Marchesi reads Prufrock

robin marchesi graphic
 
Robin Marchesi is an old friend, his lyrical poetry is featured at all three of our sites, Motherbird.com, Poetry Life & Times and Artvilla.com, together with his other poetical works put together with his own music and imagery. Below, on the small MP3 T.S. Eliot, we are pleased to introduce yet again another rendition at Artvilla.com of T.S. Eliot’s Love Song of Alfred J Prufrock, this time delivered through the strains of Robin Marchesi’s rich emotional voice with its biting irony and soft sentimentalism. Editor’s Note. Robin Ouzman Hislop.
 
T.S.Eliot
 
 
 
Me
 
 
Robin Marchesi, born in 1951, began writing in his teens, much to the consternation of his mother, the sister of Eric Hobsbawm, the historian.

In 1992 Cosmic Books published his first book entitled “A B C Quest”.

In 1996 March Hare Press published “Kyoto Garden” and in 1999 “My Heart is As…”

ClockTowerBooks published his Poetic Novella, “A Small Journal of Heroin Addiction”, digitally, in 2000.

Charta Books published his latest work entitled “Poet of the Building Site”, about his time working with Barry Flanagan the Sculptor of Hares, in association with the Irish Museum of Modern Art.

He is presently working on an upcoming novel entitled “A Story Made of Stone.”

 
http://www.amazon.com/A-Small-Journal-Heroin-Addiction/product-reviews/0743300521
 
http://www.illywords.com/2011/09/down-the-rabbit-hole-a-glimpse-into-the-wonderland-of-barry-flanagan/
 
 
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www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop

Colour 2005. A Poem by Robin Marchesi.

COLOUR 2005

The uniqueness of perception

For which

As a young man

I so proudly stood

Has bred unique experience.

Now

Older

It has created

A huge

A

Lone

Ness.

Look at great Artists,

All of them,

Took their tone

In this lineage,

Of unique, aloneness.

Too much color, for another,

To bear.


 
 
Me
 
 
Robin Marchesi, born in 1951, began writing in his teens, much to the consternation of his mother, the sister of Eric Hobsbawm, the historian.

In 1992 Cosmic Books published his first book entitled “A B C Quest”.

In 1996 March Hare Press published “Kyoto Garden” and in 1999 “My Heart is As…”

ClockTowerBooks published his Poetic Novella, “A Small Journal of Heroin Addiction”, digitally, in 2000.

Charta Books published his latest work entitled “Poet of the Building Site”, about his time working with Barry Flanagan the Sculptor of Hares, in association with the Irish Museum of Modern Art.

He is presently working on an upcoming novel entitled “A Story Made of Stone.”

 
http://www.amazon.com/A-Small-Journal-Heroin-Addiction/product-reviews/0743300521
 
http://www.illywords.com/2011/09/down-the-rabbit-hole-a-glimpse-into-the-wonderland-of-barry-flanagan/
 
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop

Snake Song. A Poem by Saira Viola

 
When you take on the law
She’ll screw you ‘till you bleed
But you’ll go begging back for more
She’ll lead you on
With fast ,pretty talk and gold in her mouth
Ants will hiss in your milk
While you wait for that bitch’s next move
And you’ll play sophisticated psycho games
And sob – sob just like a dumpster babe
Your heart will stop – clock three beats
And you’ll be her court jester
As she slams you to the ground over and over until you break
Then she’ll silence your cock with a money threat
Hushing you still
And you’ll shake with fear as she whispers in your ear
Gimme Gimme Gimme
More cash for this bastard farce
Her ‘Honour,’ lives in a white world
She sees Justice delivered only for respectable boys and girls
The only ones permitted to drink from the font
Ask the Angola Three
What Amerikan ‘justice,’ means
She likes them to beg , crawl on their swollen knees
For a regal punch in the belly
Wrap her protective arms around you
Then : cuff you to her gavel
Strap you to a chair
Blind you with deceit
Shackle your aching feet
And let your ears sing for mercy.

 
 
boomie picture
 
Saira Viola ia a best selling crime writer , satirist, song lyricist and creator of innovative lit technique sonic scatterscript. Her work is infused with undercurrents of politics, pop philosophy and black comedy
 
http://gonzotoday.com/author/saira-viola/

 
artobscene
Saira Viola, Author at GonzoToday
gonzotoday.com
 
Saira Viola is a critically acclaimed poet , author, song lyricist , satirist and creator of innovative lit technique self labelled sonic scatterscript .

 
 
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com
editor@artvilla.com

 
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop

My European Jaunt, Radio, Nameplate | Poems by John Grey

European Jaunt Radio Nameplate Poems

MY EUROPEAN JAUNT

When I traveled through Europe,
every woman in every hotel in which I stayed,
was either young and beautiful
or very old and white-haired and a countess.
There were no in-betweens.
Nor was there a middle ground
between opera at La Scala in Milan
and the accordion player in the outdoor cafe
off the Champs-Elysees in Paris.
No gruesome pop music.
No third-rate rock bands warbling
in cut-rate English.
It was either grand divas or atmosphere
and nothing else.
I watched Real Madrid play soccer
and kicked a ball around a piazza
with some Italian kids.
I toured fabulous palaces
and the modest houses
of two or three of my on-the-road companions.
I admired the young and beautiful women from a distance
and I sat back enthralled
when the ancient countesses held court.
I was in thrall to Tosca’s splendors
and yes, a sip of latte, a bite of croissant
and a touch of the Edith Piafs
was like the perfect zip code
to my travails in France.
I roared with the crowd.
I laughed with the figliolos.
And Versailles is everything they say it is
while Angelique’s abode is charming.
Okay, I confess,
I did slip into a McDonalds once.
But the girl behind the counter was young and beautiful.
And, at a back table, an ancient countess
dipped French fries in ketchup.
Besides, I was only there to use the bathroom.
I swear to you, no hamburgers were consumed
in the making of this poem.

RADIO

They gathered around the radio then.
Dinner over with, the family retreated to the parlor.
Father turned the knob. Transistors slowly
hummed to life. The solitary speaker cleared its
throat. Then came a singer, female, rousing,
sending the boys off to war with loud and patriotic tonsils.

She had no face, no body, but in their heads she did.
Father rode her cleavage with every high note.
Mother saw her brassy, blonde, but a good girl behind
the makeup. The daughter dreamed herself into high
heels and tight red dress but her vocals less a belter,
more seductive. To the son, she was America
singing right at him. By the time the number finished,
he was ready to fight.

It was still a time of bread-lines, soup kitchens.
Europe was a madhouse. Americans held their breath.
But they had cheesy song, they had kitsch,
they had what moved the heart, they had altos,
they had red hot mamas, they had torch singers,
and, if that didn’t stir, there was always
“God Bless America.”

The radio shaped the conversation.
It was Stars and Stripes,
It recruited.
It was a huckster selling war bonds.
It was a president’s crackling fire.
And when talk couldn’t convince,
on came a songstress from the heartland,
catchy numbers you could tap a bayonet to.

Boys died with tunes in their head.
Or they came home, notes rattled,
chords shredded, verses blotted out,
but the chorus, though wounded badly,
still on the tongue.
The radio welcomed them back into their old chair.
Their blood no longer needed,
they sang along to the hit parade.
Television was on the horizon.
Until then, a kind of victory would have to do.

NAMEPLATE

How sad the eye
roaming a brass nameplate.
Faithless vowels.
Consonants weeping over
rusty screws.
His elbow takes
one desultory shine
to what his mother
first called him
sixty years before.
It’s five o-clock in the afternoon,
a telling time for office furniture.
Computers shut down.
Drooped shoulders lift.
Coats on racks
fall into line
with grabbing fingers.
But a man on his last day
can barely push his chair back.
Much as he hates the place,
he has no wish
to emigrate.
He leaves the nameplate
where it is,
figures the company’s so cheap
they’ll hire another
Frank Smith,
just so they won’t have
to replace it.
Maybe that’s the new Frank Smith
he saw in Personnel,
coming in as he was going out.
So many Frank Smiths in the world.
A man tries to explain it
but a nameplate says it best.