Kate Tempest. Performance & Page Poet.

Kate Tempest (born Kate Esther Calvert, 22 December 1985) is an English poet, spoken word artist and playwright. In 2013 she won the Ted Hughes Award for her work Brand New Ancients.
 
Kate Tempest 1
 
Tempest first performed when she was 16, at open mic nights at Deal Real, a small hip hop store on Carnaby Street in London’s West End. She went on to support acts such as John Cooper Clarke, Billy Bragg, Benjamin Zephaniah and Scroobius Pip. She toured Europe, Australia and America with her band ‘Sound of Rum’ and worked with organisations such as Yale university, the BBC, Apples and Snakes, The Old Vic and the Royal Shakespeare Company. Tempest has performed at such venues as the Glastonbury Festival, Latitude, The Wandering Word tent at Shambala, The Big Chill and the Nu-Yorican poetry café, where she won two poetry slams. Her first poetry book was Everything Speaks in its Own Way, followed by her first work of theatre, Wasted. At 26, she launched the theatrical spoken word piece Brand New Ancients at the Battersea Arts Centre (2012), to great critical acclaim.The piece also won Tempest the 2013 Off West End Award (“The Offies”) for “Best TBC Production”. Tempest’s influences include Virginia Woolf, Samuel Beckett, James Joyce, W B Yeats, William Blake, W H Auden and Wu-Tang Clan.
 
In 2014 she released the album Everybody Down (Big Dada), which was produced by Dan Carey and was nominated for the 2014 Mercury Prize.
 
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Anca Mihaela Poetry Recitations & Poems

Anca 14
 
 
My name is Anca Mihaela Bruma, I am Romanian living in Dubai/UAE. My love for poetry started when I was just 9 years old, when I registered myself to some creative poetry writing group. It was a turning point for me as I started to discover the mysteries of the written word and its impact on the readers.
 
 
Since early age, I have always viewed writing poetry as the perfect medium which is able to depict profound unfathomable complexities of someone’s life or life itself, to render into words that which is unsayable, that ineffable, which can be truly deeper than the language itself. Through my writings, as well years of readings, I always looked to seek something beyond that which was apparent to others! I was fascinated to see how different aspects of truth were transfigured by different emotions, how experiences were poetized. I pursued seeing beauty expressed in all forms of art, not just poetry; creating a “thirst” within me to explore more and more for the knowledge of the mystery beneath and beyond it, as a symbol of something greater and higher with its own power to immortalize the expressions over the years.

 
 


Emotion – Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

You Are the Love – Poem written by Grewal Mohinderdeep – Recited by Anca Mihaela

My Life – Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

Your Words Came Like Waves – Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

The Time Reset Again – Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

Destiny's Hue – Poem written by Sue Joyner-Stumpf – Recited by Anca Mihaela

Her Secretive Whispers – Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

The Song of Her Heart – Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

I Dance Your Silence – Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

Speak Up!… Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

Expression – Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

When Spring Time Speaks… Written by Sonja Smolec – Recited by Anca Mihaela Bruma

Hypnotic Dreams – Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

Between Real & Surreal – Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

Melange – Poem written by Lynn Zachmann – Recited by Anca Mihaela

Yes… I Come To U… – Written by Dr. Penpen – Recited by Anca Mihaela Bruma

If… – Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

Your Love – Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

Reflection – Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

Reality – Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

You Showed Me – Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

"If You Forget Me" – Poem by Pablo Neruda – Recited by Anca Mihaela

I wonder… Poem written and recited by Anca Mihaela

"I Have Learnt" – by Octavian Paler – Recited by Anca Mihaela

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The Darkened Rooms of Summer.Jared Carter.Poetry.Review by Norman Ball

The Darkened Rooms of Summer
 
 
Troubled Water: Quietism in the Age of Performance By Norman Ball
 
(previously appeared in Trinacria, Fall 2014 in abridged form)
 
In Jared Carter’s latest collection of poetry The Darkened Rooms of Summer, the poem ‘Picking Stone’ is prefaced with the following passage from Emerson’s ‘Self-Reliance’:
 
“Speak your latent conviction, and it shall be the universal sense; for the inmost in due time becomes the outmost…we recognize our own rejected thoughts: they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty.”
 
Carter’s poetry conducts the latent convictions of the earth with unwavering fealty. Latent conviction suggests oblique paradox as does a room darkened by summer (also, the “dark shining” in ‘Scryer’ and the “harsh glare billowing darkness” in ‘The Shriving’). The grand, ineluctable cycles that move across the earth, and in equal measure through Carter’s poetry, extinguish their ends in their beginnings. Everywhere, light appears out of the darkness, or does one interpenetrate the other? Both. Stones are regurgitated to the surface like bundled mysteries. Were they there last planting season? Yes and no. Each encroaches upon, or drains from, the other as though through a great quantum sieve. One well imagines how fevered entrances and sweeping bows—all that performative mumbo-jumbo—would overwhelm what arrives to Carter’s still eye as a,“…broken heave of light and dark” (from ‘Phoenix’). Animated readings seize the eyeballs in the room yet banish the clearing. Through it all, the world forever adulterates and falls, mostly onto the shoulders of those who labor, in brief intervals, atop its primordial cycle.
 
Carter is a contemplative poet, yes. But in the spirit of Wordworth’s wise passiveness (there are powers/Which of themselves our minds impress/That we can feed this mind of ours,/In wise passiveness – Expostulation and Reply ll.21-24). This contemplative state is metaphorically expressed in ‘Mississinewa Reservoir at Winter Pool’. Here, the townspeople, ‘as though/having risen from a deep sleep/and come at last to a place/no longer having anything in it/except themselves.’
 
Quietism has fallen on loud, hard times. No one wants to take a silent bullet and invoke the clearing. Every day across America, poetry jumpstarts a bright new career in readings. Ill-suited ovations are the rage. Bowling night hardly stands a chance. In ‘The Oddfellows’ Waiting Room at Glencove Cemetery’, Carter begs to differ. A resolute listener, he continues to hold the thin, quiet line: ‘There must always be a place like this/where the dimensions collapse inwardly/ like a telescope you slip into your pocket.’ This is a beautiful image echoing again the Emerson quote; a telescope, tasked with mapping the outer reaches of the universe, collapsing into and inward, to a place where the poet stands waiting.
 
A heretical notion from the earliest times, quietism was formalized as such by Pope Innocent XI in 1687. Thomas Merton referred to it as an inert ‘spiritual vacuum’. The Protestant work ethic was equally hostile to a movement that rejected faith’s role as a catalyst for striving, wrestling and capital formation. The fundamental objection was that a faith that lacked vigor and purpose in the world risked falling into listlessness and solipsism. Soon enough, God’s voice would be shouted down by the clatter of railroads and later the ubiquitous presence of handheld devices.
 
There’s even less escaping the world today. Poems arrive hyperlinked to position papers. Recently, poetry critic and identity politician Ron Silliman accused quietism (or as poetasters like to call it, The School of Quietude) of a sly tactical reticence aimed at “denial of self-identification” and a refusal to be named. State your business or lay down your pen. Resisting industrial barcodes is, for the poetry confab, a first-order sin of omission. Poets are expected today to ‘splain themselves on the way to a good internecine squabble. Wearing their schools on their sleeves, they hoist grievances with a gusto that would make Robert Frost’s politicians blanch.
 
Well offstage, heads down and dimly lit, Carter’s people are forever lifting bricks and stones, digging up roots, exhuming the dead, but not with the isolating despair of Sisyphus. Here is a passage from ‘Ginseng’:
 
But all of them together— hunters,
thieves, those who keep the old ways—
pass it from hand to hand along
a chain of those who know exactly
where it is going, what it is worth—

 
The continental malaise of self-absorption has never reached Mississinewa County. Carter’s people accept their sublimated roles as momentary caretakers of the land—from prior hands, into future hands. To paraphrase Frost, life is notable mostly for going on, albeit with a flitting cast of characters, which is another way of saying time has a way of standing still:
 
Nothing done well ever ends,
she said, touching my hand, not even land
built up one act at a time, so that all
that went before, and after, still waits
there.
–from ‘Poem Written on a Line from the Walam Olum’
 
We lift stones at our appointed times, then drop them for the earth to reclaim, swallow up, to be expunged anew, rediscovered and lifted once again (‘the inmost in due time becomes the outmost’). This human bucket brigade treads a cosmic circle that may well harbor a far-off, though ultimately inhuman, coherence. Coleridge’s tail-eating serpent meets Eliot’s still-point in ‘Mourning Dove’ where, “all of their singing is circular, and comes back to the same stillness.” In ‘The Undertaker’, we find a similar acquiescence to a cycle larger than one generation’s labors:
 
Each man slowly recognized, like a combination of lost numbers,
that men younger than themselves had labored here,
grown old, and were gone, who had lifted this same earth,
who had put in what they now took out

 
As for this moment, for you and for me, the mind is a stone to be rolled away from the entrance of the soul. Only then can man and earth enjoy unmediated communion. The ubiquitous arrowheads, stones with a fashioned vengeance, are scattered about the landscape like long-discarded arguments “dropped from an empty sky”. At times even the dead must be lifted in order to deliver their stillness to higher ground. The new reservoir promises to round all edges. Who will save the dead? Few congregants are up to the task, as the undertaker soon learns:
 
Fell overcome with heat, one did, the first day;
another struck by the sun; two more threw down their tools
and walked away. The few who stayed till the job was done
rode together in the back of Sefe’s pickup each quitting time
to a tavern on the highway”
—from ‘The Undertaker’
 
What happens when self-negating labor is abandoned for the seductive rush of slogans, movements, grand causes and petty, indulgent feuds, in short the usual “bed of fabrications” (from ‘Shaking the Peonies’)? In ‘Phoenix’, we find two soldiers in borrowed Napoleonic uniforms, trapped in a generational family feud not of their making, in a Shawnee war not of their bidding. Adding to the worldly layers of confusion and “alienated majesty”, they find themselves comrades in the same war. Seeking to resolve these bewildering allegiances, they end up fighting one another to the death. In perhaps the most comprehensively emblematic image in the collection (we have the water, the rocks, the rising darkness and the failing light), the two men venture down to the hollow with the General’s consent where a “dark presence/rose up— a basin of troubled water, seething/and boiling, surging over heaps of stones/catching the last light through the trees”.
 
In ‘Picking Stone’, these men seem to appear again, this time as boys, “still in baseball uniforms from a game at the Legion” Later they, “pry with an iron bar against a great gray rock. They will not quit, they begin to roar as they bear down on it.”
 
Those closest to the earth do not bear uniforms well; or else the organizing principle becomes, “…so smudged you can’t tell what army” they’re in (from ‘Covered Bridge’). Uniforms are regimenting colors that march us away from ourselves. The uniform du jour in poetry these days is the performance poet. In his struggle to be heard, this thoroughly modern bard finds his public voice only to lose his vocation. After all, his job is not to linger, but to vacate the clearing his contemplation ushers through. The limelight eludes the proper poet by design.
Carter’s quietude is a conscious and sustained act, hardly a feeble acquiescence. He resists polluting the stillness with gratuitous detail, resigning himself with poetic fatalism to Keats’ negative capabilities, that ‘part of your mind that cannot hurry, that has never learned to decide’ (from ‘Mississinewa County Road’). Forbearance is the bright shadow that guides his pen.
 
The poet advertises himself only on the rarest occasions. In ‘At the Sign-Painters’, he extolls the Depression-era sign painters who stoically accept being observed at their labors. We sense the poet’s calling slowly forming in a boy’s mind. The words are prefigured, waiting to be filled out with whispers. But no speeches please. The universe entrusts its signs to the artisan who stands, in ready quietude, brush in-hand:
 
for the slow sweep and whisper
of the brush— liked seeing the ghost letters in pencil
gradually filling out, fresh and wet and gleaming, words
forming out of all that darkness, that huge disorder.

 
Contemplatives are particularly maddening because they eschew textual impartations from ‘higher authorities’, be they clergymen or self-appointed poetry critics. At least meditation involves meditating upon something: a prayer, a papal bull, the new Tom Cruise movie, a political manifesto. The arrangers of the world seek indoctrinated readers, not divine listeners. In the absence of doctrinaires, the sway of earthly power is loosened. French Quietist Jeanne Marie Guyon called it ‘loosening the stays’. Or as Carter says in ‘The Shriving’, ‘‘Things got in the way of what he saw and heard.”
 
I can detect no earthly authority to which Jared Carter’s poetry answers, except perhaps the earth itself. No sooner did I fancy him brushing against Shaker sensibilities in Indiana, his lifelong home and the locale for most of these poems, than I fell across ‘The Believers’ inscribed to “Shakertown at Pleasant Hill, Kentucky” with appearances no less, from Mother Ann Lee, the “endless chain” and the “narrow path”.
 
There is, in his poetry, Mother Ann Lee’s ‘retirement’ from opinion and argument into the unitive state of divine contemplation. When the nervous chatter stops, the clearing is allowed and the universe bursts forth. While nature can be chronicled for the labors it performs beneath our feet, we are here not to move mountains but to occasionally move our dead to higher ground. The mind feeds nothing. Carter’s poems cannot be willed into existence. Rather, they find him at his workbench, bristling with craft and emptied of polemic.
 
This is a sprawling collection, nearly 200 pages, that assembles poems from Carter’s first five books. I confess to approaching this task with great trepidation, knowing I could never do the volume anywhere near full justice. For instance, I have barely touched upon his metrical verse and his astonishingly unlabored villanelles. Instead, I have kept things to where my own fascinations seemed to gravitate, mostly, as it turns out, in the earlier work. That would be stones, arrowheads, borrowed uniforms, adulterated light and the elevated dead. I note his latest work favors compression. I prefer the unhurried eccentricity of his longer lines. In the main, this poetry moves across the earth with understated majesty. The ultimate testament to craft is the poet’s polite absence. I applaud Carter for leaving well enough alone.
 
Norman Ball FBP
 
NORMAN BALL (BA Political Science/Econ, Washington & Lee University; MBA, George Washington University) is a well-travelled Scots-American businessman, author and poet whose essays have appeared in Counterpunch, The Western Muslim and elsewhere. His new book “Between River and Rock: How I Resolved Television in Six Easy Payments” is available here. Two essay collections, “How Can We Make Your Power More Comfortable?” and “The Frantic Force” are spoken of here and here, respectively. His recent collection of poetry “Serpentrope” is here from White Violet Press. He can be reached at returntoone@hotmail.com.
 
JARED CARTER
Jared%20Carter%20photo%20by%20Richard%20Pflum
 
 
After the Rain
 
After the rain, it’s time to walk the field
again, near where the river bends. Each year
I come to look for what this place will yield—
lost things still rising here.
 
The farmer’s plow turns over, without fail,
a crop of arrowheads, but where or why
they fall is hard to say. They seem, like hail,
dropped from an empty sky,
 
yet for an hour or two, after the rain
has washed away the dusty afterbirth
of their return, a few will show up plain
on the reopened earth.
 
Still, even these are hard to see—
at first they look like any other stone.
The trick to finding them is not to be
too sure about what’s known;
 
conviction’s liable to say straight off
this one’s a leaf, or that one’s merely clay,
and miss the point: after the rain, soft
furrows show one way
 
across the field, but what is hidden here
requires a different view—the glance of one
not looking straight ahead, who in the clear
light of the morning sun
 
simply keeps wandering across the rows,
letting his own perspective change.
After the rain, perhaps, something will show,
glittering and strange.
 
From After the Rain. First published in The Formalist.
Copyright © 1990, 1993 by Jared Carter.1
 
 
Jared Carter is an American poet. His first collection of poems, Work, for the Night Is Coming, won the Walt Whitman Award for 1980. His second poetry collection, After the Rain, received the Poets’ Prize for 1995. His third collection, Les Barricades Mystérieuses, was published in 1999. His latest book is Darkened-Rooms-of-Summer, published in 2014 by the University of Nebraska Press, with an intro by Ted Kooser.
 
Carter was a recipient of the Indiana Governor’s Arts Award for 1985. His fellowships include grants from the National Endowment for the Arts and the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation. Other honors have included the New Letters Literary Award for Poetry in 1992, judged by Philip Levine, and the 2002 Rainmaker Award for Poetry from Zone 3 magazine, judged by Marilyn Chin. He was invited to read his work at the Library of Congress on December 9, 2004.
 
A Midwesterner from Indiana, he studied at Yale and at Goddard, and worked briefly as a newspaper reporter. After military service and travel abroad, he made his home in Indianapolis, where he found employment in textbook publishing. He continues to serve as a consultant in that field.
 
In his main body of work, Carter offers “a local habitation and a name,” and invites the reader to explore a place called Mississinewa County, a world of small towns and family farms and hard-working people who live close to the land. The many characters in Carter’s poems—soldiers, Shakers, farmers, ex-football players, berry pickers, derelicts—strive to maintain their dignity and to uphold their traditions. It is the striving that connects them with the universal, and it is the author’s craftsmanship—a style one critic, H. L. Hix, has described as “diamond-hard clarity”—that makes them memorable. Mississinewa County first sprang to life in Carter’s initial book, Work, for the Night Is Coming. Critical response was immediate. “From beginning to end,” Dana Gioia wrote in his review of the book in Poetry, “this volume has the quiet passion of conviction, the voice of a poet who knows exactly what he wants to say and how to say it.” In McGill’s Literary Annual, Henry Taylor described Work, for the Night Is Coming as “one of the clearest and strongest first books to have appeared in recent decades.” Writing for Library Journal, Margaret Gibson called it “a true winner. It is simply splendid.”
 
Carter’s second collection, After the Rain, attracted similar notice. “Extraordinary,” Gioia reported in the Washington Post Book World, “a dark, haunting book in the tradition of Frost.” In New Letters Book Reviewer, Ted Kooser found After the Rain to be “a moving and masterful book, charming in the best sense of that word.” It offered “proof,” Robert Phillips wrote in the Houston Post, “that the art of poetry is alive and well in America.” Perhaps Robert McPhillips, writing in the Dictionary of Literary Biography Yearbook, 1994, best summed up the critical reaction to Carter’s second book: “Well crafted, philosophically profound, and eminently readable . . . the finest, most varied, and most rewarding volume of poetry published in 1993.”
 
Carter’s third collection, Les Barricades Mystérieuses, published by Cleveland State in 1999, takes the reader even farther into Mississinewa territory. At the same time it pays homage to one of Carter’s particular interests, the heritage of French exploration and discovery in the American heartland. Always an upholder of traditionalism in prosody and poetic practice, Carter turns, in this third book, to the extremely repetitive and very French poetic form of the villanelle. David Lee Garrison, writing in The Southern Indiana Review, found these villanelles to be “as simple and subtle as the change in light and shadow against a wall created by the shift of a log in the fire, the sound of a door swinging open in the wind, or peonies that reveal an old pathway through an orchard.”
 
“Carter’s is a poetry of a resolute middle distance, firmly of this world: between the dust under the earth and the dust of space there exists the place that the poem can illumine.”—Helen Vendler, New York Review of Books
 

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Forest Gander Poet & Translator

A writer in multiple genres, Gander is noted for his collaborations with photographers such as Sally Mann and Graciela Iturbide and with the dancers Eiko & Koma. He is a United States Artists Rockefeller Fellow and the recipient of fellowships from the Library of Congress, the National Endowment for the Arts, the John Simon Guggenheim Foundation, The Whiting Foundation, and the Howard Foundation. He is the Adele Kellenberg Seaver Professor of Literary Arts and Comparative Literatures at Brown University in Rhode Island

Gander is a translator with a particular interest in poetry from Spain, Latin America, and Japan. Besides editing two anthologies of Mexican poetry, Gander has translated discrete volumes by Mexican poets [1] Pura López Colomé, [2] Coral Bracho (PEN Translation Finalist for “Firefly Under the Tongue”), and [3] Alfonso D’Aquino. With Kyoko Yoshida, Gander translated Spectacle & Pigsty: Selected Poems of Kiwao Nomura (OmniDawn, 2011), winner of the 2012 Best Translated Book Award. The second book of his translations, with Kent Johnson, of Bolivian poet Jaime Saenz, The Night (Princeton, 2007), received a PEN Translation Award. Gander’s critically acclaimed translations of the Chilean Nobel Laureate Pablo Neruda are included in The Essential Neruda: Selected Poems (City Lights, 2004).
Wikipedia
 

 
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Who is Anne Carson. Poet

ann carson poet
Anne Carson is a Canadian poet, essayist, translator and professor of Classics. Carson lived in Montreal for several years and taught at McGill University, the University of Michigan, and at Princeton University from 1980-1987. Wikipedia

Her awards and honors include the Lannan Literary Award, the Pushcart Prize, the Griffin Poetry Prize, a Guggenheim fellowship, and the MacArthur Fellowship. She was also the Anna-Maria Kellen Fellow at the American Academy in Berlin, Germany.

Carson was the Director of Graduate Studies in Classics at McGill University and taught at Princeton University from 1980-1987. She has also taught classical languages and literature at Emory University, California College of the Arts, and the University of California, Berkeley. She is currently a Professor of Classics and Comparative Literature at the University of Michigan.


“Poetry recital by Anne Carson”

Canada Reads Poetry: Nox by Anne Carson

Poet of the Day: Anne Carson

Discurso de Anne Carson / Speech by Anne Carson

Live Poetry Reading – Anne Carson Meditations on Melancholy

Anne Carson: Reading from Nox

Anne Carson: Lecture on the History of Skywriting

Free Verse: Anne Carson

The Blaney Lecture: Anne Carson

Anne Carson: A Lecture on Corners

Anne Carson: Performing Antigonick

Anne Carson, Conversation, 26 October 2016

Anne Carson

Poet Anne Carson reads from Decreation

Anne Carson. We've Only Just Begun. 2016

University of Toronto: Anne Carson, Convocation 2012 Honorary Degree recipient

Anne Carson, Reading, 26 October 2016

An Evening with Anne Carson

Anne Carson's Public Lecture: “Stillness” , Centre for Comparative Literature

Poet Anne Carson reads at the 2014 Griffin Poetry Prize readings event

ZVWS POETRY: Anne Carson [January 22nd 2016]

Berliner Rede zur Poesie 2020: Anne Carson

Anne Carson reads from Short Talks (Brick Books)

“Recital poético de Anne Carson”

 

 

ann carson poet

In Search of the Goddess. Robert Graves. Poetry.

robert Graves

robert Graves
From Wiki
Robert Graves) (24 July 1895 – 7 December 1985) was an English poet, scholar/translator/writer of antiquity specializing in Classical Greece and Rome, novelist and soldier in World War One. During his long life he produced more than 140 works.
During his lifetime he published more than 140 books, including fifty-five collections of poetry (he reworked his Collected Poems repeatedly during his career), fifteen novels, ten translations, and forty works of nonfiction, autobiography, and literary essays. From 1961 to 1966, Graves returned to England to serve as a professor of poetry at Oxford.

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Through a Glass Darkly. A Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop. 1999.

Part. 1.

Arrow pivots arc
& the archer is transfixed
between space & flight.

Moving from towards
Finite from infinite arrow
Appears & disappears.

Angst of the arrow,
As string tautens. Bow stretches.
& the arrow flies.

At the speed of light
Arrow pierces crow’s black heart
Through a glass darkly.

*

The long day crane drops
Its breaking neck into a
Concrete theatre pit.

Through a glass darkly
Everyone imprisons in
Shadows of the glass.

In the telescope
Power & force in chaos
Become the deluge.

Attract & repulse,
Elements that twin the day
Into a weird world.

Day & night revert
To fleshly brutality:
Wounds of stars & dust.

*

The livestock rustler
At Stonehenge is beheaded
By an angry mob

& buried beneath
An ignominious stone slab
Beyond the Temple.

We dig him up to
Redeem him his ill won fame
& bury again.

*

A bleached pine branch floats,
Its sodden joint wrenched in a
Grotesque scream or smile.

Diabolical
In familiarity
Of brutality.

Light obscurity
Absorbed into distances
Impossible to judge.

*

Watching two women,
As they talk, as they fall in
Love, gentle as doves.

Beat of the Metro,
Their eyes concealing desires
In secret kisses.

I walked through the streets
Of the gay crowded faces
Far far away on

The Isle of Capri.* – (Dusty Springfield – Sharks of Tibirius)
So long ago, Sappho, in
Beauty everywhere.

*

Even cycles of time
Begin & remain at odds
With cycles of time.

One many in many
One any poem writes one
Many in many one.

We scratch out the craft
Of days as etched upon stone,
We engrave epitaphs.

The moon in water
swallows the mirror & shines
Through a glass darkly.

Part 2. Gorilla Sky.

1.)

i.

First came the salad days
Fresh in sweet pods & green mush,
Then as the squeezed juices churned bitter
There came,
Chaos, Diaspora, turmoil, shattering
& splitting,
There came,
Dissension, conflict, sickness & loss of love,
Our earth”s archetypes rent asunder
& cast to the corners of the earth in their antagonisms.
On this tortured rainbow,
On this threshold of kiss
On black lips, Earth Mother,
Your black omnipotent tongue
Licks this heart’s red blood
Trickling to feed a handful of stars
Flight through the spheres.

ii.

Gorilla sky,
Pug nose, sad eyes
in wrinkled bags.

Drenched in
my dressing gown,
I watch cockroaches
singing in the rain.

iii.

Top of the
morning to you
top tilted top
hat tilted top
sky to passers bye
& I why, why,
why wonder
don’t look now
look away, look
away, look away
does she presence
beauty everywhere
all the milk
white spilt heaven
gone west, gone west:
if you were
the only girl
in the world
& I was
the only boy.

iv.

Ancestor of the stars
of sun & moon
of the first day,
the first sky, the first cry.

Ancestor of the wilderness
of earth’s heart’s blood,
descendant ancestor,
ancestor of the spheres,
ancestor of first fears
of 10.000 straw dog years,
ancestor of the mortal day:

who has left,
who was never here,
who will not return
but who has been
in existence somewhere,
ancestor of earth, sea
& the Gorilla sky.

Part. 3. Lord of the Mice.

1.)

i.

At times I write in my white cell
in which the light shines through.

I scratch in black ink
& watch vertigo cracks
for spiders to appear.

Outside is pandemonium,
a one word poem.

Inside is the silent white wall
with only the turn of the page.

ii.

Georgian coquette,
ruffles & coifed
wigette wrought
in cream meringue:
ostrich plumes
delicately silhouetted.

iii.

Keep your back straight
Keep your shoulders back
Keep your diaphragm in
& your chin level, look straight
Ahead, keep a stone face,
Wear dark glasses, listen to
The wind & walk on, walk on
…………..& you”ll never………..

iv.*

Through a Glass Darkly:
one difference lies in that writing &
translation were more or less simultaneous,
we were always under the spell of the originals
& therefore did not need to re capture past moods.

* Derived from Foreword to
Doctor Brodies Report.
J.L.B & N.T. di. Gi.

v.

Alpha & Omega.

The cat stretches
Like a penis
Trembling into repose
But poised. Cat
God, Cat Goddess,
Sleek as silk,
Lick themselves asleep

& the mice
Begin to play
< in the attics >
Where I scratch

Lord of the Mice,
The galley boy
On the burning deck,
The rubbish man
Up to the neck.

I wash the floor
On which I slip.
I carry the rubbish
Out to the tip.

Part 4. Feet.

1.)

i.

Flat feet
Down at heel.
Black feet
Running on before.
Washed feet
Alms after ablutions.

ii.

My dreams are living memories
In other worlds from which I speak.
Immanence is in my imagination
As imminence is also distance.

iii.

Love is like a violin *
Play it long & strong
& you might leap or win.
Play it weak & thin
& you might weep or grin.

* Ken Dodd.

iv.

Photo Gene @ 13.

I know, I know,
I know you. You
Were conscious
Then, as I now, as
You look at me,
As if you know
Me, as if you know
I know & yet we
Are not, we are as
Other lifetimes, we
Are as strangers as
I remember your
Light is the same
Still as mine now
In present reducto.

2.)

i.

Life is the bird’s song as it leaves its
throat. Life breaks on its own wing.

Ravens & vultures patrol light limits
over burning precipices, rock flames
that keep the dark side of the hill,

Where stray cub or foal would fall
forever on that fell, even as the seethed
kid knows the first light of instant
blindness, as life shines on in the dust.

ii.

The years seem as puddles
In the rain, as I step through
Mud, gravel & watery obscurity.
The door creaks, the knee weaks,
The roof leaks.

iii.*

The curtain falls to ruffles & applause.
The phantom auditorium rises up the walls.
The queen in yellow meringue pirouettes,
Two massive guard henchmen are her gate.
Like pillars of Hercules they stand
& out on the land
The multi-mob glittering robot
Infantrymen parade
Up & down in salute;
& you go on, you go on &
merengue.

& this is the way the world ends
Not with a bang or a whimper
But suddenly as you write it.

iv.

Bitter frost is on the ground
Hoar is on the brow
Feet tread as though on sand
No tracks left in dew.

This the wilderness, this the threshold
This the world, mirage & wall
This the place yet still to be crossed
This the face & shadow to fall.

Yet the wall will fall in its place
& imprison no garden to an orison
Bound to time in veiled space,
Where arms beckon a tinkling caravan.

FIN.
***
Robin Ouzman Hislop 1999