Poetry

Poem in rain and cosmos

 

Why must raindrops fall
and stir my soul like Debussy’s piano,
delirium in an orchestra of round ripples
each droplet unites with the puddle
in this unknown street of Nygårdvej
Why can I not resist this temptation
Of studying the motions of a
                                           fluctuating universe

I raise my head a few meters
a different world comes into view
a realm so close but so inexplicable
of these men and women of modernity;
so you see two worlds bound together
One as ancient as numberless time
The other new by cosmic comparison

And worst of all, I must confess
this thing frightens me above all:
the road mankind has fashioned for itself,
that relentless evolution of man’s world
not long ago we lived flat on a finite earth,
now the cosmos has expanded to insane proportions
we are a micro-dot in a cold dark shadow

Are children aware of our ancestral roots
before we were in trees, but now
riding in motorized wheels
is there a Nostradamus among us
who will reveal the end of our obsessions,
or will it never come to an end,
like this puddle should turn into ocean
                                       if these drops from heaven
                                                                   never cease to fall.

The old man on the bus

 

His gaze was dismal. His face pale and furrowed by his old skin. And those eyes… almost inert yet burning with sadness as if they were looking straight into empty meaninglessness. What happened to him? Had he found irrevocable proof that the universe has no purpose, had he understood the absolute nonsense of existence? His face was like an ancient ape, the first animal in the history of the universe to become aware of mortality – the original simian that understood:

 

” I AM

but I must die one day”

Oh poor old man!

Those eyes scanning the infinite indifference of the civilized world. Somewhere in the glimmering of his left eye I read his thoughts.

 

They were thoughts of a hopeful pessimist:

 

My life in shadows.
My life in this modern world
Splendid technological forms unfurled
Nobody knows the monster that’s been created
But who will listen to my voice recluse and alienated
If only we could invent a new auspicious religion
To bury our fears and escape ever-lasting oblivion

 

 

The old man stood up and got off the bus and sat by a tree. And then we rode off into other streets, other corners.

Sky of Poetry

(July 11th – 2007)

 

And I’m still alive. Standing on a dim-lit bridge watching with disbelief the fantastic horizon as the fiery star’s return is heralded by the tones of pink, purplish-red, tawny and azure pigments in their respective order from horizon to zenith. It is 3.09am, and the moon is manifested by a thin ark of potent white, the rest of it obscure but visible: its entire orb can be witnessed from this bridge that overlooks on a magical lake hazily imitating the transcendental beauty of the sky. Below me two ducklings swim in the still water, small insects flutter around me, the glorious architecture of Copenhagen stands immobile while, progressively, this pen inks a few words as a substitute for a photograph, a camera that I do not hold now to share the explicit mystery
                        Of this solitary view.

The Mold of Reality

THIS IS HOW I SEE IT…

Artists, poets, musicians, philosophers, scientists – in short, anybody who creates becomes a sculptor of human reality. They all exhibit aspects of human life that are present – or possible. One life is not enough to survey all the possibilities that can be brought upon the living experience; we must share with each other the Spectrum of the Possible, because we need more than two eyes to visualize the totality of human existence.

 

In a world where most men and women are concerned primarily with “making a living”, that is, having enough money to buy stuff and have sufficient comforts for raising a family; in this world the prospects of poetry, pure science, art, philosophy become irrelevant, if not insignificant, at least, secondary.

 

But my view is contrary to this widespread carelessness. I conceive life as this:

 

We are a crowd of gazing eyes all found in the depth of a lush valley. Most eyes are focusing on the ground, ensuring that each step is safe, reasonable (and profitable!). But amongst this majority of conformists there are a few visionaries that focus on more than just the flatness of the ground. These few are studying the trees around, gazing at the stars, describing the colors of insects, monitoring the motion of the wind, and endless observations take place that are ignored by the mass of robotic somnambulists. All these irrelevant and beautiful things the minority gazes at are equally real as the beaten path most walk upon.

 

To end this metaphor I kill everyone and then ask the reader to capture what human life would have been without these few wanderers:

it would only be a muddy track of monotony.

 

 

 

No complex forms of nature (trees), no immensity of space (stars), no microscopic detail (color of insects), no invisible mystery (motion of the wind), etc.

ONLY A
MUDDY PATH…

This is the importance of the poet of human existence, of the artist of human potential, of the musician of the human imagination, of the genius of human exploration. They give depth to human life, they bestow on reality a wider dimension.

 

Some come upon this rotating planet to fill the mold,

                                                                Few others come here to fashion this mold.

 

A child’s wonder

The poet must rise and, in all opposition to the mediocrity of those living with eyes closed, must claim with a child’s wonder: I AM.

And to be is never dull and unworthy of our attention.

Every passing second grants us the deepest mysteries that can never be too highly esteemed.

From the rustling of blades of grass in the wind to the farthest kindling galaxies; from the ordinary to the extraordinary; existence in its entirety marvels the beholder.

A poet’s awareness is nothing more than a child’s wonder.

A requirement: the capacity to remain silent and observe passionately at what IS.

In that womb of silence we are all bound to become children, poets and philosophers;

Quietly revering the performance of an universe that will forever astonish us-

The humble spectators of the Great Unknown.

untitled poem

From where spawns the orgiastic revelry of words
The intimacy with language in its full ambiguity
The orgasmic explosion of poetry, rising from the
Deep unknown

The grand sea of letters that flourish in a titanic wave
Drowning the world with an army of symbols
And behold! They seize us like the fury of Jupiter
In the tempest of survival we hang to them
Our miseries have a name, they now bear a
Morbid face

Languidly reposing in the weaving of literature
The towers of pages whistling in the air
The voices, the cries and joys of forgotten lives
Many existences in a single sentence but a life
Never enough to peruse the endless deluge of
Human experiences

The lives of words carry the melancholy song
Of Death and Loss, perpetual fate of every born
Yet in lighter melodies thoughts inked in the past
Evoke the wonder of breathing, powerfully they are
Reminding us -the living- to seize the moment,
Always the moment.

Ode to the moon

 

Open fields of silent dark
Crossing grass prey of ice
Fragile tunes weaves the wind
Leafless trees form the horizon
Gazing up a gem of ivory
Thin clouds conceal the starry sky
Yet through the blanket of gray gas
A wealth of glow can be seen

A familiar face blotched in craters,
                 Mountains and furrows
Gazes back on this lonely traveler
intently shadows my linear pace,
delivers an eloquent sight to my eye,
pierces through my world,
submits to my wonder…

Oh aged queen of the sky
whose journeying dates back
                              to forever
What histories have you glanced!
From barren rock to green conquest
Evolving beauty on this planet
                  Your inseparable partner

How insignificant my stupid little life!
An instant for your heavenly clock
Let this insect sing you a praise
allow my admiration be lost
                   in the gaze of millions past 
                                 & millions future.