unwinding
slowly thread for thread unthreading
until out of its cocoon flies the butterfly into the evening sky
dropping the h
therefore: no threat anymore just treat
Fran
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Tag Archive for 'poem'
Many times I was about to sit and write a very personal memory: about my father; but every time something stopped me from doing that.
Death underlines life. If life is the sum of our memories and experiencies, where should be total. My first teacher taught me how to do it in primary school. Write numbers you want to add right under each other. When you put them all, draw a line and add numbers in each column. Under the line there will be one number, “total”. It’s easy to say, but not so easy to do when it comes to a life of somebody you know well. It’s amazing, actually, how scarce my memories are. He was a very kind and simple man. What I remember is just little things: my father caught just in his underwear on his way to toilet late in the night; his shaking hands when he hold my newborn son for the first time; he is sleeping on a sofa in living room, covering his face with a newspaper. Little, random and unsignificant memories. I remember him reading me his poems impromptu, or running around our house in a search for a pen. He would write his poems on anything: old receipts, shits of paper, newspaper clippings… he would leave them anywhere: you could find them in the kitchen, in the toilet, under the bed, on TV, on the floor, between book pages… He was a hardworking man, killing himself with a hell of a job (that was my first impression of it, when he took me there: hell, as he worked on a metal plant. Fumes, dirt, unbearable heat and red liquid metall running under the overpass he had to stay on long shifts). But he would always say: I’m a poet. Indeed, he was. I never was fond of his poems and everybody in my family annoyed by them, though. He, probably, didn’t have a talent, but there was no shortage of enthusiasm and commitment. He stuffed with his poems a pillow case, and then few shoeboxes, and then plastic shopping bags when he ran out of boxes. Nobody wanted to listen to him. Continue reading ‘Father’
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The fat woman is shouting about History
she launches sharp sentences
like a slice of tin.
In roofs made of silver
by lubricating skies,
the fat woman hangs smiles
on a butcher’s hook
while she puts fetuses into a pile.
She says that a knife in the flesh
hurts less than nothing in the flesh,
that the stock exchange will became moss
and sand will cover the hungry,
that from the cloned rose to the bank
there is tight wire, which crosses the dreams
of every poor child.
The fat woman
swimming between the glasses of the drunkards
with her dress made of smoke
of the infinite burning
which maintains things alive,
her voice echo of a claim
between the unheard and the unsaid,
improvised postphilosophy for a new era
the one that predicts inspired moments.
Waiting
she sticks her nail on every stalk
leaving in the corners
slit open insects
and tearing out dry landscapes
from the newspaper photos
which will run to the sea
like abandoned objects.
Silvia
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This is what probably happens with all new cyberadventures. People don’t know what to expect. They wait. They want to see content. We started this project because we wanted to see it too; but the work is still in progress, as we have zillion ideas on how to improve but very little particle practical knowledge.
I’m very excited, though for last few weeks hardly had time to write anything myself, being busy trying to understand, as they put it on WordPress site, the poetry of code.
The binary wisdom of humankind poem.
The rhytm of commands.
The chorus of links.
Anyway, I think our memories like anchors or rather beams in the ocean of consciousnes. We measure our lives in memories, not in years. Trying to figure out what did actually, happenned to me in year 2000 starts from one of them, the memory of the very millenium night.
This moment became a string on which I started to put my memories anew; a day by day, a month by month, and now a year by year.
Let’s hold one bead of my life’ necklace a time.
Reset. I remember myself sitting on a plastic chair, which I borrowed from the place there I was purchaising local port wine for the last couple of weeks. The place was facing ocean. It was rising. It already scared away a beach party and was slowly advancing towards little row of bungalos. The water was very shallow, so I made myself comfortable quite away from the beach. I sat with my feet dipping in the Indian ocean. Chair legs were slowly sinking into muddy sand. Soon I found myself up to my chest in the water; it didn’t matter. The water was warm and gentle. I could figure out far away silhouettes of ships, above which a pride of clouds raced south through bright pink sky. The sound of waves wrapping around. Behind was scattered laugther, and klingklung of forks and knives over the plates, and dinner talk, a trance track playing from the open window and dyiung in a distance motorcycle roar. A picture of a perfect peace. The sun set qucikly, but after it was gone behind the horizon, I still could see for a few minutes, which felt like few eternities, the last ray of our nearest star balancing on the surface of water of the new millenia.
It was a great moment. Everything from that point somehow started to be different. Thinking about it still puts a smile on my face.
Boris Kislitsin
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