ISSUE 6 THE GREEN DOOR

ISSUE 6 – THE GREEN DOOR

JACKY TANGE Flemish painter, essayist, and (all too infrequently) poet

AN EDITORIAL STATEMENT? (recently the editors were asked to submit a selection of work for a French magazine from writers who had been published in THE GREEN DOOR and to make a ‘statement’ concerning the magazine, its aims, intentions, attitudes, and direction. Four poets were selected and the following introductory note was published –a note which seems worthwhile to republish as being the only ‘statement’ the editors wish to make) We (and the word is used solely in its numerical meaning) are not a group. Though loosely gathered about THE GREEN DOOR, we are not a group and have neither pretension nor aspirations to be one. I make no claim to speak on behalf of those whose work is presented here yet it is obvious to a reader that one poet seeks the radiance of the Buddha while another seeks the fire of Antigone; that one has been named “a sweet barbarian” and that a wise woman says: “Poetry translates into language that which cannot be said”. Geography is of course one common bond between us –a bond as real and as tangible as the bonds of friendship. Yet we live, not in the literary associations of Flanders where the poetry is the pity, but live in the actual world of the towns, harbours, fields, air and tangible tang of a landscape which is as alluring as it is real. We eat, we work, we sleep, we love (and some pray) in a world that is of such concern to us that we seek to offer it no program but to place, silently, our work on the discussion-table of the present, thus also of the future. Not being politicians we have nothing to ‘defend’. Not being a church we have no dogma to propagate.

We are what we each are and seek to be nothing other than that. To the sociologist of ‘artistic movements’ such statements are nothing less than appalling. That is not my/our concern. If we were a group, a party, a creed, then we would have a collective identity which we would seek to propagate and impose upon others as some form of ‘liberation theology’ –which would of course quickly assume the status of a new orthodoxy. We neither have nor want such an identity. One will seek to call on the Buddha, another will continue to search out fire of Antigone, while a Sweet Barbarian will go about his business hand in hand with the wise woman he loves. It is true we have walked through a door together –yet the gardens we have then walked into have been, and will continue to be, different and separate – a difference we will seek to share but not impose.

Poet/painter Kari Bert on the occasion of receiving a Liber Amicorum, presented to him at the public library of Oostende, October 2011

MARCUS CUMBERLEGE Was born in Antibes (France) shortly before the war and migrated to Chelsea in the blitz, then to County Cork, Madrid, Peru, back to London, Paris and Connemara, before settling with his Flemish wife Maria in Bruges, Belgium in 1972. He won a scholarship in English to Oxford, where he boxed and shot for the University, and later an Eric Gregory Award for 1966 (leading British poets under 30), adjudicated by Ted Hughes. His first collection was published by Anvil Press Poetry of London in 1968. Twenty subsequent volumes have appeared in Belgium, including his SELECTED POEMS 19632009, published by Van de Wiele in 2010.

FIVE BAGATELLES i As a good composer knows his instruments by heart I want to work with words, choosing them carefully, conscious of their sound and symmetry. I want to pause -right now – and drop a pulsing epithet before a noun as solid as a block of granite dumped on a Scottish beach. I stand beside the telephone beside the door that leads into the street and hear it ringing in my head. I will not pick it up. ii Piano sonatas must be difficult to write but how much more so great orchestral works combining instruments so various as flutes and cymbals. Imagine sliding a harp – a handful of quivering notes – into the heave and swell of a gigantic movement! Compared to this the tinny bells of Bruges, now announcing 2 p.m., are kindergarten stuff, scratching away at the surface of sunny afternoons. Life has a magic and a meaning which we mostly miss and very seldom see. iii School kids in yellow T-shirts back from the park. One throws a ball into the air and catches it. Well-to-do pensioners on holiday in the Marian city pore over papers while they examine elegant mansions included in a quiz. For no reason at all a black-haired girl in a black dress and sunglasses turns round and walks off in the opposite direction. For no reason at all I put her in this poem, as also a French motorist who engages me in conversation about parking metres and pleasure boats. I move on, the sun beating on my neck. iv Intermezzo. I switch off completely and let my feet take me to the quayside, stopping to pick up a perfect grey pigeon’s feather lying on the cobblestones. I listen to the sound of water lapping underneath a boat. Nobody knows me from Adam or cares what I am doing as I lean

on the parapet. A man snaps a pair of breasts in a brown blouse, nipples thrust forwards audaciously. Everyone disappears except the drinkers on the terrace, and a seagull sits on the canal, twisting its neck to look at me. I smell the pungent damp odour of mussels and celery.

A woman sneezes four times loudly on the bridge where I am now thinking what to say, what instrument to play. She carries his crutches as he wheels himself along in front of me. Blissful shade! Now I know why the Blind Donkey chose this street. v Drained of words, and how to conjugate their music, but alive and well, I watch men tossing iron balls here on the Burg where once a great cathedral stood. People walk past, carrying unexplored worlds on their shoulders. Brown chestnut leaves lie scattered at my feet. I wish I was a tree and didn’t have to keep moving, subject to thirst, lust and the loneliness of urban life. A horse-drawn carriage clatters past the bronze statue of the Two Betrothed. A man nods politely and sits down on the bench beside me.

BLACK STONE ON A WHITE STONE (from the Spanish of César Vallejo) I’ll die in Paris on a showery day, A day that I already have in mind.

I’ll die in Paris –I’m no runawayOne Thursday like today, the autumn kind.

Thursday it’s doomed to be, because today, Prosing this verse, rheumatic in my spine, I’ve seen myself, as never, turned this way, Alone and at the last stop on the line.

César Vallejo’s dead, they did him in, A deed which he did nothing to prevent.

They let him have it with a stick and then A length of rope, not once did they relent.

Witness to this are Thursdays, aching bones, Loneliness, rainy days, and cobblestones.

-previously published in the Selected Poems of Marcus Cumberlege

DISCONNECTED FRAGMENTS What you believe is true – if you believe it enough! Our tree can hear my thoughts. God is good and will give me the necessary guidance.

Sleepless six nights now as I kick off my prescribed sleep medication and struggling at times with waves of panic and confusion in the head.

I know love’s the antidote to fear, but I’m afraid to fall in love.

A steaming cup of coffee. A poet with his back to the saloon.

The waitress pinches him and punches him. “Merde! I want to hurt you!”

Disconnected fragments of yesterday, whisperings of tomorrow.

Only to record those things that are absolutely necessary.

The urgent removal of a lost woodlouse from the veranda floor.

Only to negate, and to go on negating, pain and loneliness.

I sing the courage of the detainee, the woman in hospital in a far-off and hostile country, separated from her children.

I fill in this paper, a worthless piece of poetry, for her sake while drunken adolescents roam the streets, and rain patters on the roof.

Saeve indignatio. Swiftian satire is not the answer.

The twenty-first century must make its own bed and lie down on it.

What sleep I get is underneath a patchwork quilt made by Maria.

She gives me the unconditional love of a child for its parent.

I take her to Canada. I take her to Japan and to Peru.

Set all this down, Martin Burke. Set it down in Flemish and in Irish.

Take it back to the library where she works, or to Bean Around The World.

Will I have the company of friendly fruit flies in Anworth kitchen while she slumbers overhead? (A man can only say what’s on his mind).

A poem cannot be more than a river in which a black virgin dips.

DAVID KAUFMANN attended Princeton and Yale Universities and has been a member of the English Department at George Mason University since 1989. He is the author of The Business of Common Life (Johns Hopkins UP, 1995) and Telling Stories: The Late Works of Philip Guston (U of California P, 2010) as well as a number of articles on the Frankfurt School and on poetry. Currently, he writes a monthly poetry column for Tablet (www.tabletmag.com), where he is a contributing editor.

HUSBANDRY Blue wash in the season’s idiom blue Ash in the fire tipping cherries blue cast to Tulip headed branches. A catalogue Of buds. The keeping of bees. A list Of flowers and the pruning of trees a Reminder. I called. Please call. As Water flows downward so the stream cycles Clouds in their swift determinations. The fog That Zoe carves. That Lucia craves they love It. The snow at best a memory so Remember that they love it. We skied For a moment and this was our fill we skated Down the steps then I fell. Do what You will say what you like nothing will Change remember. Remember the aphorisms Of delight the composite models of joy. Freezing Rain keeps the farmer indoors but he can Get ready. He does. Get ready. Freezing

The frame as if it were joy. It was. It Is. Now do it. Wash the car prepare your Dinner make a list of all the day Requires. It’s sufficient. Will do. Now Do it again. From all this you know. We can Predict the seasons through unsettled skies.

I think he means seasons not skies. First it Snowed then it rained and then we melted as If into the rocks. A simile. Some polka Dots. Enough now. So take it.

I could go on forever so let Me begin. Begin again. A novum in The parkland on the parkway a driveby Experience as if by the sea. I love you. The granary Sensation. The sifting of chaff. Dust settles in At the end of the line as if The air itself were falling. It’s not. It’s Falling through the air hold it A second now Smile. Misreading star lore as Star love is certainly a start. So is planting a vine Or mending a trellis. So do it. Resume The position and tell me your name. Myrtle.

Redbush starling and thrush. Immediately The winds rise stars slide headlong through the

Skies. Mists and obscurities travel And rain. And all this in Our orbit so try it again. I’m writing today About husbandry resources it’s all I can muster to Tell you. Such is my wisdom. Not The blanched hues of August but The blissed-out recalcitrance Of Spring. Evaporation. Earth. Less Loamy than clay. Clayey.

The water Sits on top. Waiting. For the sun Perhaps or to seep down to our APT FOR RENT. Everything underneath it It all comes up. Eventually so to speak.

Breathless in its transparency not Waking or between. Merely breaking Ground. My obdurate fears my obvious Fears. The obvious recital. A cock’s Crow of morning where no Cock crows. Except in a somewhat dirty Joke that doesn’t work anyway so don’t Even try. Please. That this won’t get Read. That you won’t care. That you’ll Be dead. Of all displacements This. Onto all displacements

There. You talk about fallow let’s Talk about seed. Kernel And shell. Seed the clouds seed The stars. Cede the stars their influence. O Stars and starlets o Riven complexities both Fear and desire my c.d. collection in Its battle array. Let’s talk. We’ve Been talking about Jackson.

Ever since the fire went out. Fires Everywhere fire away. Stubble In the field ignited. Why. Virgil doesn’t know. Bakes out Blemishes clears the bile hardens And binds the damaged veins. Whatever.

Whatever does for the glands still Does for me. An operative membrane.

A garden. My slight protective skin.

What erotics of knowledge. What Ecstasies of reading what.

What you need to know. Tulips.

Dafs. Agriculture as far as it Gets around here. The Japanese Maple stunted by The shade of the neighbor’s

Spruce. We love the shade The maple the neighbor’s spruce all At once. Dryads o material Memory. Leaves shoots the ground Breaks without my help blood Not mine keeps the squirrels Away the weeds at bay now look.

Crocus self-understanding. Trees As the process of producing themSelves. True I intervene Somewhat. But not that much. I mean Mulch. I mean water. I mean what I mean when I mean it. Sometimes I don’t mean a fucking thing don’t You get it. Some grassy thing that seeds itSelf I thought it was a weed It’s not. The bulbs have come back Regardless look. You don’t have To love it just live with it. Or Not. Please live with it please Live with me please Live. O gods Of the foreground moment nymphs Of the requisite dew this Is an ode o let us live. No let

Me begin. Or yes let’s. An apotropaic Move a gesture with hands as if I really could begin to ward them Off. The bees. They scare Zoe So much. With a simile no Less. There. I did it it worked Well at least for a moment there.

I am praying not so much to The works of my hands as to some Stupid words I got On the cheap. It’s sunshine and Smoke. It’s the woodchips of a summer’s Dusk at a campsite in the Shenandoahs whose Very name’s a song evocation an invocation Of campfire and dust. Zoe loves Them Lucia too. The whole damn Thing’s a song they love it Isn’t real. In any normal sense look Normal. Be natural. And for Goodness sakes real.

Like a tree. Not an asherah A beautiful tree by a pagan Shrine these words not a kneeling Stone nor an oracle.

But a few choice words. This is

Already the past remember.

No labor but the sumptuous ardor Of work its lustre. Doesn’t anyone Else clean up around here. Isn’t The field guide any kind of help. Well No. My father’s death was A quick affair my father’s Affair lasted longer. I remember little Of this with any pleasure don’t Remember much of it at all Unless you ask me so ask me. What was I Going to say I’ll say it anyway. There.

Call and response slapstick or Engaged. A version of holiness from my Amen corner amen. I think about G-d a lot only abstractly I Think about gods a lot even More abstractly like the trees in Zoe’s book do. She doesn’t get what It’s about but it’s pretty it’s A story and she really loves A good one. She’s five. I’m almost Fifty. Somehow that counts.

And not in my favor. Necessarily. Yes But it’s really too early to tell. Tell me

Does my domestic revanchism in words As a form of deed in my dreams at Least of deeds bother you at all. Or just A bit. It bothers me I raise my voice.

A simple fact it scares me.

Irretrievable. A buried bone. The maple’s Doing poorly under the spruce. A Cherry would be a pleasure in the spring For a time at least. There’s so much To talk about taxes Housework the careful construction of Countless things. A list. I let slip I didn’t mean. Necessarily. And there’s I ignore. Some of what you say about Me is probably true. There Are spirits in the wood smells Amongst the trees little voices in My head not literally. Turns Of phrase amphbolies. They live Elsewhere in the water hanging In the air. That’s between us. Just.

For everyone else I require Action firmness of touch the promise of Lots of skin. An orphic flower. Some of What I say about me is not

Altogether true. Context counts. I didn’t marry My mother. Exactly. And so there’s Hope. Prometheus says this Zeus The old windbag can’t unsay it or Say himself can’t say a blessed Thing I remember but talks and Talks and talks. Some of it scans some Of it is lovely. Some of it might count my Curses remain. Peripheral at best.

Isn’t anyone in charge of this Shit or does it just Happen. Snow in the middle of April.

I mean to say. The tulips actually Flourish in this neglect a dead Head frost against all expectation but The fruit the papers say won’t make It. Mere rapportage. The framing Premise of lucidity only Mine. There are pills for that. A swarm Of words of waxy cells and relations A body Of thought with its pleasures. The body Is a situation. Indeed. A not-so-spacious Not well decorated room with a rented View. Live here then move but where. And When. Don’t think about that again

And again. Mistaken prepositions missed Connections the sheer dislocations of Any given day. This I Believe. In the merest brevity of this Flawed spring dream what you can in The most obvious sense without The aid. The unconscious. Try It. A magnesium shot of sun.

Honeyed words either dissolute or Dissolved I envy them in spite.

Of all the things to try at home.

Son flower soon flower Zoe’s Orthographic innovations. Lucia’s linguistic Quirks. First there was thunderwear then Wonderwear all in due course. Butter on Their matzoh honey on their bread Acacia lovely word o my life And light. Sometimes even the clichés are True. Sometimes even their names Are true. Of everything. Perhaps.

Perhaps the proper articulation of Love is fear but unwillingly. At first.

Most serene objects Of my manic desire o women Children into the lifeboats first o

Captain not a captain me. I Invoke me. In the accusative how Fitting. But who’s keeping score said The little brown fox a few little sprinkles And wind. The forecast for today And on. Talk to the accountant and pick Up the forms. Drop off the forms. Adhere To the forms that you claim you make Up. Which is freedom and destiny all Rolled into one. Modernity on The phone will you pick up.

Leave a message when you hear The beep. You could always finish That line yourself If you make it on time.

Failed Latinity eloquent genius of The crossroads hear me out. This is Less about loss than about losing The maple to record recorded Winds. Don’t be fooled by these Displacements there is a language Of gardens. I don’t understand I Can’t even name. The trees on My block. What don’t I know about Women. My beautiful daughters my Beautiful wife. That they are. Object-

Ively. The magic of compound Interest the agency of the smallest Degree. I have a house of rooms And time to walk pondering.

My sons and daughters. The long tiredness Of passing passing by. This is a block.

To walk along. I have a lot. These Are trees now in bloom the leaves Appreciating this spring’s chill now Reciprocate. A blessing for the first Leaves a blessing for the blossoming Pear a blessing for each single Part. Nevertheless. I worry in Spite or because a register of imPrecise concern. Make a clearing In some symbolic. Sense the smell Of grass the acquisitive heat The stuttering flight of bees.

Forsaken points invocations equi Distance all measure here. The vox pop in A lower key. Map of busy life. Yup I am America sound Of the trees the silent groves. Consider The names of streets consider ELM and OAK and MAPLE. Consider

The pebbled drives. Consider The curving residential so-called Lanes the lights of the numbered Houses yes the rage of fermentation Yes what can be saved can. Surely.

Make soft gatherings under palms such Sedulous waste take it all. In tents In houses in apartments like Yours. We looked out on The night and similar clichĂŠs.

The count your brother. The demo Cratic vistas specimen days my Self the vast republic of forest Trees. An orchid. We rode until tomorrow.

Public silence is nothing in Deed such profligate beginnings Numinous ends. Salience. Redeem me Now names to bring it On Lucia Zoe light and Life. It sometimes works The great circuit clock be still.

At home just be.

Angels of inadvertence guardians of My. The paint splashes wood stains oil Burns off the engine. The slim shank

The thinnest bone. Welcome to the risk Pool welcome to the deep. End. The ongoing Trend is the transfer of risk. From corporate Entities. So much for individuals so much For the bees. Is this right. The colonies Actually collapse the hives empty This is not. A metaphor. So much For us in the water so much for Lucia Running through the sprinkler. O bliss Of suburbia unnecessary sylphs. Brown Grass on the lawn if we had one. A Year’s a perplexity in a month it’s Gone. Both the heat and the humidity.

Old standards tell they do. Tell Me about yourself. O Orpheus pity About your wife. If you had kids Well so much the worse. All The manifest dangers of Retrospect. So much the worse for Cultivated plants cucumbers dates and The trellised vines. So much For the fruit and the fig tree. For Animals both domestic and wild. For The children and for each of the Infinitesimal sources of care. You know

It admit it it. All just rips you apart.

AUGUSTUS YOUNG To say that Augustus Young is Irish is to point to one geographical fact (the second is that he lives in France). It is not however the Ireland of shovels and haystacks, it is the first Ireland, the Ireland of Becket and Joyce. However even such precedents could be all too misleading if they are taken as a defined theory of literature and not the inherent comic nature which is an essential part of the true Irish genius. To say this is not to “cast roses at his feet” –rather it should indicate the avenue from which he should be approached.

THE LAST TESTAMENTS OF MR MISANTHROPE An extract from Mr Misanthrope Abroad. Ulysses O’Neill, the protagonist, alias Mr Misanthrope, is a displaced Irishman with a problem about humanity.

The word ‘humanity’ makes me want to weep.

‘Humane’ as in ‘treatment’ make me spit with scorn.

‘It’s only human’ sticks in the throat. I can’t speak.

‘Humankind’ touches the heart, but comes with a warning. Plain ‘human’ is what I live with, cheek to cheek.

The Third Last Testament I regret not making the usual mistakes, like having children and a social life, but not riding a bike without brakes (speeding out of danger is how to survive).

Caution has been my byword otherwise.

My shell seems a safe place to hear the sea without leaving the room. The tide is me -

the real thing would take me by surprise.

A low tolerance threshold needs its redoubt from people who make me angry with myself for despising their fancy’s deceiving elf.

Dark nights of the soul are my evenings out.

Doubting yourself is a form of self-defence against judgment. It’s certitude drives you insane, says Nietzsche. And he should know. The brain is blinkered by self-belief.

Since luck and me aren’t friends I hedged my bets, and didn’t cheat or neglect to sign the card. Small stakes when the roulette turns have a better chance. But chose not to collect the winnings. I was a loser on my own terms.

Of this I am not proud, and tell myself to sleep with stories of another life. One I dream I am a guest in, and love my fellow man. Now it’s just a question of cutting one’s losses and being buried deep.

The Second Last Testament I did what I think I do best, which doesn’t mean it’s any good. Second best, perhaps, was all I could.

Prematurely ripped from the womb, I didn’t fit.

A pattern set. Too big for my boots. There wasn’t room.

How well it suited me. I eluded all audit.

By playing the class fool in school, I got thrown out, and escaped the punishment of education.

My place in the world was forever in doubt.

I cannot blame my parents. I went with their job of having children and entertaining hopes that the inchoate blobs would grow from model dotes through to revolting youths, and wild oats, to become good citizens, fathers, grey eminents, dotards, and so on.

I couldn’t fault them. What had to be done was done. But they hadn’t reckoned on the stuff of poets.

I unravelled what was expected of a son.

And lived on the dark side of my parents’ lives, revelling in my one-remove from what’s normal.

The angry drone astray from the family hive.

I cut the filial knot with my permanent teeth, wishing they’d been more selfish with me and formal.

The constant attention made me play hide and seek.

My presence behind the bars of human endeavour was as a sparrow in a zoo. I came and went unnoticed by the prize exhibits who were never allowed out without a circus.

Independent, and unrecognised, I dined on crocodiles’ yawns

and flitted between right and wrong, and whatever no one wanted, the life and soul of dirty dawns.

The Very Last Testament The droppings of life cling to the heels of those who don’t know how to walk on the grass. I went straight to the answers at the back. Assertion gains you assent (‘I put in an envelope the seeds of destruction.

And send them in the hope you’ll follow the instructions.’)

I am not without sympathy for lives like shopwindows boarded up; burdened by big dogs and cars, and barely animate children, whose hearts will stop once the bowels cease to function.

They rattle the bars of a consumer prison, and buy into what will extol a fixed existence in an eternal equinox with a static sun. It can’t be good for the soul.

He who claims his fellow man is no better or worse than himself has turned his back on the good, and force of habit will make you accept anything that’s sent by those who only believe in the arsenal (that’s shame is in the face, and in the arse as well).

Buy a gun and change your life. A Superette Spar.

This is no way to live, but as a death it’s promising.

The more you build up arms the less you see the star that guides you to the target, a fellow human being.

He is far too near to focus.

Distance yourself, and target the bull’s-eye. It could be your best friend.

Perspective is lost when the horizon becomes a mirror that reflects a wild beast in a freak show.

That’s me.

Allow me to efface all human traits.

I’ll be a machine that works to keep itself clean, and doesn’t need human intervention.

Acid rain will erode my rust’s notional gold down the drain.

TRUE FICTIONS: THINGS THAT HAPPEN WHILE READING RILKE While I was reading Rilke’s autobiographical novel, Les Cahiers de Malte Laurids Brigge, in a small port town on the border between France and Spain, a strange thing began to happen. I found my real life was interacting with Rilke’s alter ego Malte. And the influence wasn’t merely reality imitating art. Malte was also drawing from my own life.

The Tolerance Threshold

I only answered the door because any outside help is welcome when you’re in writerly despair. A white haired Rasta blessed me with a wooden cross. ‘My Word is Omega and the Devil’s Zero’. I had enough of words and slammed the door in his face. Then disconnected my doorbell.

In the town square I avoid the bible stand. It’s manned by a podgy youth with a yellow stare.

His shorts and sleeveless vest don’t look holy, but on a hot day the habit doesn’t make the

monk. There is a huddle of novena women around him. They know me as the blow-in who from time to time snoops into the Church of Our Lady of Good News to light a candle before the statue of St Expedite. If they approach me I fear I will have to lie, ‘Sorry, I’m a Cork Jew’, a response that always frightens them off.

I linger nearby, lighting my pipe. The sea breeze means I turn my back on them so the lighter does not burn my fingers. My dark glasses make finding the bowl hit or miss. But I won’t remove them. The sun is directly overhead and I feel its cymbals clashing in my head. Why don’t I just walk away? A recidivist’s bad conscience, hanging around the scene of a crime? I really shouldn’t be menacing these good people. They’re selling nothing, except their souls (the literature is free). The Cork Jew ploy is a verbal aggression, being incomprehensible. If I simply said, ‘I prefer not to discuss religion in public places’, and grabbed a pamphlet, everybody would be happy.

On second thoughts the come-on sign for the display, ‘Servez-vous’, is as much a lie as mine.

My choice of pamphlet would offer the holy stallholder a chance to descend on me, and the talk inevitably will come around to ‘Serving God’. And I’d be driven to say ‘What I want is a God to serve me’. Why am I so prickly about others’ beliefs? And so unsure of my own that I take up contrary positions in reaction to them? Is it that I’m a Socratic rationalist constantly on the watch for wrongness in others, distrusting what they think, suspicious of how they behave, and in doubting them, forget about myself, my own beliefs and actions, and settle for cheap logical rejoinders to refute their ‘dubious notions’? I need to remind myself that despite my ‘manly and rational’ rejection of the Thomist tenet – faith before reason – I put faith before reason often enough in my ordinary everyday life.

Maybe it’s the O altitudine titles of the pamphlets on display that make my gorge rise. ‘La Vie’, ‘Love’ (sic) , ‘La Mort’, ‘Dieu’. Extreme subjects, which ought to be tip-toed around, being given the stamp of dogma. I except ‘Moi et Toi’, a practical guide to marriage which addresses conjugal relations in the context of Cicero’s ‘To attempt the friendship of a person whose good looks attract you’. Montaigne would approve. Cheered up by that, I wonder about the new pamphlet I glimpsed last week with ‘Terrorist’ in the title. I hadn’t time to thumb through it before the stallholder came back. I mentioned it to Welsh, who conjectured it could be ‘Promoting a reconciliation between Islam and Christianity brokered by their joint antecedents, the Cork Jews’. But I can’t check the title page without moving so close I’m drawing attention to myself. I don’t have my proper glasses. Still my interest is fired and I hang around some more, and when the novena women move on I nose in on the stand and sneak a look at the titles without catching the yellow eye of the podgy young man. ‘Magnum Temptation’, ‘Solero’, ‘Max Adventures’, ‘Miko’, ‘Bill and Ben’, ‘Cornetto’.

Of course it didn’t happen quite like that. I embroider stories because that’s what writers do.

After breakfast I walked on my glasses (because I was not wearing them), and without them I mistook two rather similar street vendors’ stands (wigwam tripods fronted by sandwich boards advertising their wares). A second glance was enough to disabuse me, and amuse me as well (‘the range of ice-creams is very ecumenical’). I order a vanilla cornetto, my favourite, and while it’s being prepared I’m distracted by an idea. Why should such events be exclusively a matter of either fiction or the truth? Either/or? Something else lurks between them.

The storyteller doesn’t burden his characters with his own ideas. He has the right to use what he has experienced, but must keep the truth to himself and only let it be refracted. He is

educating himself through them. They are testing his beliefs and scepticisms. Thus a fiction, or an imaginary meaning, is created – to paraphrase Locke on ‘negative capability’ – from ‘the impressions he absorbs without preconceptions or any of the certainties’ in order ‘to make sense of what he can’t quite understand’.

Therein the truth of poetry resides, and looms up when least expected. In this instance, the podgy young man comes to mind as Wallace Stevens’s ‘Emperor of Ice-Cream’. The ‘be (that) be (the) finale of seem’, no less, in the flesh. Stevens’s answer to ‘The Snow Man’ (‘the mind of winter’), the ‘Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is’. The snowman melts back into the earth, the vanilla cornetto in the mouth.

Wallace Stevens, in ‘A High-Toned Old Christian Woman’, addresses his titular protagonist, ‘Poetry is the supreme fiction, Madame’, and explicates. The moral law can be fictionalised into a heavenly cliché – an oasis in the desert accompanied by an Aeolian harp, playing itself in a sandstorm. The palm trees are the constant. They are conceptual, and can be held on to by churchy women and poets alike. She nods her head. But the poet makes a volte-face closer to his truth than hers. Allow, Madame, that the fiction can just as easily be seen as an earthly paradise by the men folk flagellating themselves in the Good Friday procession. Palms ‘squiggling like saxophones’ at a Carnival parade with Rio-style women wearing nothing but toothpicks. In the minds of the prancing male pilgrims the conceptual is made flesh. Festively enough to ‘make the widows wince’. How did they read the men’s dirty minds? Their selfsatisfied strut was the giveaway (‘Let be be the finale of seem’).

My podgy Emperor of Ice-Cream hands me the cone of vanilla as Wallace Stevens crows – co-co-rico, cock-a-doodle-dandy – ‘But fictive things/ wink as they will. Wince more when widows wince’. He knew how the imagination works when one is wearing the wrong glasses.

I think of my mid-morning swim, and the young woman with a towel wrapped around her on the cliff overlooking the beach. I thought she was taking photographs of her friends or fancies below with her mobile phone. On closer inspection I came to realise she was eating a pear. A juicy one. Holding it in both hands and standing back to avoid leakage over her person. The poetry of this is a matter of fact, Madame. There’s nothing worse than sticky pear juice on bare flesh. For some.

The supreme fiction is the one we cannot register. For example, most people when they’re young believe they are immortal, and cling to the belief when age catches up with them. They still believe it until it’s proved otherwise. Then it will be too late to accept that they have been deceiving themselves. That is poetry as well, though not of the sublime kind Rilke aspired to. I should have listened to the white haired Rasta. Maybe he had something to tell me.

ERNEST WILLIAMSON III has published poetry and visual art in over 350 national and international online and print journals. He is a Christian, adjunct professor, self-taught pianist, singer, social scientist, private tutor, and a self-taught painter. His poetry has been nominated three times for the Best of the Net Anthology (http://www.sundresspublications.com/).He holds the B.A. and the M.A. in English/Creative Writing/Literature from the University of Memphis and the PhD in Higher Education Leadership from Seton Hall University. Dr. Williamson is 34 years old and a “chess master� with an online rating of 2204. He has been an adjunct professor for 4 years, teaches at Essex County College in Newark, New Jersey and he is an Adjunct Lecturer at Nyack College in Manhattan, New York

Breathing Through The Rubble laity lay with me in the balms aside my trembling rocking chair rarity in cross hairs laid to rest in booms over titled sways one kiss limping with casual sex another note crushing C sharp where am I why is the dearth of death rising from the grave gravel has whipped the light of my angst in abstract words concrete images die and bury spittle not of my own or from my own but in the land deeply removed by the tears of black slaves I have lounged in burning gray

ash and all I find in England is all I found in Paris a can of dragon flies who tend to bite no person but me

Far From Samoa in the lost guild of Samoa beneath the gray tanks of aspartame in the muzzle corroding in the parched sand next to the waters I found the amazing daze dancing like captured red ants streaming down the grayish pulp of minced white bone catching the guild of Samoa every time I held it close not close to me or words of whatever I am but close to displacement out of the trash the mush and must of work into the lap of Black diamond cutters dead ones far from my place far from Samoa

Touting A Relentless Dream I’d die for gray green lichens posing on all of my brick habitat layering a spawn of scrolling cricket songs along the dream I speak into a crab bucket where blue and green veins from Grandma’s hands level the devils of the premature anyway I’d live for a united kingdom in America no segments lessening love with banter or libel because I crave the pulp of Florida rain of California’s hazel orange sun of Colorado’s steep bare mountains but something happened to me something happened to people who look like the mahogany I wear and all I need to know at this point on my death bed in my whim of lackluster sight is a dream doused in veins blue and green ones vessels civilized and working together

Peeling Gray Apples acid from my eyes melts the snow hemlock and bonfires erupt in mid air spoken word poetry has lifted callow bricks brick red dead roads leading to what we reap inside I’ve wrestled with terrorists germs inebriated coughing deep bursting ash from broken ties why must we bomb the earth again! in the same places places common with grinding grit pulse feeds no man in these days poets fill up Abbey Road to find no red wine just drips of water making rhythm with one too many crackled smiling sinks the trees have titled downwardly moaning for fruit for logic for law for order for God

MARY ANGELA DOUGLAS Eschewing all commercial contacts and considerations, and thus not widely known outside her circle of admires, Mary Angela Douglas is one of the most authentic, and prolific, lyrical voices of our time. The editors are then more than delighted that she has given us these poems to publish. Hopefully she will receive the credit and recognition which her work fully merits.

Cracking the Mold They Made for You for Judy Garland cracking the mold they made for you and the little box of starsa voice made of everything living spends all its diamonds in one song and still has more: carved from a nightingale quarryoutdistancing by many rubies anyone else’s rainbow; we’re opening now, a box of skycloudy and bright reconstituting everything submerged and packed in lies you’re pealing out your perfect time in time above all those who couldn’t repair the sheen beyond blue of the bluebird soul savaged by idiots… but she’s in scarlet or in gold and it’s all holiday astonishment againand building the ship around her as she sings breath by breath till breathless in the endnotwithstandingshout Hallelujah! for the rose-bright flare of song illuminating

more than was contracted forI am sure: unique as a sunset thumbprint rainbow-ridged perpetual as dreaming could ever be made to be in sepia or technicolored. you’re all apartrebuilding a burnt-out nest on every stage till it shone like a gold never seen in the land of let’s pretend: a metasong sailing into space becoming only you – yourselfwhere is the place for us and all our encores broken from the stem like the home you made for music all along? the seam in the earthquake shifts and is never the same 22 september 2011

Lieutenant Colombo Drops by the Dollhouse on Christmas Day watching their very first rerun of cooking with rosepetals (on the dollhouse tv) straight out of the box the small dolls couldn’t be happiereven if they can’t tell how to change the channel. somehow, bills never come so why worry? tonight’s a feast as it will be, always: there’s the stewpot

ready – the parsnips and carrots glued to the kitchen table beside the Big Spoon. the immovable cherry pie on the sideboard and “beautifully latticed, if you don’t mind my saying…” but why do the curtains sway in the breeze when nothing else here ever budges? they’re tightlipped but smiling. besides, there’s roses in their checks. oh, and one more thing… why is that plastic porchlight always on?

6 september 2011

Green Were the Worlds We Lived in Then green were the worlds we lived in then; green worlds have not departed. moss of the stars, sheared damson petals breaking off from shifted moonlight in my mid-speechI’m sorry.

I’ll take the drenching word again I laid aside and presume to speak till it all comes clear that you breathe the stars you breathe the clouds and carry the winds of

greeness in your pocketsnot only for an april, but ever-after… through troubles bending the wings of your lost angels still it is all this seeming Emerald we are meant to keep as the Heart’s own Trustthough it spills over like a cataract whenever it is that God may choose this blossoming at Your Side…

9 september 2011

Forgotten Waltz No. 2 (after Liszt) subsiding in the crystal wave, the mermaid turns of phrasing let us renounce while we still can the plated words, the minimal things to say that wear off quickly and betraywhile the heart’s own music is buried. oh when will the jeweled cathedral rise from the lake of mere forgetfulness; the sword be taken back from the glistening handand who told you the prospering word, laconic day was goldand a necessary armour?

3 september 2011

Blake to William Blake I saw you walking the hills of green. angels on either side of you, conversing and cherry-bought bells resounding in the dove-sought skies such flame-tinged clouds appearing: yes and the fleece of skies that you loved oncethe cirrus roses… you were so happy with an ink-stained smilepeeling a scroll of topaz from a frayed coat pocket, meant for the martyred poets. you said: don’t cry anymore all consternation’s fled, don’t cry, no rose is dead. art is a shining ship, delivered: the choken river’s spanned. the mocking charter’s been revoked. they hoped your vision was a sinking sun marked by three crosses on a stolen hill, but the day is a flower endlessly fluted, and cut in crystal now where tygers kept their radiant promisewhere darkness is banished to a farther castle and the face of the Lamb is so revealed whenever we are speaking in our sheer unfiltered gold and realize we are still alive my bartered friend!

a bright wind drives your mended sails toward home with the diamond husk of all your poems received, the heart of it believed in when you say that all your trees are filled with singing now where nothing, nothing is a bane how blazingly the Light of every poem remains-

22 august 2011, 2 december 2005, 19 september 2005

FRANK DE VOS From his base in the Hoboken district of his native Antwerp Frank De Vos is active as poet, musician, painter, defended of villages threatened by neo-liberal considerations, and tireless promoter of the arts. The work published here was also selected for inclusion for the Liber Amicorum recently presented to the poet-painter Kari Bert.

NOLI ME TANGERE

Noli me tangere.

Sta mij toe, o zo barok, het mijne. ‘ En écoutant les autres pour devenir quelqu’un on devient quel-con(que)’ Een variatie op een Frans gezegde door Annmarie Sauer. ‘ …omdat van iedereen iets in mij is, heb ik nooit bij iemand gehoord, en zelfs hun haat voor mij heb ik begrepen’ Christa Wolf.

I. Ik heb me in mijn aarde geplant om nooit nog in andere te delen. Tevergeefs het aanhoren, van langgerekte blijken, het ontwijken.

Ik weet me nu in elk vers tot mij: een gedoogzone die mij riep, tot het zonevreemde ten volle tot mezelf verheven, met heldere mond behept.

Ik draag nu het schitterende kleed van de allene.

Het omhuist en looft mij met de laurierkrans

van triomf en lommerrijke bomen.

II. Dit kleed is een woord: een botte spier van spraak, verstomd door het gewoel, het opgestoven zand. de enkeling: een bibberend paard op stal dat rilt voor de stampede van toevloed en gejoel, en welomlijnd die kilte likt, en stout in stilte zwijgt voor zijn houdbaarheid.

Hoe schitterend dit kleed en wankel.

III. Dit kleed is een schil, het thuis, het elders gefluister niet vergeten; de uren van wederkeer, de oppoetsbeurten met een afgestempeld onderhoudsboek, het natte geblèr. (met gezegden uit dwaze reizen van onzin, ontbinding.) de haargrens van verglijden dat dartel ligt te blijken met koorts aan infuzen als orgelpijpen, de schaduw aan de kant gerold, de vriendelijke lakens terzijde.

Want hij die zijn schil vergooit is een aap.

IV. Dit kleed is beter nog dan het radeloze pad, bij het nekvel gegrepen leegte, de lijnen die het aangezicht vertrekken en kneedden. beter nog dan het lippen aan de luister van een praatpaal, verschaald met vale taal. beter nog in de vuurloop van het aanbod, er ongebreideld dan een kleffe vraag die de iris van de ogen schroeit als een rammelend kadaver. beter nog dan een factotum aan het dolgedraaide rad, en zonder titel in een gedicht geslepen.

V. Dit kleed is vol genade van een krakend bed gelicht, en dra in lege straten die tussen ru誰nes wenen, de klamme hand voor mond en ogen. met cyclopisch zicht op wilde rozen in het kale land van rots en zand, de wind: een verwachte echo van een wervelende storm en zwarte gaten.

een open zenuw, een smeedijzeren woord, uitgestanst en zoals Hamlet doolt in een act zonder keuze.

VI. Dit kleed is het rafelige, restje huid aan een schedel, en zompend tussen dode vissen; lappenpoppen zonder vulling in een opgedroogde vijver. te vertrouwd voor woorden van een verkeersader gelopen, zwaar gehavend, zwartgeblakerd, afgemeerd in de drab op begane grond, de jaloezieĂŤn schalks en door leeftijd niet vermoeid, gesloten. uiteindelijk, o vanitas met stierenbloed bekleed, de dracht van een vluchtige scheur aan wiens hand een gouden ring het ooit aan een dode vinger siert.

RICHARD FOQUE architect and poet; visiting professor at various international Universities, teaches at the Henry van de Velde Institute in Antwerp. Author of various publications –architectural and poetic http://richardfoque.blogspot.com/

AT WALKING DISTANCE The Oregon Songs

Dancing with the moon You go with the flow and dance with the moon you sleep with the sun and speak to the wind your words shadows in the sky your thoughts just asking why You pass all borders you take no orders you are dancing with the moon dancing with the moon .

You break the rules and bear no master you distrust the truth and put yourself to question

but the answers are hidden your soul remains disguised.

You pass all borders you take no orders you are dancing with the moon dancing with the moon .

You are the eternal mover the nomad of the mind you are the high wire walker and nobody knows the secret your home is where you are you go with the flow.

You pass all borders you take no orders you are dancing with the moon dancing with the moon .

Down at the Oregon coast

Down at the Oregon coast life ends at the ocean where sand buries the landscape to let the wind to take it away my heart is empty

my heart is full of pain I feel death walking around me all your efforts are in vain Evening falls my love and covers your stillborn child ships are sailing back to the harbour it will be a silent night

Down at the Oregon coast seagulls stare at the seashore where water washes up the stones to let the waves erase all traces my head is empty my head is full of anger I feel despair growing inside me too late to see the danger Evening falls my love and covers your stillborn child ships are sailing back to the harbour it will be a silent night Down at the Oregon coast clouds conceal the souls where rain carries along the grief to let it seep through the ground my body is empty

my body is full of pain I feel coldness coming over me and nothing more to explain Evening falls my love and covers your stillborn child ships are sailing back to the harbour it will be a silent night

We walked a different road We shall meet in the court-yard on the brink of dawn and between these holy walls at the fountain of peace we shall speak at least

You said you should’nt worry everything will be all right but your hands were shaking and your face fearful and white

We walked a different road you took the lonely one I took the steep but we both carried the load till there was nothing more to keep We did’nt notice the parting of our ways

we lost each other’s track we all were part of that lethal race ruthless and hopeless till it cracks

You said you should’nt worry everything will be all right but your hands were shaking and your face fearful and white

We played a different game we throw the dice in vain but the rules remained the same till there was nothing more to gain We could’nt tell what was right what was wrong the truth faded into a lie the masquerade took far too long and passion was waiting to die You said you should’nt worry everything will be all right but your hands were shaking and your face fearful and white We shall meet in the court-yard on the brink of dawn and between these holy walls at the fountain of peace

we shall speak at least

You are a dancer You are a dancer born in a beam of light to create out of movement space distance and time

Tell me a story invent me a tale only by touching the words on your way draw me a picture paint me a dream and fill the air with your heavenly grace be my imagination in motion be my muse of the mind Put on the music play me a tune only by blowing a breeze to the moon give me a signal show me a trace and wrap me up in your bodily space be my imagination in motion be my muse for the night Change position there is no point of view don’t explain the magic just explore my faith you take my future you steel my past and what you show is a transient now

be my imagination in motion be my muse tonight Cause you are a dancer born in a beam of light to create out of movement space distance and time

Exploring the darklands Exploring the Darklands travelling the road to nowhere trespassing on the borders of existence to loose reality to conquer our destination and the landscape is a signal the landscape is a warning the landscape is a patient friend it will protect us from all seducing danger Be now my travel companion time has come to depart for the ultimate quest there will be no rewards nor memories left we all are marching in the same direction.

Exploring the Darklands searching for the impossible passing the gates of the underworld to loose all tracks to regain imagination

and the doors are closed forever the doors are sealed with faith the doors are leading nowhere they will take us to the wasteland forever waiting Be now my travel companion time has come to depart for the ultimate quest there will be no rewards nor memories left we all are marching in the same direction.

Exploring the Darklands entering the kingdom of Charoon crossing the waters of the Lethe river to forgive all sins to become reborn and listen to the cry of the vulture listen to the silence of the snake listen to the songs of the siren they will guide us through our final wake Be now my travel companion time has come to depart for the ultimate quest there will be no rewards nor memories left we all are marching in the same direction.

Song for a dancer

This is a song for a dancer who danced with me all night to experience the lightness of being the gravity of light.

You took my body in confusion by that gentle gracious move and your skin was just pretending there should be distance in between us.

You carried me along the spirals of your endless fingertips and my lips were only touching there should be distance all around us.

This is a song for a dancer she danced with me all night to discover the lightness of being the gravity of light.

You bewitched me with your magic eyes by the perfume of a smile and you made me almost weightless there was only motion inside us.

You taught me the rites of the lotus out of the book of love

and my mind was drowned in a whirl there was just motion around us.

This is a song for a dancer she danced with me all night to know the lightness of being the gravity of light.

You let me into the secrets of your seven sacred veils and my eyes were blinded by beauty there was only passion between us.

You took my body by my soul to keep it as a whole and your skin was only confirming there was nothing in between us.

This is the song for the dancer who danced with me all night to feel the lightness of being the gravity of light.

In circles we drowned I don’t remember where I met here Laura has been always there to fill the lavender sky with laughter and delight

summer season in the south of France Laura learned me how to dance to dance with Italian elegance a grand old Viennese waltz.

And around and around in circles we drowned Around and around in circles we drowned, in circles we drowned.

In her house looking at the bay of Nice Laura brought me perfect peace to enjoy with unfailing faith an old fashioned precious love it was a year of everlasting bliss Laura learned me how to kiss to kiss with the eyes wide shut her never ending lips And around and around in circles we drowned Around and around in circles we drowned, in circles we drowned.

Every morning waking up beside her Laura touched me with her smile to free me from my nightmare and bring me back to open air in the evening when the sun went by Laura learned me how to fly to fly with wings of passion off into the unknown sky And around and around in circles we drowned

Around and around in circles we drowned, in circles we drowned.

The Lady of the Lake (Tribute to Leonard Cohen) Her house is hidden between the forest and the shore you hardly see a trace of her secret hiding place.

You need a boat to go there you have to trust the water to reach her but you know her door is always open you know she will be waiting to take your coat to save your soul the lady of the lake.

She knows your secrets the ones you have sealed long ago she tells you how to cope by giving a glimpse of hope.

You need a boat to go there you have to trust the water to reach her but you know her door is always open you know she will be waiting to take your coat

to save your soul the lady of the lake.

She binds up your wounds with her tenderness and love you gently take her hand nothing more to understand.

You need a boat to go there you have to trust the water to reach her but you know her door is always open you know she will be waiting to take your coat to save your soul the lady of the lake.

You want to stay forever between the forest and the shore you want to keep a trace of that secret healing place.

You need a boat to go there you have to trust the water to reach her but you know her door is always open you know she will be waiting to take your coat to save your soul the lady of the lake.

Nothing will remain

Nothing will remain, nothing will sustain nor the pleasure nor the pain everything will pass the first things and the last so make it happen let it be make love to me give me the illusion of eternity` as at the end of the day you’ll walk away.

No love can stay alive, no passion can survive nor the whispers nor the cries everything will die the true things and the lies so make it happen let it be make love to me give me the illusion of eternity` as at the end of the day you’ll walk away.

Beauty will fade away, no wonder will stay

nor the smiles nor the tears everything will disappear the tenderness and the fears so make it happen let it be make love to me give me the illusion of eternity` as at the end of the day you’ll walk away.

Love was at walking distance You passed me at the gate of the graveyard early that morning in may spring that year did not even start it promised to be a chilly day And your face was white and grey walking down that pathway to your mother’s grave and you did not see the evidence love was at walking distance

I was standing under that Japanese tree mist was covering the stone your silhouette fragile as it never has been a desperate cold chilled you to the bone

And your face was white and grey walking down that pathway to your mother’s grave and you did not see the evidence love was at walking distance

You did not notice my mere existence your mind was locked by grief unspeakable fearful and tense as there was nothing leftover to leave And your face was white and grey walking down that pathway to your mother’s grave and you did not see the evidence love was at walking distance

And all I could do was following you along that lonely stony road I failed to hold what you had lost what you tried to hide underneath your coat And your face was white and grey walking down that pathway to your mother’s grave and you did not see the evidence love was at walking distance You kneeled in front the flowers and the cross silence was whispering your pray when you spoke to your mother lost

give me a reason show me a way But your face was white and grey walking down that pathway to your mother’s grave and you did not see the evidence love was at walking distance

TATJANA DEBELJACKI born 1967 in Užice. Writes poetry, short stories, stories and haiku. Member of Association of Writers of Serbia -UKS since 2004 and Haiku Society of Serbia- Deputy editor of Diogen. http://diogen.weebly.com/redakcijaeditorial-board.html Editor of the magazine “Poeta”, four books of poetry published: Email/Websites/Blogs http://debeljacki.mojblog.rs/ & http://twitter.com/debeljacki

Ne-brižljivim Gubi se u sivilu samoće.

Uljez saznanja-šum iz uma.

Nejasna nit, strasna, surova, bdi.

Plod nije zavera.

Ludak, genije tišine!

Približi se neizrecivom.

Analiza razuma-ropstvo!

U šetnji, vidni stid!

Uzbudljiva autonomija, Otvoreni vrata,prozori, Promaja!

U magli stepenice Vode ka nebu.

Paralizovana savest, Pokretno ogledalo.

U množini protiv rečitih, Dirigovanja, ponašanja, I priznati krivicu.

Crta koja spaja, Put u svemirski brod.

Mimoilzimo sa omalovažanjem.

Bronzana žena, Bakarni čovek!!!

(To-uncaring Lost in the grey loneliness.

Cognition intruder – rustling from the mind.

Unclear thread, passionate, cruel, is awaken.

The fruit is not conspiracy.

The lunatic, genius of silence!

Get closer to the unspoken.

The analysis of reason- slavery!

During walking, visible shame!

Exciting autonomy, Opened door, the windows, Draft!

In the mist the stairways Leading to heaven.

Paralyzed conscience, Portable mirror.

In the plural against the fluency, Conducting, behavior, And admit the guilt.

The line connecting, The road to the spacecraft.

We walk on by in dishonor.

Bronze woman, Brass man!!!)

JAPAN U APRILU Istinski silna, neoprezna ponekad, Žudim nema i daleka!

Obnažena, ispunjena savršenstvom, Pohađam uživanja!!!

Gde ima poverenja ima i radosti.

Nikad nije slikao moju strast, Snove od boje do reči, Bez neizvesnosti i jeze.

Trenutak svetlosti me pogođa.

Utiskuje japanski zrak na lice.

April lagano izliva boje, Nad udvojenim senama što plešu.

(JAPAN IN APRIL Truly stunning, sometimes careless, I crave silently and far away!

Naked, filled up with perfection, I am attending enjoyment!!!

Where there is trust there is always glee.

He never painted my passion,

Dreams from the color to the word, Without suspense and shivers.

The moment of light strikes me.

Pressing Japanese air onto my face.

April is slowly spilling its colors, above duplicate shadows dancing away.)

NA BELINI Za buket ruža vezane noge; Ruke slobodne za molitvu; Kosu prekili pupoljci; Ime joj nosi ponosni paun.

Anđeoska svetlosti obasjaj Sliku žute ruže i blud.

Sveci bez stida i straha.

Ljubav menja nas.

Oduzeli su joj Igračke i ljubavnika.

(IN THE WHITENESS Legs tied to a bouquet of roses; hands free for prayer; hair covered by buds; her name born by a proud peacock.

Angel light, illuminate the image of a yellow rose and promiscuity Saints shameless and fearless.

Love alters us.

They deprived it of toys and a lover.)

TAM-TAM Tražim boju i svetlost Sve obuzeto ritmom, Sad znam ples crnih ljudi Samo ne gazim tepih od peska

Tam- tam je sad igra Mački i pasa Zamislite šta se sve zbiva U uzbuđenoj gomili Ja ritam i zvuk, Sadašnjost i prošlost Evo me!

Ustanite svi!

Ti, stranče, Što tapkaš sa mnom Da li bi mogao voleti, Il` samo igrati tam-tam?

Moje proleće dolazi!

Zato ne gladnim, ne žednim, Ne tugujem, ne plašim se Ostavljam heroje i ratove, Njihove bitke i poraze Sloboda mi je cilj.

Proleće moje dolazi Jer znam jedan lagani ples, Ples uz BUBNJEVE.

(TAM-TAM I’m looking for the colour and ligh Everything taken by the rhythm, Now I know the dance of the black people It’s just I don’t walk upon the carpet of sand Tam- tam is now the dance Of cats and dogs Try to think of what is happening In the excited crowd Me the rhythm and sound, Present and past Here I am!

Everybody stand up!

You, stranger, Stomping with me Could you love, Or just dance tam-tam?

My spring is coming!

That is why I don’t get hungry, thirsty, I’m not sad, I’m not afraid I leave heroes and wars behind, Their battles and defeats Freedom is my goal.

My spring is coming Because I know one slow dance, Dance to the sound of DRUMS.)

ZA-SLUGE Dolazak koristi za pripremu buduće psihodramske šanse.

Mašta nadvila svoju senu nad srećnom prošlošću.

Prtiv-volja otvara manifestaciju, beskućnik promišljeno, zadovoljno postiže i zadržava zavisnost, oplemenjuje uskladjenost vrelinom prljavština. Na delu miris parfema neutralisan votkom, skida se da ne izgužva odelo.

Ljubomora ga pita kad je prevari? Pre dva meseca!

Stalna, trajna izdaja, neskoncetrisana…

Strašljiv, plašljiv, muževan glas u znaku uzvika! Žudnja i strast su dalekovidne!

Egoizmom negativne, iz nirvane metafizičke strasti Sta si se uhvatio za nju ko dete mami za suknju!!!

(TO – HINDS Arrival he is using as the preparation Of the future pychodramatic chance.

Imagination is hindering the good old days with its shadow.

The against- will is opening the occasion, The homeless thoughtfully, satisfied Reaches and maintains the dependanc, enriches Harmony with the heat of dirt. Red handed scent of perfume Neutralized with vodka, taking his clothes off not to crease them.

The jealousy asked him when he had cheated her? Two months ago!

Continuous, permanent betrayal, not concentrated …

Timid, scared, manlike voice in the exclamation mark!

Lust and desire are long-sighted!

Negative because of egoism, from the nirvana of metaphysical lust Why are you grappling it as a child does to his mother’s skirt!!! )

GORD-A-DAN KORENJE VIDOVITO, NADIRE NEDOKUČIVE MUDROSTI. TAKO POČINJE, VARLJIV JE POGLED NA VREME. ČAS JE DA UGLEDAMO POTONULE .RAZUMEŠ LI ŠTO ČITAŠ? DONOSIŠ ONO MALO STO ŽELIŠ. TVOJ LIK JOŠ RASTE I PLAČE. PRIBLIŽAVANJE I UDALJAVANJE ,SILNA SLABOST. SVET ŠTO SE PRUŽA I NE PRIPADA NIKOME ,DAJ NEŠTO OD SEBE ŠTO DAJE SMISAO IZ NITI VOLJE. POGLEDAJ DRUGIM POGLEDIMA NA SVETLOST. ZLO JE OPASNA ZARAZNA BOLEST, ISELI SE IZ ZLA ,ONO PRODUŽAVA VEK.»GORD-ADAN» SUZE REKE SAD ŽUBORE,PAS SVILI, NEMA TE. OTRGNI SE LJUBIM TE! I NEČUJNO KROZ OTVORENA VRATA DOĐI NA GOZBU OČUVANIH OSEĆANJA ,SNOVIĐENJA NA RADOST! DOSTOJAN DAR , GLADNU ŽUDNJU U POSTELJI OD PERJA , SVILA BELA KO SNEG ,SNAGOM TIŠINE. CVETOVI MASLAČKA ,PLEŠIMO IZ DALEKA POGLEDIMA, TELIMA, DODIRUJ MO SE SAMO DLANOVIM A.

(GORD-A-DAN THE ROOTS ARE CLAIRVOYANT, GRASPING UNTOUHABLE WISDOM. THAT IS THE WAY IT STARTS, THE SIGN OF TIMES IS DECEIVING. IT IS THE TIME TO SEE THE DROWNED. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE READING? YOU ARE BRINGING AS SMALL AMOUNTS AS YOU LIKE TO. YOUR IMAGE IS STILL GROWING AND CRYING. COMING CLOSER AND GOING AWAY, STRONG

WEAKNESS. THE WORLD THAT IS SPREADING BUT DOES NOT BELONG TO ANYONE, GIVE SOMETHING FROM YOURSELF THAT COULD BRING SENSE FROM THE THREAD OF WILL. TRY LOOKING WITH DIFFERENT EYES TO THE LIGHT. EVIL ISDANGEROUS, CONTAGEOUS ILLNESS, MOVE OUT OF THAT EVIL, IT MAKES THE ENTURY LONGER.”GORD-A-DAN” THE TEAR RIVERS ARE NOW MURMURING, THE DOG IS WAILING, YOU ARE GONE. BEAK LOOSE I BEG YOU! AND SLENTLY, THROUGH THE OPEN DOOR, COME TO ATTEND THE FEAST OF PRESERVED EMOTIONS, DAYDREAMS, THE HAPPY MOMENTS! DECENT GIFT, HUNGRY CRAVING IN THE BUNK OF FETAHRES, SILK AS PURE AS THE SNOW, WITH THE FORCE OF SILENCE. FLOWERS OF DANDELLIONS LET’S DANCE FROM AFAR WITH OUR LOOKS, WITH OUR BODIES, LET’S TOUCH WIT PALMS ONLY.)

ERNEST WILLIAMSON III Semiotic Philosophy and Abstract Expressionism “Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.” Thomas Merton Philosophy, like faith, clings to every human being, whether consciously or unconsciously. Semiotics is the study of signs ,and abstract expressionism is a genre of fine art which transcends concrete realism and mundane expressionism via usage of higher order thinking skills in environments devoid of uniformity and day to day functionalism. Semiotic Philosophy germinates in the lives of all artists, though they may not be aware of its existence during early life. The relationship between Semiotic Philosophy and Abstract Expressionism is of great relevance to the maturation of art, artist, and spectator in three distinct and important manners.

Art is replete with signs, metaphors, and teething innuendoes. The work of Pollack, at first glance, corrupts the logic of spectators due to the immediacy and striking expressions emanating from his work. However, once the spectator meditates on the work of Pollack, he or she begins to apply or assume a semiotic reality with the piece. Indeed, potentially every ‘thing’ is a metaphor and every ‘thing’ potentially leaks innuendo; but true art, true Abstract Expressionism, demands from the artist and the spectator placement of some degree of semiotic explication otherwise the worth and relevance of the ‘art’ diminishes.

An artist is a sign, a philosopher, and a slave to emotive revelation. Vincent Van Gogh is as much a work of art as his artwork. In Starry Night, the ‘stagnant movements’ in the brush strokes and the brilliance and darkness of the coloring clearly mimic the very life of Van Gogh. His work is both sane and insane and Vincent Van Gogh was both sane and insane.

The balance of sanity and insanity seems to be the crux of Van Gogh’s genius, of Van Gogh’s philosophy, and of Van Gogh’s passionate struggles and challenges.

The spectator of art must have a ‘semiotic conscious’, and human beings, we have such a conscious, though many times in life we fail to meditate on semiotics and its relationship to philosophy and abstract art. One cannot fathom the internal and external purposes, relevance, meanings, successes, and failures of abstract expressionistic artwork, without implementing associative learning interaction with some other ‘thing’, with some other art.

Everyone is a work of art and everyone is an artist, but most of us do not cultivate ‘the artist within’. Perhaps, all of us can learn from artists who expose their works by learning how we see ourselves and how our ‘selves’ see us.

RODICA DRAGHINCESCU Rumanian poet, editor of Levure Litteraire, widely recognised for the range of her abilities and styles; her work was included in Hildagard’s Daughters, a recent ebook from The Green Door

HOLES In the bloodless bottomless pit. In the basement of nuances. Lower than the lair of language, lower than the cellars of words, lower than the holes of urgent reality. It is neither easy to understand, nor beautiful, nor impossible, nor the bible, nor porn. Instead it is weird and complicated (vowels and consonants made mouldy through forbidden feelings and words): then, other complications: the spoken letter, the amplified sounds, the erection of the brain in the hole of language, etc.

Many people confuse the beginning of a thought with the end of a word. At the lowest point in the endless. Lower than the end, lower than the beginning. It’s not permitted, but it lets you live the opposite. A(ll) lone at the entrance of the. Of the life and of the death of words. Of fate in the catacombs of saying.

The word takes charge of the life of death and the death of life. The life of the dead pulls on the elastic of silence and so on.

Many people knock at the door of words with an image. And at the door of images with a word. Orators and image-makers, death rakes them all in, like a mechanical street sweeper.

Run for your life!

There is a biggish word in my saliva, which takes itself for a sand pit. Night and day, of the I love what I don’t love, I don’t love what I love, I love what I don’t love kind. Sand filling the holes of longings.

The lowest. Lower, lower than living people. Lower than the holes of memory. In the lowest.

Swishing holes, in case of danger and pleasure, holes of interdictions, holes of thirst of hunger of luxury of the fear of age, holes examples of the ozone layer, holes of exaggerated time, holes of ex-holes, blah, blah, la, la, la.

An individual or a family of individuals has the right to dig one hole in life and in death another, according to the well-known rules of addition: 1+1=2, though that doesn’t make much. The second hole is a grave into which is dropped a man or a woman or their parents or their children, and words in accordance with “to,” and more or less big, more or less salty tears. Death has a taste.

In any case (…).

I go from one extreme to another, like a tooth extraction without anaesthesia.

Holes from one house to the next. Holes, simple and grey, simple, grey people. Make the hole = enlarge, expand or destroy? That depends on what you want to do here.

From the point of view of the town hall of my hometown, I have a registered hole, on the model of all the apartments in my building. The addition of all the neighbouring holes gives info on the bicycle sheds, national flags, Communist Basque berets, political papers, portraits of fascists, jam, constitutions, black shirts, view cards, from the prince –the reigning one, the bastard P., from nephew A., from the good King M., all exiled in Switzerland, red lace, refined rats and cockroaches, holes in cement or in earth, 2 x 2 = 4 m. In those holes one imagines the hope of a dormer. What counts is the little door, the key outside, gently towards hell. The other consequences are not valid if you have no key no handle. It’s true, it’s my fault, but I regret nothing, I go on. There are stories for soothing memory and others to stimulate it. Words that open and close automatically and open one last time, for memory.

Memory? Braid of three women: my grandma, me, us three (granny – me – memory), an illegal hole, memory, gram – mama – me, protected against the evil, the sorrow, the criminal, in the threatening plural.

I have not yet written my memoirs, although I have surplus to sell, I have written pamphlets on the filthiness of people without memory, but in political power. On the grime of capitalistscommunistssocialists, on the bloody love of politics with the peoples, on the poverty of the countries between which I live.

The holes of political love. It metamorphoses Cupid and vice versa. Politics is erotic.

Eroticism does politics, at least between two organs of power in small society. Always something to put holes in, to insert, to occupy.

Can we break through emotional memory?

I’m not cheating. It is time that makes holes and empties words. I am its illegal image, without right, law, people, president, without party, without the European Union, without NATO, etc (…). I am underground, and the world will be crazy in love with my undergroundedness.

This poem is not yet underground, but the one who waits in my tears will be. A poem lives and circulates without the poet, without the consent of border guards, without love, fear, pain.

Poetry is like rain, it does what it wants and as much as necessary.

I dream out loud, an exiled woman. Out loud something frays, dissipates, runs out. It’s my tongue. You can’t ramble on about a tongue with expressions that have nothing to do with, that is, the tongue of a shrew.

Here and there, my lovers divvy up slices of beef tongue. Will we eat this tongue unfolded over us? We don’t eat it, only contemplate it. Famished, the dogpoem shows us its fangs. It scares all the undersigned.

Love tastes the madness of death, in the language of the dead, at the (…). Love has taste. A distinctive taste. Words of love, deaths because of words of love, in the hole of poetry my poem plays on a woman naked and wise. Gentle, peaceful, generous, it licks my wounds, lets its saliva drip into my blood, it arranges itself in the hole, violently pushes my shapes to the

surface and tosses me into the air. That makes for Zola-like images, but that’s okay, in every Zola there is a sacrificed romantic.

There are enough people who no longer love, but who want to be loved. All their words of love are “bitter-sweet-sour speech.” It grows and blossoms in the ceremonies of the tongue.

Who with whom? Who because of whom? The lowest. Lower than the “never seen.”

Every equality makes poetry free. Every illegality ennobles the mystery of a poem!

Stuttgart, January 16-20, 2005 translated by Howard Scott

Fence (original: French = Cloison) …precisely inside this lack of will, text is in sex ))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))), its letters have echoes, no images.

They howl YOU, WILDCAT! FEMALE I bury my fangs in their forms I drag them to the end of meaning Difficulty passes for investigation, peril, love, GOOD EVENING! During the day, I sell metres and kilometres of solitude In the name of a so-called grandpa, Poetic theories can go to the devil!

Long live the idea (of filling a poem with breasts,

thighs, organs, directions, distances) that suits Rest, Nothingness, the Ephemeral!

The text rises above the closed space: It howls horribly like a jungle penetrated by the storm At the level of metabolism of the image It’s always the sounds that make dream A talking nightmare (distances? directions? blanks?!)

How can I count, establish the coincidences?

My text looks like Virile germs doing gymnastics For wanting to crush us?!

As my consciousness is raised and grows, I feel more ill at ease, when the Adams Recommend me to the Adams: POETESS, that is, EVE, LOVER, erotic notion Usually hidden in the language And because for me, the truth is another, Quasi-love recalls the physics of the rocking chair How is woman born? Around her!

What dimension of her howling between the question

And its solution, do you prefer?

In this rigid space, where I still measure The footsteps of others… … … … … … … … … … … flashing, furtive, the cocks fight, outside, for a blade of grass… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … on the other side the body digs its ditch, a conscience mired in holy mud Will I escape? Do I swim? Will I get there?

Here I am: the spokesperson for the WILDCAT-IN-FREEDOM (lover, enemy, parent, stranger) Me? My name is YOU. (It’s good that the broken illusion becomes resistance) The more gentle the wildcat (the domesticated female), the more the image of its use will be fierce, in language, that is? in language of course And because for me, YOU = THE WILDCAT, since forever, QUASI-LOVE is only the alchemy of a certain point You will be there, if you stop there, but if you stopped, you would not be there! the more the point is like a leap to the perch, the more the position of the leap recalls ACHILLES, the legendary,

In which language? While writing with the body, It happens often with solitary people: To fall in love with a wall, with a pendulum‌ And I (GOOD EVENING!) am the mason of that bizarre space!

Nothing more legitimate, practising writing in pain Listen to that mmmmmmmrnmnmmmgggggggrrrrmgr (growling through) How can I get permission to devour my text (my customer? my lover?)? Head down, flawless, until (you can distinguish a series of indivisible acts) ME, I, YOU, YOU (change of questions in all the meanings that happen and that I accept as desires, longings, desiiiiires!)

After, I run away. When I run, I judge perfectly. If that absurd instant gives me advantages over you, excuse me, but running straight ahead, I feel exceptionally ‌.

Fence on the left, Fence behind, Wall on the right,

Wall on the left … (where ARE YOU, ZENO OF ELEA? ? ? ?)

By killing the barriers, walls, fences, partitions, I search for you, my love, in these murmurings, In all that that bla-bla …. I search for you I keep you, I do not trick the absurdity or the meaning of patched memories (How could it be possible that the one that is moving can coincide with the one that does not move?!)

Lack of lucidity turns my head: THERE IS NOTHING BUT MY WRITING, ALWAYS READY TO TAKE VICTIMS …

Translated by HOWARD SCOTT

THE WINE OF LIFE It’s not so It’s not so you It’s not so that It’s not so that you It’s not so that you’ll explode your heart with my body Like the starving boa that swallows itself, while swallowing its prey It’s not because you’re lying, cheating in your oval mirrors

Spitting your snake blood and your old biblical skin, to the left, to the right It’s not because you are what you’re not It’s not, it’s not that, None of that!

It’s not It’s not that It’s not so that It’s not that you grab me It’s not that I It’s not so that I scrape the ground with your name, drawing wine from another life No, it’s not that! It’s not that!

None of that!

JACKY TANGE

MARTIN BURKE (see previous issues for biographical information)

AT THE POST HOTEL CAFE The window opening in to your life opens out to possibilities only a sky can satisfy Through which, should a dove….

Yet for this there is no ritual text nor infallible rite to ensure a possibility becomes an established fact That anything is possible is something you have always known but now you know it more (Whatever you expect will be exceeded by what happens) It is possible that angels are arguing where a painter is waiting for the discussion to subside so as to begin While another hopes to catch the exact flux of it as it happens Yet if one achieves his thesis the other will accuse him of betrayal and the argument of angels become the arguments of men Somewhere in the background there is a soft and knowing laughter but it does not come from me * So, will we draw conclusions?

We will not The moment is in motion – anything can happen * The Flemish masters –whose perceptions preceded theology or dogma, were never more accurate than when they said here is the painting, see it for yourself So that even in Ensor, their wily descendent, everything hinges on completing the narrative within yourself

Where until that happens nothing has happened And nothing ever will * Already I picture a woman sitting here reading a book A moment, so Borges tells us, which happens because it must and in which even a casual bystander is called upon to play an appointed role Yet the flux has solidity and her book is left, deliberately, open at a certain page Not, so that she’ll know the point from she must continue from But that we might turn the text upside down and read it for ourselves * The angels pause in their arguing They also want to know what we want to know And Ensor paints his masks for the world Not for the world to hide behind but to look through and see what angels’ see * What’s’ not included in the frame is there by implication If the good burgers of Brugge do not go to the sea then the sea will wash inland for it will not be ignored Refuse it? You might as well attempt to refute the proof an angel gives for his condition For the moment however that moment is off-stage but you know it will make an entrance As if the necessity to speak was enough in itself to fulfil itself with a handful of words thrown into a way-side ditch By someone on their way to Jerusalem * The length of breath the angels make is the length of a poem -not on a page but its length in water and stone All the metaphors of tides are known and need not be repeated

As for the stone what can I possibly tell you that you could not tell me?

So that if inquisitors should arrive at my door I will answer their questions by pointing at the sky Look I will say what has been given me has been given you so what do you need to ask At which Ensor’s’ laughter is enough to confirm that whatever you ask you have already half-answered A window-glass in which you see yourself looking at the world saying Whatever you tell me now I’ll believe * By the time he fell Icarus had done everything he wanted and even the angels were dumbfounded Not everyone believes this version of the story but it is the most creditable among those who ought to know So that if even Brughel thought not to mention this and go for the accepted version it does not matter What’s possible in one version is impossible in another –but what of it?

The window opens in or out The story ends or doesn’t * In the way that certain clouds can, and do, certain pictures change their tone and composition Participants change in number and function, birds who have been are now gone or others have entered the frame And again the low chuckling asks how do you like my new conundrum? * The wind has also changed the page the book was left open at Has moved it two pages further so you have to start from the beginning to have any idea of what is happening What is happening is no more than the painting is capable of and delighting in As if in the confusion it lets fall on you it was giving its greatest gift

* And suddenly there you are among the throng on the ice-pond Breughel left space for you to enter so as to continue what the painting begins But continued in intentions and forms more than is visible on first glance * The world has as many possibilities as I am able to cope with Reduced to the simplest terms you know the ice-pond will give way Or won’t * Yet what is giving way is the view from a window in The Post Hotel Café which faces the newly renovated Railway Station This is where you are and there is where you might go Or perhaps enter the wall-paintings in which Breughel’s children continue his tableaus So now we have three possibilities –the place where you are, the place you might go to, the place you have come from Now the space you ‘occupy’ is larger than you thought and has a validity which says choose me above all others The trick of course is to choose one without disowning the others –which as the Buddha says takes more than one lifetime to master But you have only this one You are here, this is the world –an encrypted system asking for a password you may or may not possess * The woman who enters is making an entrance in her own tableau which I have strayed into because I am here, so that in whatever she writes I am either intruder or a necessity Or the one who was meant to be here to ask this question of himself for your sake and for hers * The gravities of its otherness works upon the gravities of that which is –so that, perhaps, it is the Atlantic light of earth which brightens heaven

However we will not go to it with prophecies not calculations And if we bring commandments we bring them written in ink of various waters We have sent our birds ahead who even now bypass the firewall of the firmament And whatever gods are there are amazed As if we were the ones who came with that annunciation for which they have waited and by which their calendar is dated * The book has a will of its own!

I open a page but it flips two pages forward and says this is what you should read It had given itself this authority and is not about to give it up Ensor laughs You see what I had to put up with every day perched on the chimney pots of Oostende where the angels asked -what are you going to do next?

Some questions have as many answers as there are syllables in a language and the angels enjoy the pause in which you gather your colours -which is, of course, the only thing you are capable of at that moment That moment?

Every moment A book opened at a page you would like to read but the page flips forward as the train-driver asks what are you going to do?

And Ensor adding I could have told you this would happen * Something has happened Ensor’s parade is on the move The skaters have left the ice-pond The cafÊ has emptied Something has happened Whatever I expect will be exceeded by what happens

Already is by the day as it is For this is the day which has no need to translate itself into anything other than what it is Yes This is the world and we are here Nothing else needs to happen