Tag Archives: heart

The Shape of my Heart…

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The shape of my heart
is blue…
Odd frame of mothers,
and fathers passing by;
never failing to re-write
the history of cubic thoughts…
 
Shifting patterns
of lensless glasses
always a year behind
the real need of eyes…
 

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Massada…

Image

But who’s this blind-child of my lonely memory,
unwanted morning yet unfollowed by another?
Whose time we chew, whose banner
do we tear apart; why bother?

Alone, bewitched by what complete would mean
if empty’s so rewarding, stand I and mourn…
I’ve lost my mind, I’ve lost my senses
and lost has grown the day when I was born.

“Stand still…” I’m told, “and know…”; and show no pain,
but feel it deep by sides of heart and senses…
So much I know; and time dries bitter ever since
all verbs seem to have lost their future tenses…

Dali…

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Poor eyes,
framing a storm of melting senses,
painstakingly written
all over a canvas of dreams…

Poor brain,
hunting a hoard of images
too pure to remain
sounds of a melting echo…

Poor heart,
unbeaten by what order
would have murdered for…

Perfect it seemed,
and bound to freedom…

with, and without the Salvador…

When your mind is in the wrong place…

-A short essay on Nazim Hikmet…-

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“at the age of fifty found his mind in his heart”
Nazim Hikmet

How strange… Of most people it would be expected to have been mentally settled by the age of fifty; how wrong…
I have found my introductory quote within the opening thoughts of an -until now- unknown (for me) Turkish writer’s “Don Quixote”…
Fond of Cervantes’ Don since my windmilled childhood, it wasn’t though the lone rider’s quest for Dulcinea which struck my senses -as I have found my own, two decades ago-, but Hikmet’s absolutely elemental statement, which at the beginning of this 2013th year of my becoming half a century old/young, bears a rather stormy significance…

It’s been a week before Nazim Hikmet’s passing away on the 3rd of June, 1963, when I came into a world from which he was about to leave… If I would have known everything he knew at the time, I would have rather stayed… My mother’s womb’s darkness would have been a better place to die than this despicably hopeless world, made just a bit more bearable by my Dulcinea and our four love buds…

Nevertheless, it’s Hikmet’s own discovery which bought me on my own writer’s knees, realising that it might not be long before being too late of using my mind from the place where it always should have been…

Oh, for long have I been seeking understanding from a place bearing nothing else than about 1,5 kg of fat-like tissue, good enough to add up the groceries and play with quantum physics, but uselessly hopeless when it comes to understanding why some idiotic “celebrities” never seem to understand that the problem with helping the “third world’s” starving children is not only the small quantity of candy bars they are offering in front of heavy-cash paying paparazzi’s, but the shamelessly shining Rolex watches on their “charitable” hands…

I’ve always been a leftist, genuinely believing that socialism, stripped of its parasitic “leaders”, is a much better option than the so called “democracies” where “vox populi” is just the number of votes needed every four/five years by an elite ruthlessly playing the usurped “vox Dei” on their behalf…

In fact, about 25 years ago, I was advised to quit a political school I just begun, because of an essay in which I wrote a critique of Romania’s “Animal Farm”-type socialism, based on heart-felt and yes, wept over memories of Engels’ “The Condition of the Working Class in England”, which I have read when I was about thirteen…
Of course, I was totally convinced, as I am today, that it’s not philosophy to blame, but it’s poor grasp and (mal)practice in a world where -more or less political oligarchies- have long taken over all aspects of life, to their own mercantile interests…

Back to my mind…
It’s hard to have found it’s real place, when I wasn’t even aware of what “mind” is, and even less what “heart” is, acting on a rather instinctive range of ethics, spreading from personal to herd…

Well, it looks it’s going to take another -hopefully more than just a- few decades to learn how to properly use my newly found software in its newly found hardware…
Oh, but which is which?
Uh, the min(d) is the soft(ware), because it’s min(e), and the h(e)ar(t) is the hard(ware) because it’s very har(d) to find it in the first place…
But then, why should be something which is mine, soft?
Is it just because it’s made of soft, fatty myelin?
Derp…

How long, and what will it take to learn Hikmet’s value of one’s every moment of good so scarcely left to him in this life?
Without claiming much similitude with his tormented existence, I’ve fled myself my homeland because the “gentlemen” of the day were just the “comrades” of yesterday, pathetically painted over, and some people started to accidentally fall into allegedly malfunctioning elevator pits…
Yet I still haven’t learned -how could have I, with a misplaced mind- the true value of even the smallest good given and still with me, even if only “until evening”…

I can’t do any better for now than hope to have found at least some… hope after all, by quoting Nazim Hikmet’s verses from his “After Release from Prison”:

“Who’s lying at your side?
Not loneliness, but your wife,
in the peaceful sleep of an angel.
[…]
What time is it?
Eight.
That means you’re safe until evening.
Because it’s the practice of police
Never to raid homes in broad daylight.”

De Profundis…

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Ecclesiastes of A Job…

Of despair my heart is bleeding,
Something wrong must have happened today,
Pieces of breath, frozen singing
Memories searching their way.

No more, no shore departing,
No dreams to brag about,
Cowards and dogs shouting,
Swans never flying south.

Tender whatever with roses,
Bitter garment of thorns,
Open which nobody closes,
One good for a thousand of wrongs.
…………………………..
I told you that morning, mother,
I do not want to be born,
To be the next; another,
Boring duty to mourn.

Abiding deep…

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Abiding deep,
like drying, reedless water;
unwanted, bitter tasting washer
of anything
offered, dumped, forgotten
there, where light has never thought
of dying…
Making its way
to any fountain, well;
to any pond.
For seas are salty teardrop oceans,
eyeless witnesses of what it was
when clouds were roaming free
embracing winds,
of south, of north,
of anywhere…
Making love,
raising wild children of prairie grasses,
smelling early of sweet dripping sweat…

My woman’s armpit smells of nails
biting hard my back’s skin,
my thighs, my arms;
of blood biting lips unwilling to let go…

Scar me oh woman, scar,
until there’s nothing left this flesh’s to cover…
Unskin me lover, hurt me,
until all flying seeds shall find their rooting playground…
Undo my former self, and hold me,
until our children, all shall wish to sing…

Give them our bones, my thunder,
until their song shall raise the dying…

Social Poem 2

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Why is it that every bit of a stone raised to hit with,
arrives precisely at nearly every moment
of each day,
straight away,
against my very, every tooth
left unsmashed by previous,
attempts
to secure ’em a well deserved p(a)lace
in the newly appointed
Paradise for Handheld Teeth Smashing Stones.

In that very Paradise, a self appointed,
self revolving social arm,
penetrates back and forth,
back and forth and again, through thin layers of width,
(like grandma’s wooden spoon getting in and out
water’s boiling skin,
gently moving-removing eggs)
granting stones and hands
never-ending crimson ribbon padded mass graves:
Lourdeses for each and every barren
gum hole…
There chlorine is being added by the same
self revolving social spinster
Just to ensure gum disease are kept
at (pirate) bay…

Then at midnight,
all this bleached parade joins
the endless ranks of
desperate housewives scourging
through leftover papers
for whatever coupons
of love…

“Are you dead yet? Asked a frightened angel
sent to make sure no devil would dare unplug
my:
Heart (Jarvik)
Lung (the other’s out…)
Brain(s)
Urinal drains (kidneys sold to buy the Jarvik…)
also to make sure my colostomy bag
will never be emptied
of life’s all dues…
Because that would be a sacrilege
against the sanctity of (f)lies…
————————————-
And the devil presented (him/her)self before God and said:
“Do you see your job?”

And God said:
“No.”