or moved, or moved away and died,
Or became a novelist, like Michel Houellebecq.
It’s a sacrificial lamb, a contract with loopholes,
A love letter from the bicycle crazes.
The wheels of the sky ripen among vines.
The pedals are powered by the sun,
And with wind, deep-rooted to the spot,
The lock is slowly unlocking, like space.

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Salvatore Ala, 9 december 2014

Conversations with Men with Brain Injuries

You who reason and speak
Speak for us who have no names and no names.
You who come and go
Walk among wheelchairs in random space.
You who are alone
Open these doors to see who is alone and alone.
You who are lost
Find yourself among the lost who are lost.
You who are jealous
Look at what men owning nothing own.
You who hate
Imagine hatred when temperament is all tenderness.
You who are in pain
Ponder this painless abstraction.
You who have God
Consider a God of global amnesia.
You who are searching
Exit the mind and it is still mind and you are saved.

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Salvatore Ala, 9 december 2014

Music Mountain

for Alan Blind Owl Wilson

I’m going up to music mountain
Where all my friends have gone,
Where the air is pine-scented
And you’re high all the time.

They say the mountain is tuneful,
You can hear the fire of the sun,
And at night the humming stars
And beyond them, God’s blues harp.

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Salvatore Ala, 9 december 2014

Chronicles of Man

After the first beheading, hope was severed like a limb.
After the second, love produced a fountain of blood.
After the third, faith changed faces with fear.
After the fifth, knowledge bled to the last drop.
After eight beheadings, God recoiled.
After fifteen, there was no more happiness.
After twenty, it all seemed propaganda.
After thirty-four, more headless people took office.
After fifty-five, a collective body was sworn in.
After ninety-nine, children played with human heads.
After two hundred, there were no more days of peace.
After four hundred, it was hell on earth.
After six hundred, the executioners were put to death.
After a thousand beheadings, they dare not stop.
After fifteen hundred, fate and freedom were indivisible.
After twenty-five hundred, the heads kept singing.
After five thousand, a dialogue began.
After seven, the heads became oracles.
After ten thousand, there were more priests than people.
After fifteen, the books were sealed.
After twenty thousand, it was a total human eclipse...

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Renato N. Mascardo, 9 december 2014

a tedious turn of a loved one's mind

turn of the screw

when you
catch a lucid
moment we share it with
such delight then you let it go
turning the screw that foils
your mind to break
my heart//

renato
monday 08 december 2014

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Gert Strydom, 9 december 2014

A touch (Rubliw)

A touch
of lips speeds up
the quick rhythm of the heart
and a silent single glance causes
a deluge of emotions to follow
when some simple act does love express
to explore uncharted
territory
with you.

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Gert Strydom, 9 december 2014

I miss your pretty face (Rubliw)

I miss
your pretty face
and I truly do miss you
but together some sparks do fly
and apart there is a big emptiness
and yet we do perfectly fit
as if meaning is lost
when you are gone
from me.

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Satish Verma, 9 december 2014

EVOLUTION

For cloning of small gods
you took out the kidneys, lungs
and stomach, from slain truth’s
body. My bête noire, the lies.

Do you smell the stink? You make
yourself, you are not your id.
The urge to take a flight was very strong.
Groins aching for the heroic jump.

Legs amputated, the tragedy, swims
like a fossil truth in the sea, under
the layers of centuries.
Man has not changed, cheated of the death.

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Gert Strydom, 8 december 2014

To have the power to hurt

(after William Shakespeare)

To have the power to hurt and not to do so
when you yourself receive blow after blow
is a Godly kind of virtue, a grace beyond grace
when in adversity someone does colours show

and sheer wickedness is on a face
as an action done nothing can erase
and to have pity, to jump to conclusions slow
is with normal mortal man not commonplace

and not to act at someone else’s expense
holds a divine kind of excellence,
when he or she is running riot over you
and to be fair and great and good in every experience,

to be constantly to the omnipotent Lord true
is something that a God fearing person does do

[Reference: “Sonnet 94 They that have power to hurt and will do none” by William Shakespeare.]

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Satish Verma, 8 december 2014

FREEDOM AT LAST

The tears have washed my sins.
Taming the dead,
I start a vivisection
of myths.

I take an impromptu walk,
go inside my weaker self,
abandon the pretention
and come face to face with the fear.

No portrait, no symbol,
no map was needed.
I was going to open a locked attic
to liberate the imprisoned past.

O colossus,
O my golden bird,
my sun baked grief has ripened
in ruins of desires. I am free.

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Latest items:

poetry

Journey of Life

Conversations with Men with Brain Injuries

Music Mountain

Chronicles of Man

a tedious turn of a loved one's mind

A touch (Rubliw)

I miss your pretty face (Rubliw)

EVOLUTION

To have the power to hurt

FREEDOM AT LAST

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