Raymond Grech was born in Sliema, Malta in 1953. He was educated at St. Catherine High School, Stella Maris College and at Sir Temi Zammit Sec. Tech. School. He started writing poetry at an early age and writes both in Maltese and English.
For the last fifteen years he has been managing his own firm. Raymond is a Lecturer of computer related subjects. He specializes and consults in Computerized Accounting and Business Administration. He studies the Holy Scriptures, Theology, Psychology and Philosophy.
Raymond Grech is an active member of the Maltese Poets Association and the Maltese Literary Society. He is a producer and presenter of radiophonic literary programs.
The poems of Raymond Grech are published in various anthologies, newsletters and newspapers locally and abroad as well as being aired on radio programs. More of his poems in Maltese and English can be viewed on his site, http://www.freewebs.com/raygrech
He is married with three sons.
Interviews on radio:
Aug 12 2005 Radju Matrici Stella Maris - Raymond Grech interviews Patrick Sammut
Aug 12 2005 Radju Matrici Stella Maris - Patrick Sammut interviews Raymond Grech
Following are highlights of his poetry awards:
18th October 2004 – First-prize winner of the Malta National Poetry Competition for 2004 with the poem Paceville Insomnja in the Maltese category.
30th September 2005 – First-prize winner of the Malta National Poetry Competition for 2005 with the poem Nostalġija in the Maltese category.
27th October 2006 – First-prize winner of the Malta National Poetry Competition for 2006 with the poem Fossils In My Sanctuary in the English category.
POETRY:
Tsunami-Ravaged Southeast Asia
(The December 26 disaster in the Indian Ocean nations, when a massive earthquake triggered tsunamis that devastated coastal areas of Indonesia, Sri Lanka, India and Thailand and killed people as far away as east Africa.)
Plenty horses coming all white-feathered run,
Charging, crushing all those lying under sun.
Plenty horses roaring through the coastal sand,
Scaring natives, pilgrims, devastating land.
Whipped by quake and making waves to ravage wild,
Impetuous, devastating even child.
Abodes float on torrents rising from below,
Chorus cries of anguish vanish in billow.
Plenty horses gallop all black-feathered tolls,
Drawing stately chariots full of lifeless souls.
Plenty horses marching the stilled copious flow,
While gravediggers trench the slaughtered earth in throe.
Land-Lord, you saw it all going down the slope…
Plenty horses send in rainbow garb for hope!
Raymond Grech
10 January 2005
Sliema - Malta.
This poem won a prestigious award in the United States.
I AM Always Here For You!
The North wind slaps my naked face
Cold needles creep beneath my skin
Boreas vows to thwart my grace.
Derailed, I pray… What Shall I do?
A silent whisper comes within
“I AM always here for you”!
Raymond Grech
25 January 2006
Sliema - Malta.
Boreas
In Greek mythology, the personification of the north wind. He carried off the beautiful Oreithyia, a daughter of Erechtheus, king of Athens; they lived in Thrace as king and queen of the winds and had two sons, Calais and Zetes. To show his friendliness for the Athenians, Boreas wrecked the fleet of the Persian king Xerxes off the promontory of Sepias in Thessaly; in return the Athenians built him a sanctuary or altar near the Ilissus and held a festival (Boreasmos) in his honour. In works of art Boreas was represented as bearded, powerful, draped against cold, and winged.
Copyright 1994-1999 Encyclopædia Britannica
The Surviving Seeds
The wild wind blows ruthlessly
Across the ploughland,
Cold and insensitive
Moves on to batter in spiral gusts,
Foreboding dreary overtones...
Protrudes
To mounts and valleys,
Bending palm trees,
Plucking weak shrubs,
Dispersing seeds to life and death.
We are the surviving seeds
Of the Sower,
Escaped and unharmed,
Tossed and shaken,
Shaped and chiselled
By the wild wind.
Sprouting to eternity!
Raymond Grech
9 April 2005
Sliema – Malta
Best Wishes
(To my closest friend,
Barry Bourne - Southampton UK.
A Pastor and a Gentleman.)
I wish I lived in paradise
Where angels shout for joy.
I wish I roamed the galaxies
Beyond my spaceship toy.
I wish I hopped the midnight stars
To Mars and Saturn clime.
I wish I rode the Milky Way
To earth return in time.
I wish I walked in pain-free paths
Rejoicing in my heart.
I wish I lived in blissfulness
With many smiles to part.
I wish a world adorned with peace
Where child will never die.
I wish unchained humanity
Utopia pray for aye.
I wish volcanoes spewed out milk
To calm the churning sea.
I wish storm clouds dripping honey
For land to flow so free.
I wish seaquakes brought good tidings
To surf to shore on wind.
I wish swords turned into crosses
And mankind never sinned.
I wish Best Wishes constant came
To finish my hard race.
I wish to sing and dance all day
Before the Throne of Grace.
When I shed my earthly garment
My wishes will come true!
I will fly in newest heavens
Where God awaits you too!
Raymond Grech
1st April 2005
Sliema - Malta.
Best Wishes is a memorial to my friend the late Barry Bourne. Barry inspired me to write this poem, whenever he corresponded with me he ended his messages with Best Wishes. His last words to me were Best Wishes. In this poem I share my thoughts with Barry and I detail my best wishes to him which were also his best wishes.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Therese Pace - A poet from Malta
I got to know Therese Pace through my involvement in the Maltese Poets Association. She is an active member of the Association and writes in three languages: Maltese, English and Italian. Therese Pace is amongst some of the best contemporary women poets in Malta.
Mother of three Therese Pace was born in Rabat, Malta. She has published an anthology in Maltese entitled ARPEĠĠI (ISBN 99932-0-246-0), for which she was awarded first prize by the National Book Council. Other poems can be found in anthologies in various languages, in newsletters and newspapers. Award winning poet in various contests in Malta and in Italy. She is an active member of the Maltese Poets Association and a member of the World Poets Society. She took part in a literary project in conjunction with the Maltese Poets Association and the European Union celebrating its 50th year of existence. She is currently working on a couple of new projects.
Links to her poetry www.freewebs.com/theresepace www.ghpm.netfirms.com
The following are some of her poems in English:
THIS TENDER MOMENT
There dwells a touch of magic, an all important air
around the way it happens. The resting of an eye
upon your countenance in an endearing manner; the
faintest smile bestowed whose radiance says it all
before it is rewound into its own self consciousness
as curling leaf that withers on the stem, short stoppages
in time as of a video pausing, transcending, presiding
over senses with aplomb. Short intimacy that secretive
enthrals, enfolding you in butterflies of warmth.
Powder like, it settles on your spirit with translucent
affability, as of some invisible hand reaching beyond
the barriers to touch you in quick flirt, eloquent
in its silence. You marvel at this moment imploding
your whole being, As you wallow lingeringly in its
fleeting splendour, you will become aware of your
astounding luck in having intercepted it.
SHOES
These shoes are not your type. The kind that give you
blisters from bad choice, no matter how you wax and tax
them for quick comfort. When you put them on you limp
and falter, strutting like the ugly duckling of fairy tale fame,
making them creak a vociferous protest like door hinges,
an all time declared misfit they shake off on the way.
The other kind are kind. Incumbent time moulds them for
the format of your toes, with stress pads to buffer against
potholes or sore spots. With perseverance they conform
resigning themselves to a life of slavery. When they settle
down they fit you like your skin. Laces tied in place show
total disposition, obedience to your feet portrays your
imposition. You walk them, they oblige, adapting.
Fully fledged, they ogle environs, testing, until it’s time to
soar, redeemed from the old confined spaces, growing well
versed projections towards newer heights, new embraces.
Only now, almost too late, do I realize the sky is their limit.
My disciplined shoes have grown fit for posh places.
TO CATCH THE STARS
Enchantment blends me with the chic surroundings. I
do the catwalk stunt on the red carpet Naomi Campbell
style, all poised to catch the stars for just one night.
Chiffon Cinderella gown rustles like plastic in the wind
as hanging mirrors reflect another me, tilting me sideways
to imbalance. Soft light dispenses with the shadows, steals
the mystery from my face. None of the exotic birds hanging
on the Gobelin tapestries show me any slight recognisance.
I can almost hear them twit their disapproval of cheap eau de
toilette as my bare back walks tall. Inside, the crowd breaks
the ice in shimmering parures that thin the average pocket.
I remind me of a fish out of the water, as mind slips back to the
sleek limo that brought me here enraptured in its voluptuous
belly. My body glistened on its panel . They must have licked
like mad to eke such torso glimmer. Like this Louis Quatorze.
I could cross my legs forever in relax on this armchair, kissing
Zwarowski crystal rims that quench vinotheque thirst. Usually
I scoff at silver service manners. Today I simply relish. Slightly
giddy from the Kleine Zalze Chardonnay and the fine prince
beside me, paté de fois de gibier tastes like Paradise lost and
found.. He swirls me round in a Viennese Waltz too rapid for
my tipsiness. I sway towards his midriff pretending to forget
flirting in public is an etiquette crime. When midnight strikes,
I will not drop a silver shoe behind me. Instead I’ll pluck a rose
from the arrangement left idle to observe, and pin it to my hair.
I’ve reason to believe its haunting tell tale scent will guide his
ferret nostrils directly to chez moi still enchanté tomorrow .
WILD DREAMS
We should employ a think tank to protect us
to reassess ambitions at their birth
that clawing at our skin with pointed talons
might rock the sound foundations of our girth.
We hover on the edge of their discretion
and feed upon the fragments that they drop
we may or may not have a say to topple
the scales to our advantage reaping crop.
They are a scheme whereby we shape existence
into a landscape of bubble gum and strass
their platelets dyed vermilion with enticement
our antibodies weaken in the fuss.
We stand exposed and vulnerable to currents
that try to force our wildest dreams to crack
as seeds upon the wind we are transported
to corners that allow no turning back.
Wild dreams are like the tide: its flow momentum
raises the levels higher than the norm
and in its outward ebb discards carcasses
displaying ugly lesions of the storm.
We pin our hopes according to perceptions
at times ignoring signals when they bleep
do not trust dreams, they are our worst allies
they buoy us then destroy us in one sweep.
Mother of three Therese Pace was born in Rabat, Malta. She has published an anthology in Maltese entitled ARPEĠĠI (ISBN 99932-0-246-0), for which she was awarded first prize by the National Book Council. Other poems can be found in anthologies in various languages, in newsletters and newspapers. Award winning poet in various contests in Malta and in Italy. She is an active member of the Maltese Poets Association and a member of the World Poets Society. She took part in a literary project in conjunction with the Maltese Poets Association and the European Union celebrating its 50th year of existence. She is currently working on a couple of new projects.
Links to her poetry www.freewebs.com/theresepace www.ghpm.netfirms.com
The following are some of her poems in English:
THIS TENDER MOMENT
There dwells a touch of magic, an all important air
around the way it happens. The resting of an eye
upon your countenance in an endearing manner; the
faintest smile bestowed whose radiance says it all
before it is rewound into its own self consciousness
as curling leaf that withers on the stem, short stoppages
in time as of a video pausing, transcending, presiding
over senses with aplomb. Short intimacy that secretive
enthrals, enfolding you in butterflies of warmth.
Powder like, it settles on your spirit with translucent
affability, as of some invisible hand reaching beyond
the barriers to touch you in quick flirt, eloquent
in its silence. You marvel at this moment imploding
your whole being, As you wallow lingeringly in its
fleeting splendour, you will become aware of your
astounding luck in having intercepted it.
SHOES
These shoes are not your type. The kind that give you
blisters from bad choice, no matter how you wax and tax
them for quick comfort. When you put them on you limp
and falter, strutting like the ugly duckling of fairy tale fame,
making them creak a vociferous protest like door hinges,
an all time declared misfit they shake off on the way.
The other kind are kind. Incumbent time moulds them for
the format of your toes, with stress pads to buffer against
potholes or sore spots. With perseverance they conform
resigning themselves to a life of slavery. When they settle
down they fit you like your skin. Laces tied in place show
total disposition, obedience to your feet portrays your
imposition. You walk them, they oblige, adapting.
Fully fledged, they ogle environs, testing, until it’s time to
soar, redeemed from the old confined spaces, growing well
versed projections towards newer heights, new embraces.
Only now, almost too late, do I realize the sky is their limit.
My disciplined shoes have grown fit for posh places.
TO CATCH THE STARS
Enchantment blends me with the chic surroundings. I
do the catwalk stunt on the red carpet Naomi Campbell
style, all poised to catch the stars for just one night.
Chiffon Cinderella gown rustles like plastic in the wind
as hanging mirrors reflect another me, tilting me sideways
to imbalance. Soft light dispenses with the shadows, steals
the mystery from my face. None of the exotic birds hanging
on the Gobelin tapestries show me any slight recognisance.
I can almost hear them twit their disapproval of cheap eau de
toilette as my bare back walks tall. Inside, the crowd breaks
the ice in shimmering parures that thin the average pocket.
I remind me of a fish out of the water, as mind slips back to the
sleek limo that brought me here enraptured in its voluptuous
belly. My body glistened on its panel . They must have licked
like mad to eke such torso glimmer. Like this Louis Quatorze.
I could cross my legs forever in relax on this armchair, kissing
Zwarowski crystal rims that quench vinotheque thirst. Usually
I scoff at silver service manners. Today I simply relish. Slightly
giddy from the Kleine Zalze Chardonnay and the fine prince
beside me, paté de fois de gibier tastes like Paradise lost and
found.. He swirls me round in a Viennese Waltz too rapid for
my tipsiness. I sway towards his midriff pretending to forget
flirting in public is an etiquette crime. When midnight strikes,
I will not drop a silver shoe behind me. Instead I’ll pluck a rose
from the arrangement left idle to observe, and pin it to my hair.
I’ve reason to believe its haunting tell tale scent will guide his
ferret nostrils directly to chez moi still enchanté tomorrow .
WILD DREAMS
We should employ a think tank to protect us
to reassess ambitions at their birth
that clawing at our skin with pointed talons
might rock the sound foundations of our girth.
We hover on the edge of their discretion
and feed upon the fragments that they drop
we may or may not have a say to topple
the scales to our advantage reaping crop.
They are a scheme whereby we shape existence
into a landscape of bubble gum and strass
their platelets dyed vermilion with enticement
our antibodies weaken in the fuss.
We stand exposed and vulnerable to currents
that try to force our wildest dreams to crack
as seeds upon the wind we are transported
to corners that allow no turning back.
Wild dreams are like the tide: its flow momentum
raises the levels higher than the norm
and in its outward ebb discards carcasses
displaying ugly lesions of the storm.
We pin our hopes according to perceptions
at times ignoring signals when they bleep
do not trust dreams, they are our worst allies
they buoy us then destroy us in one sweep.
Another poetry evening by MPA at Floriana
The participants of the Poetry Evening organized by the Ghaqda Poeti Maltin (Maltese Poets Association): myself, Salvu Sammut, , Joe Abela, Rina Camilleri, Frans Borg, Joe Bonnici, Lino Grech, John Mallia, Leanne Ellul, Emmanuel Attard Cassar, Raymond Grech, Therese Pace, Charles Magro and Alfred Massa. The man in orange with the guitar is Walter Micallef.See: http://www.ghpm.netfirms.com/
Last Friday 28th March the Maltese Poets Association organized a Poetry Evening at the Centre for Frangiscan Culture at 7 p.m., in Floriana, Malta. Secretary, Charles Magro, presented the evening and included poetry crit during intervals. President, Alfred Massa, made the introductory discourse and asked if some day in the future here in Malta there would be organized a National Conference regarding Religious Poetry in Malta. Members and people interested actively participated during the Evening by reading poetry in Maltese, English and Italian. Poets who read their poetry were Alfred Massa, Charles Magro, Emmanuel Attard Cassar, Therese Pace, Raymond Grech, Leanne Ellul, Rina Camilleri, Lino Grech, Joseph Bonnici, Frans Borg, Joe Abela, Salvu Sammut, John Mallia and me.
I also read a short study about Saint Francis in Dante Alighieri's Divine Commedy. Folk singer and guitarist Walter Micallef sang some of his best songs at intervals.
The Group of Fangiscan Families offered a small reception after the Evening.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Another poem translated from Maltese to Dutch
The following is a poem which my friend Jan van den Hoek translated from the original in Maltese. It was inspired by a small accident some years ago: I was driving my car and a bird came crashing against the windscreen. It immediately bounced and landed in a field nearby. I stopped the car as soon as possible but could not find the bird. I immediately thought that it was dead. The bird is a small creature to which we give little importance. However, accidents can happen even to us human beings: today we may be healthy and alive, tomorrow we may be either in hospital or even dead. Just reflecting...
Again, thanks Jan for translating to Dutch my poem.
Een abrupte dood[1]
Een klein vogeltje dat vrij en onbezorgd
aan het vliegen was
werd geschampt door een passerende auto.
De bestuurder zag slechts ‘n grijs bolletje
op hem afkomen
hoorde niets meer dan alleen een lichte tik.
En hij keek in het spiegeltje en zag
hem levenloos naar beneden storten
op de grond midden op de weg.
Hij stopte niet!
De reis van de bestuurder ging verder
en die van het onbezorgde vogeltje
eindigde abrupt.
[1] Geschreven in februari 1999.
Again, thanks Jan for translating to Dutch my poem.
Een abrupte dood[1]
Een klein vogeltje dat vrij en onbezorgd
aan het vliegen was
werd geschampt door een passerende auto.
De bestuurder zag slechts ‘n grijs bolletje
op hem afkomen
hoorde niets meer dan alleen een lichte tik.
En hij keek in het spiegeltje en zag
hem levenloos naar beneden storten
op de grond midden op de weg.
Hij stopte niet!
De reis van de bestuurder ging verder
en die van het onbezorgde vogeltje
eindigde abrupt.
[1] Geschreven in februari 1999.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Science fiction - one of my favourites
One of my favourite genres is science fiction. Last week I watched on dvd three movies: I am legend (2007), directed by Francis Lawrence, Invasion of the body snatchers (1956) directed by Don Siegel, and Perfect Creature, directed by Glenn Standring (2006). I am legend (starring Will Smith) and Perfect Creature both treat the vampire issue. The movie I am legend caught my attention and so I ordered the novel by Richard Matheson (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Matheson) which was published in 1954. People who saw the movie weren't happy, especially those who read the novel before. Now I know why. Personally I found the movie gripping and having a nice mix of sci-fi, fantasy, horror, drama. But it is very different from the original novel of Matheson. I liked the novel more as it is a good read, very flowing (only 160 pages), and a classic. As good sci-fi books, this one seems to treat a remote issue or reality, but in fact it discusses present day problems such as isolation, solitude, evolution, different perspectives and interpretations, biological warfare and mutation.
Summary on the back cover of the novel (Gollancz Publications): "An SF novel about vampires... Robert Neville is the last living man on Earth... but he is not alone. Every other man, woman and child on the planet has become a vampire, and they are hungry for Neville's blood.
Summary on the back cover of the novel (Gollancz Publications): "An SF novel about vampires... Robert Neville is the last living man on Earth... but he is not alone. Every other man, woman and child on the planet has become a vampire, and they are hungry for Neville's blood.
By day he is the hunter, stalking the undead through the ruins of civilisation. By night, he barricades himself in his home and prays for the dawn.
How long can one man survive like this?"
Two other short novels which are a good read are The Fifth Child and Ben, in the World by Doris Lessing.A farewell to Arthur C. Clarke who left this world some days ago (19 th March) at the age of 90. He was best known for his work on the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey based on his story The Sentinel (1948). See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_C._Clarke
Monday, March 24, 2008
Poetry by Stephen Morris
Last 22nd February the Maltese Poets Association (http://www.ghpm.netfirms.com/) of which I am vice-President organized a Poetry Evening in Birgu (Malta). As usual members of the Association and the public in general were invited to read their poetry in different languages or just to listen and have a nice evening. Even though I was not present, I got to know that for this Poetry Evening there was a special guest, poet and artist Stephen Morris, who talked about his experiences as an artist and read some of his verse.Stephen Morris was born in Smethwick, which is on the edge of Birmingham in the West Midlands of England. He attended Moseley Art School, Fircroft College, Marieborg Folk High School (Sweden), and the Universities of Cardiff and Leicester. His poetry has been widely published in the USA and Britain and it has appeared in numerous magazines, newspapers and periodicals, including The Sunday Times, The Observer, Peace News, The Daily Mirror, Tribune, The TES, Poetry Wales, Rolling Stone, and The International Times. He has undertaken poetry reading tours of the USA, Denmark, Holland and Sweden, as well as poetry readings in Britain, at Universities, Colleges, Schools, Folk Clubs and Poetry Societies. Stephen Morris has published over twelve volumes of poetry and has had numerous solo exhibitions of his paintings, visual poetry and sculpture. See also, http://www.stephen-morris.net/
(From The Kingfisher Catcher, Aquila Poetry, 1974, 1975, 1976)
AUTUMN IS A SEASON OF PAIN
Autumn is a season of pain
When the days slowly shorten
And the evenings come in early.
Cruel winds whisper Winter,
As they swirl fading leaves
In ritualistic dances of death.
The mornings are bleak and cold
And in the soft twilight
Coughing workmen hurry
For wet clean buses,
Thinking of warm white beds
And quietly dreading the day ahead.
The city carries to the country
Seeking common ground
But the farmers plant for Spring
And the squirrels hide for Winter.
It’s Autumn and the workers shuffle on
Towards a new year and the finality of death.
(From Limbus of the Moon, Pale Horse, 2005)
THE SONG NOT THE SINGER
Forget all the promises
Fold away the dreams
Close all the windows
Nothing is what it seems
The love no more than words
Coated in hypocrisy
The hiss of a seductive serpent
Ignored of course by me
Now months and years have passed
My ring it has no finger
The song was fine and wonderful
But not alas the singer
Forget all the promises
Fold away the dreams
Open all the windows
Nothing is what it seems
SUNFALL
Sunfall
Shutters closed
Aperitifs taken
Experiences exchanged
Late film
From bathroom
To bedroom
To bed
Warm body
Movements
Whispers
Caresses
Binding
Bonding
Savouring the other
To sleep
A peace
Broken by sunrise
A new day
To sunfall
DIRTY HANDS
Toy plunge your hands
Deeply, towards a greater good.
This provides the eternal dilemma.
The pitch-darkened waters
Shroud a bleeding heart.
Morality disappears in slaughter.
Scruples are extinguished in flames,
Acts of terror perpetrated,
Making you worse than your vanguished.
You then thread fear into the innocent,
To concede a truce of false promises.
Another circle of life is completed,
An icon of ideology shattered,
As the peace dream explodes
On distant hills.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Peace poems from Israel
Prof. Ada Aharoni is a Peace Culture Researcher, writer, poet and lecturer. She is the Founder and President of IFLAC: The International Forum for the Literature and Culture of Peace. Ada lives in Nesher, Israel.
Poetry for poetry's sake? Art for art's sake? I am for poetry and art with a positive message. Poetry and art should promote peace, respect, tolerance, knowledge of others and friendship.
NO TALKING
The politicians decided
We do not talk with the enemy
We will beat them because they attack us
We will shed their blood
and that of their leaders
But most of all -
NO TALKING!
In the meantime, in Sderot in Israel
And in the heart of Gaza
Blood flows and legs are blown away
And little eight-year-old
Twitee from Sderot
And Mohamed from Gaza
Will not play football anymore
But -
NO TALKING!
How can we convince violent leaders
To talk and not to shoot?
I watch from the side
At the tragic hen and egg situation
And weep together with all the sorrowful
People from both sides
But still, first and foremost -
NO TALKING!
Teddy Bears for Guns
My man of the year
Is the wonderful, wise one
Who sat himself in the midst
Of the West with a huge box
Of chubby Teddy Bears
On New Year's Day,
Attracting an endless
Queue of cheering kids -
Holding guns
He playfully showed
With a smile and a wink
And a Teddy Bear hug -
It could be the beginning
Of a honey-laden decade
In a brave new world
By wisely trading
Guns
For Teddy Bears
Not in Your War Anymore
I am not in your war anymore.
Surely we cannot paint war green
when even the long Cold War is dying,
so let's paint it in all its true
foliage colors, to help its fall
First, flowing flamboyant crimson blood
on throbbing temples and hands,
then russet bronze fiery metal cartridges
stuffing the crevices of young hearts
while golden laser Napalm dragon tongues
gluttonously lick the sizzling eyes and lips
of our children, under the giant mushrooms
freshened by mustard and acid rain
Surely, at the close of our
great atomic century
we will soon find the archaic
history tree, where we can dump
our fearful bottle legacy
And our grandchildren will ask their fathers,
what were tanks for, Pa? And with eyes
full of wonder, they will read the story of the
glorious imprisonment of the Nuclear Giant
in his bottle, corked for ever, and will say:
Well done Pa, well done Ma!
Poetry for poetry's sake? Art for art's sake? I am for poetry and art with a positive message. Poetry and art should promote peace, respect, tolerance, knowledge of others and friendship.
NO TALKING
The politicians decided
We do not talk with the enemy
We will beat them because they attack us
We will shed their blood
and that of their leaders
But most of all -
NO TALKING!
In the meantime, in Sderot in Israel
And in the heart of Gaza
Blood flows and legs are blown away
And little eight-year-old
Twitee from Sderot
And Mohamed from Gaza
Will not play football anymore
But -
NO TALKING!
How can we convince violent leaders
To talk and not to shoot?
I watch from the side
At the tragic hen and egg situation
And weep together with all the sorrowful
People from both sides
But still, first and foremost -
NO TALKING!
Teddy Bears for Guns
My man of the year
Is the wonderful, wise one
Who sat himself in the midst
Of the West with a huge box
Of chubby Teddy Bears
On New Year's Day,
Attracting an endless
Queue of cheering kids -
Holding guns
He playfully showed
With a smile and a wink
And a Teddy Bear hug -
It could be the beginning
Of a honey-laden decade
In a brave new world
By wisely trading
Guns
For Teddy Bears
Not in Your War Anymore
I am not in your war anymore.
Surely we cannot paint war green
when even the long Cold War is dying,
so let's paint it in all its true
foliage colors, to help its fall
First, flowing flamboyant crimson blood
on throbbing temples and hands,
then russet bronze fiery metal cartridges
stuffing the crevices of young hearts
while golden laser Napalm dragon tongues
gluttonously lick the sizzling eyes and lips
of our children, under the giant mushrooms
freshened by mustard and acid rain
Surely, at the close of our
great atomic century
we will soon find the archaic
history tree, where we can dump
our fearful bottle legacy
And our grandchildren will ask their fathers,
what were tanks for, Pa? And with eyes
full of wonder, they will read the story of the
glorious imprisonment of the Nuclear Giant
in his bottle, corked for ever, and will say:
Well done Pa, well done Ma!
Poems of Amerigo Iannacone from Italy
Amerigo Iannacone was born in 1950 at Venafro (Isernia, Molise, Italy), where he lives and teaches in the secondary school sector. His is the director of the monthly cultural and literature magazine “Il Foglio Volante – La Flugfolio”, founded by him in 1986, and collaborates with other journals. He also found Edizioni Eva. Up till today he has published more than 30 books (poetry, prose, essays and translations). One of his last publications is the bilingual poetry anthology in Italian-Esperanto entitled Oboe d’amore/ Ama hobojo.
I got to know Amerigo Iannacone thanks to Teresinka Pereira who keeps in contact with many writers, poets and artists all over the world. She passed him one of my poems in Italian and after suggesting some small corrections, Iannacone immediately offered to publish it on his “Foglio Volante”. I accepted and from then onwards Iannacone pubishes my writings from time to time. I also translated some of his verse from Italian to Maltese which he is going to publish soon. Personally, I find Iannacone a very friendly and helpful person.
The following are some of his poems found in Oboe d’amore.
Adelante
No, amica,
nei versi non c’e` resa
ma nemmeno illusioni
e forse non c’e` attesa.
Comunque sono semi
anche se non so
se mai germoglieranno.
Adelante, comunque, adelante.
Scriveva Zamenhof:
“Ni semas kaj semas konstante”.
(“Seminiamo e seminiamo con costanza”)
Sogno
Sogno un tuo caldo bacio
mentre le labbra
effondono parole che non sento.
Tento un sorriso
e non mi viene bene,
non sono certo
quell’io che vorrei.
Sogno quel bacio
che non avro` mai.
Rotola
Rotola il tempo,
precipita
e tutto travolge.
Alle spalle
una scia di rovine
davanti
il mistero.
Oboe d’amore
Rotonde le note
di un oboe d’amore
planano levitano
piume delicate nell’aria
fiocchi caldi
di neve colorata
volteggiano soavi
ritornano sinuose
carezzano l’orecchio
toccano il cuore
policrome farfalle sonore
armoniche le vedi ondeggiare
nell’aria danzano sublimi
e ti conquistano
in un’aura di poesia
e di magia.
To contact Amerigo Iannacone:
edizionieva@libero.it
http://www.amerigoiannacone.wordpress.com/
I got to know Amerigo Iannacone thanks to Teresinka Pereira who keeps in contact with many writers, poets and artists all over the world. She passed him one of my poems in Italian and after suggesting some small corrections, Iannacone immediately offered to publish it on his “Foglio Volante”. I accepted and from then onwards Iannacone pubishes my writings from time to time. I also translated some of his verse from Italian to Maltese which he is going to publish soon. Personally, I find Iannacone a very friendly and helpful person.
The following are some of his poems found in Oboe d’amore.
Adelante
No, amica,
nei versi non c’e` resa
ma nemmeno illusioni
e forse non c’e` attesa.
Comunque sono semi
anche se non so
se mai germoglieranno.
Adelante, comunque, adelante.
Scriveva Zamenhof:
“Ni semas kaj semas konstante”.
(“Seminiamo e seminiamo con costanza”)
Sogno
Sogno un tuo caldo bacio
mentre le labbra
effondono parole che non sento.
Tento un sorriso
e non mi viene bene,
non sono certo
quell’io che vorrei.
Sogno quel bacio
che non avro` mai.
Rotola
Rotola il tempo,
precipita
e tutto travolge.
Alle spalle
una scia di rovine
davanti
il mistero.
Oboe d’amore
Rotonde le note
di un oboe d’amore
planano levitano
piume delicate nell’aria
fiocchi caldi
di neve colorata
volteggiano soavi
ritornano sinuose
carezzano l’orecchio
toccano il cuore
policrome farfalle sonore
armoniche le vedi ondeggiare
nell’aria danzano sublimi
e ti conquistano
in un’aura di poesia
e di magia.
To contact Amerigo Iannacone:
edizionieva@libero.it
http://www.amerigoiannacone.wordpress.com/
Friday, March 21, 2008
A free translation from Maltese
The hidden wisdom of the written word
The wheel goes round and round…
I keep asking myself
"The right way where is it to be found?"
Outdoors the weather is dark and tense
indoors expectation has its weight
outside rules noise, chaos, disorder
inside a craving for silence and peace
I, a book in hand reading dreaming
that in this world Good has still a meaning…
with pen in hand jot down a few lines
to air my torments and feelings
am taken by memories at times
of those who came and left
and for long moments it’s like boarding
the train of anguish
I am saddened thinking about the world’s evil
hatred, sickness, famine,
secret warehouses full of deadly arms
war, injustice, torture, manipulation
superpower leaders did not learn the lesson
that whatever man does he’s still vulnerable…
this he recognises only through
the hidden wisdom of the written word...
The wheel goes round and round...
The wheel goes round and round…
I keep asking myself
"The right way where is it to be found?"
Outdoors the weather is dark and tense
indoors expectation has its weight
outside rules noise, chaos, disorder
inside a craving for silence and peace
I, a book in hand reading dreaming
that in this world Good has still a meaning…
with pen in hand jot down a few lines
to air my torments and feelings
am taken by memories at times
of those who came and left
and for long moments it’s like boarding
the train of anguish
I am saddened thinking about the world’s evil
hatred, sickness, famine,
secret warehouses full of deadly arms
war, injustice, torture, manipulation
superpower leaders did not learn the lesson
that whatever man does he’s still vulnerable…
this he recognises only through
the hidden wisdom of the written word...
The wheel goes round and round...
Visit to Rome (7th-13th December 2007)
On top of St. Peter's dome
Another panoramic view from St. Peter's dome
In front of Castello Sant'Angelo
In Piazza San Pietro
Near Bernini's fountain in Piazza di Spagna
In front of St. Peter's
At the Fori Romani
In front of the Altare alla Patria
In Piazza della Minerva
At the Fori Romani
On the metro', Linea A
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
4 poems by Teresinka Pereira
INTERNET
On the monitor's screen
I have all the world at my service.
But I don't have you,
who are all my hope for happiness.
Chance is always playing
with my destiny, desire,
my trips, separations.
What is good about loving,
when for your secrets
I live with anguish and indecision,
standing alone
at the very last corner of this old
and now globalized Planet?
PUNISHMENT OR THE SHOW
So many people to see
the vertiginous flight,
the beginning of the torture,
and the fascinating screaming
of the actors in front stage.
The punishment is the utopia
that our enemies are after...
For my part, I limit myself
to sharing my vow and
to forget without forgiveness,
a multi-dimensional treat
in this minimum space
where the words break
like crystals and the thought
is our worse hangman.
WHAT'S THE USE?
What's the use of my life
without your internet messages,
without my mistakes and imperfections
to give you chances to forgive me?
What's the use of my silence
if it doesn't worry you?
What's the use of the night
without unsleeping poets?
What's the use of religion
without the belief of the atheists,
and the sensations of lucidity
which boil inside them?
CONFLICTIVE IMAGINATION
To go back to living a normal life,
do as not have meaning anymore.
My head cannot think
in ordinary images,
like taxis on the street,
sounds of a city which
for a few hours became silk sheets
to acommodate our desires
and the old callus reproduced
in words, like substatial codices.
I learned fast enought the dimension
of a smile, of a handshake
or a kiss on the face.
Now I try to turn my back
on a conflictive imagination.
What's the use of the abyss
if the suicidal craving
would not exist?
On the monitor's screen
I have all the world at my service.
But I don't have you,
who are all my hope for happiness.
Chance is always playing
with my destiny, desire,
my trips, separations.
What is good about loving,
when for your secrets
I live with anguish and indecision,
standing alone
at the very last corner of this old
and now globalized Planet?
PUNISHMENT OR THE SHOW
So many people to see
the vertiginous flight,
the beginning of the torture,
and the fascinating screaming
of the actors in front stage.
The punishment is the utopia
that our enemies are after...
For my part, I limit myself
to sharing my vow and
to forget without forgiveness,
a multi-dimensional treat
in this minimum space
where the words break
like crystals and the thought
is our worse hangman.
WHAT'S THE USE?
What's the use of my life
without your internet messages,
without my mistakes and imperfections
to give you chances to forgive me?
What's the use of my silence
if it doesn't worry you?
What's the use of the night
without unsleeping poets?
What's the use of religion
without the belief of the atheists,
and the sensations of lucidity
which boil inside them?
CONFLICTIVE IMAGINATION
To go back to living a normal life,
do as not have meaning anymore.
My head cannot think
in ordinary images,
like taxis on the street,
sounds of a city which
for a few hours became silk sheets
to acommodate our desires
and the old callus reproduced
in words, like substatial codices.
I learned fast enought the dimension
of a smile, of a handshake
or a kiss on the face.
Now I try to turn my back
on a conflictive imagination.
What's the use of the abyss
if the suicidal craving
would not exist?
Teresinka Pereira interviews me
The following are questions which Teresinka made me and I answered through internet.
TP- Where were you born? Do you come with a literary background from your family lifestyle?
Ps- I was born in on the island of Malta, in the middle of the Mediterranean, in 1968. My parents were no writers or poets but they used to read a lot of books, especially fiction and in English. My grand-aunt used to narrate to me as a child many fables which she must have heard when she was younger. I think that all this must have influenced me in a way or another to start reading literature and poetry, and later on write verse and short literary criticism articles. My grandfather used to play the organ at our St. john Cathedral in the capital city of Valletta before the Second World War and one of my uncles played piano on the BBC radio years ago. Some time ago I got to know however that my father writes verse occasionally and also my uncle. So there must be something in my blood which has to do with arts which I inherited.
TP- How do you describe yourself as an intellectual?
Honestly, I am not comfortable with describing myself as an intellectual because I still have to read and write much more before being one. However, I am a sensitive person and react to news which has to do with suffering, intolerance, disrespect towards our natural and cultural environment. I even wrote verse which has to do with illegal hunting, irregular immigration, war, 11th September, the Kursk incident, dirty politics and the like. I also have a number of articles published in a number of local national newspapers regarding the aforementioned issues. As I wrote before I spend a lot of time writing short literary articles regarding literature and poetry which then are published on local magazines and newspapers. Sometimes I discuss hot issues with colleagues at work, issues regarding religion, philosophy, racism and all kinds of abuse. I am a good listener and being so helps me know better humankind and the problems that surround us.
TP- How is your professional life?
I have studied History, Maltese and Italian literature both here in Malta and even in Florence, Italy. I have a Masters degree in Contemporary Italian Literature, with a thesis on The Italian Novel of Resistance in the 1940s. I’ve been teaching both Maltese and Italian language and literature, together with literary criticism, since 1992, at high school level. However, I am also a freelance writer and my writings (short stories, poetry in Maltese, English and Italian, social and literary criticism articles) appeared on different local magazines and newspapers since 1992. This last year I also had some of my poetry published on two Italian literary mags! I also published two books about Maltese poets and poetry (one in 2003 and another in 2007). At school I also publish a 4 page magazine with the best works (poetry and essays) of my students. I am currently the vice-President of the Maltese Poets Association (which today comprises around 90 members), and editor of VERSI, a quarterly magazine published by the MPA. I am also editor of a newsletter where I published the best poetry read during MPA poetry evenings which we organize on a regular basis and where poems in different languages are read.
TP- When do you write?
I am now married with two children and thus its quite tough for me to find time to write poetry. However, I write especially when I am reading a good book or when I am alone, or when I am touched by some bad news on TV. Sometimes I wake up during the night and write verse of short reflections. Other times I write during intervals when I am at school.
TP- Does your writing show the person as you are, as well as the concerns you have for the other people or animals in this Planet?
Yes. As some say, the writing is the human being who writes it, and this is also my case. I find it difficult not to be myself in my writings. The things that I write are born inside me, are myself.
TP- Do you think that to publish is important for a poet or a writer?
Unfortunately, some think that a writer or poet is good according to the number of books he has published. But this is not always the case. I think that to publish is very important but the reason is to get more people reading your writings or poetry. I prefer to see my writings or poetry published on newspapers and magazines, local and foreign, rather than to publish them in a book. Publishing helps the writer or poet create contacts with other people all over the globe, and in this case even Internet helps a lot.
TP- What is the most important thing in your life?
The most important thing in my life is my family. However, there are also other things that follow such as reading international literature, writing, exchanging ideas and travel. I am very happy to know that when I die I’ll be leaving a mark behind thanks to my children and also thanks to my published writings.
TP- Did you ever regret publishing something you wrote which had bad consequences for you or for other people?
As far as I know this did not happen up till the present day.
TP- Do you thing that the writer is a political human being?
Yes, of course, political here intended in its wide meaning. An Italian contemporary writer comes to my mind, Leonardo Sciascia, who in the 70s and 80s did not fear writing novels and newspaper articles against Mafia and a corrupt Italy. Or the 2007 winner of the Nobel Price for Literature, Doris Lessing, who had to leave Rhodesia because she spoke aloud and wrote against Apartheid. Many others have suffered imprisonment or exile, or even public humiliation because they were brave enough to speak and write their thoughts. Perhaps a writer is a politician who reflects and writes, whereas a politician is a person who acts more than thinks.
TP- Do you like to meet writers, poets or artists from other countries? Do you travel?
Yes, I like to meet writers, both local and foreign. I had some opportunities to meet foreign writers here in Malta during conventions or literary evenings. However, being an island, opportunities can be much better. I visited California, Cairo and Italy. When I am abroad I like to buy books which have to do with the literature of the country I am visiting. Then, when I return home I read the books and write literary articles in Maltese about international writers for local newspapers and magazines. I even publish interviews with different writers coming from different countries.
TP- What are you plans for the future?
I’d like to create more contacts with foreign writers, especially through internet. I’d also like to see more of my writings published on foreign publications. Being the vice-President of the Maltese Poets Association I’d like to read more poetry and help in organizing more literary evenings to help poetry and the love for it flourish. I have also in mind to publish two books: one about literary criticism in practice for High School students, and an anthology with my stories for children.
TP- Where were you born? Do you come with a literary background from your family lifestyle?
Ps- I was born in on the island of Malta, in the middle of the Mediterranean, in 1968. My parents were no writers or poets but they used to read a lot of books, especially fiction and in English. My grand-aunt used to narrate to me as a child many fables which she must have heard when she was younger. I think that all this must have influenced me in a way or another to start reading literature and poetry, and later on write verse and short literary criticism articles. My grandfather used to play the organ at our St. john Cathedral in the capital city of Valletta before the Second World War and one of my uncles played piano on the BBC radio years ago. Some time ago I got to know however that my father writes verse occasionally and also my uncle. So there must be something in my blood which has to do with arts which I inherited.
TP- How do you describe yourself as an intellectual?
Honestly, I am not comfortable with describing myself as an intellectual because I still have to read and write much more before being one. However, I am a sensitive person and react to news which has to do with suffering, intolerance, disrespect towards our natural and cultural environment. I even wrote verse which has to do with illegal hunting, irregular immigration, war, 11th September, the Kursk incident, dirty politics and the like. I also have a number of articles published in a number of local national newspapers regarding the aforementioned issues. As I wrote before I spend a lot of time writing short literary articles regarding literature and poetry which then are published on local magazines and newspapers. Sometimes I discuss hot issues with colleagues at work, issues regarding religion, philosophy, racism and all kinds of abuse. I am a good listener and being so helps me know better humankind and the problems that surround us.
TP- How is your professional life?
I have studied History, Maltese and Italian literature both here in Malta and even in Florence, Italy. I have a Masters degree in Contemporary Italian Literature, with a thesis on The Italian Novel of Resistance in the 1940s. I’ve been teaching both Maltese and Italian language and literature, together with literary criticism, since 1992, at high school level. However, I am also a freelance writer and my writings (short stories, poetry in Maltese, English and Italian, social and literary criticism articles) appeared on different local magazines and newspapers since 1992. This last year I also had some of my poetry published on two Italian literary mags! I also published two books about Maltese poets and poetry (one in 2003 and another in 2007). At school I also publish a 4 page magazine with the best works (poetry and essays) of my students. I am currently the vice-President of the Maltese Poets Association (which today comprises around 90 members), and editor of VERSI, a quarterly magazine published by the MPA. I am also editor of a newsletter where I published the best poetry read during MPA poetry evenings which we organize on a regular basis and where poems in different languages are read.
TP- When do you write?
I am now married with two children and thus its quite tough for me to find time to write poetry. However, I write especially when I am reading a good book or when I am alone, or when I am touched by some bad news on TV. Sometimes I wake up during the night and write verse of short reflections. Other times I write during intervals when I am at school.
TP- Does your writing show the person as you are, as well as the concerns you have for the other people or animals in this Planet?
Yes. As some say, the writing is the human being who writes it, and this is also my case. I find it difficult not to be myself in my writings. The things that I write are born inside me, are myself.
TP- Do you think that to publish is important for a poet or a writer?
Unfortunately, some think that a writer or poet is good according to the number of books he has published. But this is not always the case. I think that to publish is very important but the reason is to get more people reading your writings or poetry. I prefer to see my writings or poetry published on newspapers and magazines, local and foreign, rather than to publish them in a book. Publishing helps the writer or poet create contacts with other people all over the globe, and in this case even Internet helps a lot.
TP- What is the most important thing in your life?
The most important thing in my life is my family. However, there are also other things that follow such as reading international literature, writing, exchanging ideas and travel. I am very happy to know that when I die I’ll be leaving a mark behind thanks to my children and also thanks to my published writings.
TP- Did you ever regret publishing something you wrote which had bad consequences for you or for other people?
As far as I know this did not happen up till the present day.
TP- Do you thing that the writer is a political human being?
Yes, of course, political here intended in its wide meaning. An Italian contemporary writer comes to my mind, Leonardo Sciascia, who in the 70s and 80s did not fear writing novels and newspaper articles against Mafia and a corrupt Italy. Or the 2007 winner of the Nobel Price for Literature, Doris Lessing, who had to leave Rhodesia because she spoke aloud and wrote against Apartheid. Many others have suffered imprisonment or exile, or even public humiliation because they were brave enough to speak and write their thoughts. Perhaps a writer is a politician who reflects and writes, whereas a politician is a person who acts more than thinks.
TP- Do you like to meet writers, poets or artists from other countries? Do you travel?
Yes, I like to meet writers, both local and foreign. I had some opportunities to meet foreign writers here in Malta during conventions or literary evenings. However, being an island, opportunities can be much better. I visited California, Cairo and Italy. When I am abroad I like to buy books which have to do with the literature of the country I am visiting. Then, when I return home I read the books and write literary articles in Maltese about international writers for local newspapers and magazines. I even publish interviews with different writers coming from different countries.
TP- What are you plans for the future?
I’d like to create more contacts with foreign writers, especially through internet. I’d also like to see more of my writings published on foreign publications. Being the vice-President of the Maltese Poets Association I’d like to read more poetry and help in organizing more literary evenings to help poetry and the love for it flourish. I have also in mind to publish two books: one about literary criticism in practice for High School students, and an anthology with my stories for children.
Talking to Teresinka Pereira
I met Teresinka Pereira in September 2006 during a short encounter in one of Malta's hotels in the north. She is the President of the International Writers Association and a person very interested in poetry, human rights and travel. She sends her poems through e-mail on a regular basis and we often correspond through interand traditional post. She likes to create contacts between writers and poets from all over the globe. I like her poetry because she writes in a concise way about human sentiments, politics, social and environmental issues. And all this in a very direct way. (Photo from left to right: me, President of the Maltese Poets association, Alfred Massa, Teresinka Pereira, and Secretary of the Maltese Poets Association, Charles Magro - during our meeting with Teresinka in the hotel in Malta).
PS. Where were you born and where do you live today? Where did this interest for poetry come from and when exactly?
TP. I was born in Belo Horizonte, Brasil and I live in Ohio, USA. Since I was five or six years old I wrote poetry. In the house where I grew up there was a library. My aunt who was like a mother to me, was a professor. She had many friends who were writers or poets. I attended with her to poetry recitals and I used to participate in them since I was very young.
PS. What are the roles of Teresinka Pereira today?
TP. You mean, what I do today? I am a poet and a writer. I write poetry everyday and I write articles about politics. I am also a Senator and an Ambassador of the International States Parliament for Safety and Peace. In that “role” I write diplomatic letters to Presidents of Nations, to UN delegates, Governors of States, etc. And I am the President of the International Writers and Artists Association. I correspond with writers and artists in five continents.
PS. What is the IWA and what are its objectives?
TP. The International Writers and Artists Association (IWA) was founded in 1978. The goal of IWA is to promote understanding, friendship and literature/art exchange with poets, writers and artists. IWA has many distinguished members as the Marquis K. Vella Haber, SOSJ Gran Prior International and Head of the Executive of the Supreme Council of the Sov. Order of Saint John of Jerusalem (Malta); Prince Waldemar Baroni Santos (Brasil), Don Cirillo Punzo, Prince of Cnosso and Manzanille (Italy); Lord Viktor Busà, President of the International States Parliament for Safety and Peace; Prince Dom Duarte Nuno João Pio de Orleães e Bragança, of Portugal; Dr. Denis Kelleher Muhilly, President of the American International University; Dr. Fernando Henrique Cardoso, former President of Brasil (1994-2002), Frei Betto, and famous writers as Ernesto Sábato (Argentina), Noan Chomsky (USA), Fernando Alegría (Chile), Rigoberta Menchú (Peace Nobel Prize in 92, Guatemala). Among the immortals: Dr. Jean Bernard (France), Carlos Drummond de Andrade (Brasil), Alberto Moravia (Italy), Ella Fitzgerald (USA), Eugene Ionesco (Romania), Jorge Guillén and Francisco García Pavón (Spain), Juan Carlos María Onetti (Uruguay), Augusto Roa Bastos (Paraguay), Juan Rulfo (Mexico), Julio Cortázar and Manuel Puig (Argentina), Maguerite Duras (France), Melina Merkuri (Greece) and many others, about 1290 associates in 112 countries in the five continents of the world.
PS. It seem that the IWA is not only interested in poetry but in various social and political issues. Can you elaborate about this?
TP. The IWA is a very inclusive organisation and in order to be open to so many artists and writers we have to be very progressive and liberal. But we believe in the common moral decencies: altruism, integrity, honesty, truthfulness, responsibility. We are concerned about war, ozone and soil depletion, pollution, racism, sexism, human rights violation, homelessness, AIDS. We support the rights and freedoms in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights for all people, everywhere. We value: respect for and comprehension of all cultures and ethnic traditions; freedom of speech and diversity; we value the rejection of racism, sexism, tribalism and ageism. We promote creative and critical thinking in literature and art. We defend reason, science, freedom of inquiry, and ethical alternatives.
PS. What issues and themes do you discuss in your poetry? What are the languages you work with?
TP. My favourite topics are: love and politics. I write in Spanish, Portuguese and English, in that order. All my poetry is written in these three languages. Then I have many translations into other languages like Russian, French, Greek, Hebrew, Arabic, Korean, Chinese, Japanese etc. About 20 other languages.
PS. It seems that you prefer to write short poems to longer ones. Why?
TP. I understand how it is to be a reader. As a reader I have short attention span. I know that all of the readers in the world prefer to read a short poem than a long one. Also I write about ideas and feelings. A poem is more efficient when it goes to the point. The repetition is boring. For some reason I prefer to publish one poem at a time, than in the anthologies, magazines, internet. It is good to have a chance to read a short poem and share the poet’s feelings. It takes too much time to read a book.
PS. Which do you prefer: poetry for art’s sake or poetry with a message?
TP. I prefer poetry with a message, written with a lot of art!
PS. How powerful is poetry when it comes to delivering important messages?
TP. It is as powerful as a revolutionary song.
PS. Do you agree with the statement that people prefer prose to poetry? Why?
TP. Yes I agree. It is easier to understand prose, like a short story or a novel than a poem full of metaphors. It is more pleasant too. When you have the time, to read a novel or a book of history gives you more pleasure than poetry. Also, you learn more reading a book of philosophy or politics than when you read a book of poetry.
PS. How important is translation when it comes to poetry?
TP. A good translation is important because it can give the same pleasure to your sensibility reading a poem just as it was in the original, but a bad translation can kill a poem.
PS. How important is Internet for poets, poetry lovers and the public in general? Where does the published book of poetry come in?
TP. Poetry adapted to Internet very fast because it can be read fast. It can be recycled also. But you read it and you forget about it. If you have a book you can go back and read it as many times as you wish, and it does not weary your eyes like the monitor. There will be always a special love for books, libraries and bookstores.
PS. You spend a lot of time travelling from one country to another meeting various poets and writers. Why do you do this? What feedback do you get?
TP. Most of my travelling is for diplomatic reasons. I just combine my interest in meeting writers, artists and poets because these are my favourite kind of people. I prefer to meet poets because I understand them better than I understand politicians. Poets are very special people. They are never boring. I fall in love every time I meet a poet.
PS. What is your relation with Maltese poets?
TP. Before I went to Malta I had the idea that all of the Maltese poets were knights. It was a very romantic idea. My visit to the island was very pleasant. The buildings and the hills and the sea confirmed that feeling of adventure and the poets that I met confirmed my idea of knights and chivalry. Some day I will visit Malta again. Thank you very much for asking.
PS. Where were you born and where do you live today? Where did this interest for poetry come from and when exactly?
TP. I was born in Belo Horizonte, Brasil and I live in Ohio, USA. Since I was five or six years old I wrote poetry. In the house where I grew up there was a library. My aunt who was like a mother to me, was a professor. She had many friends who were writers or poets. I attended with her to poetry recitals and I used to participate in them since I was very young.
PS. What are the roles of Teresinka Pereira today?
TP. You mean, what I do today? I am a poet and a writer. I write poetry everyday and I write articles about politics. I am also a Senator and an Ambassador of the International States Parliament for Safety and Peace. In that “role” I write diplomatic letters to Presidents of Nations, to UN delegates, Governors of States, etc. And I am the President of the International Writers and Artists Association. I correspond with writers and artists in five continents.
PS. What is the IWA and what are its objectives?
TP. The International Writers and Artists Association (IWA) was founded in 1978. The goal of IWA is to promote understanding, friendship and literature/art exchange with poets, writers and artists. IWA has many distinguished members as the Marquis K. Vella Haber, SOSJ Gran Prior International and Head of the Executive of the Supreme Council of the Sov. Order of Saint John of Jerusalem (Malta); Prince Waldemar Baroni Santos (Brasil), Don Cirillo Punzo, Prince of Cnosso and Manzanille (Italy); Lord Viktor Busà, President of the International States Parliament for Safety and Peace; Prince Dom Duarte Nuno João Pio de Orleães e Bragança, of Portugal; Dr. Denis Kelleher Muhilly, President of the American International University; Dr. Fernando Henrique Cardoso, former President of Brasil (1994-2002), Frei Betto, and famous writers as Ernesto Sábato (Argentina), Noan Chomsky (USA), Fernando Alegría (Chile), Rigoberta Menchú (Peace Nobel Prize in 92, Guatemala). Among the immortals: Dr. Jean Bernard (France), Carlos Drummond de Andrade (Brasil), Alberto Moravia (Italy), Ella Fitzgerald (USA), Eugene Ionesco (Romania), Jorge Guillén and Francisco García Pavón (Spain), Juan Carlos María Onetti (Uruguay), Augusto Roa Bastos (Paraguay), Juan Rulfo (Mexico), Julio Cortázar and Manuel Puig (Argentina), Maguerite Duras (France), Melina Merkuri (Greece) and many others, about 1290 associates in 112 countries in the five continents of the world.
PS. It seem that the IWA is not only interested in poetry but in various social and political issues. Can you elaborate about this?
TP. The IWA is a very inclusive organisation and in order to be open to so many artists and writers we have to be very progressive and liberal. But we believe in the common moral decencies: altruism, integrity, honesty, truthfulness, responsibility. We are concerned about war, ozone and soil depletion, pollution, racism, sexism, human rights violation, homelessness, AIDS. We support the rights and freedoms in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights for all people, everywhere. We value: respect for and comprehension of all cultures and ethnic traditions; freedom of speech and diversity; we value the rejection of racism, sexism, tribalism and ageism. We promote creative and critical thinking in literature and art. We defend reason, science, freedom of inquiry, and ethical alternatives.
PS. What issues and themes do you discuss in your poetry? What are the languages you work with?
TP. My favourite topics are: love and politics. I write in Spanish, Portuguese and English, in that order. All my poetry is written in these three languages. Then I have many translations into other languages like Russian, French, Greek, Hebrew, Arabic, Korean, Chinese, Japanese etc. About 20 other languages.
PS. It seems that you prefer to write short poems to longer ones. Why?
TP. I understand how it is to be a reader. As a reader I have short attention span. I know that all of the readers in the world prefer to read a short poem than a long one. Also I write about ideas and feelings. A poem is more efficient when it goes to the point. The repetition is boring. For some reason I prefer to publish one poem at a time, than in the anthologies, magazines, internet. It is good to have a chance to read a short poem and share the poet’s feelings. It takes too much time to read a book.
PS. Which do you prefer: poetry for art’s sake or poetry with a message?
TP. I prefer poetry with a message, written with a lot of art!
PS. How powerful is poetry when it comes to delivering important messages?
TP. It is as powerful as a revolutionary song.
PS. Do you agree with the statement that people prefer prose to poetry? Why?
TP. Yes I agree. It is easier to understand prose, like a short story or a novel than a poem full of metaphors. It is more pleasant too. When you have the time, to read a novel or a book of history gives you more pleasure than poetry. Also, you learn more reading a book of philosophy or politics than when you read a book of poetry.
PS. How important is translation when it comes to poetry?
TP. A good translation is important because it can give the same pleasure to your sensibility reading a poem just as it was in the original, but a bad translation can kill a poem.
PS. How important is Internet for poets, poetry lovers and the public in general? Where does the published book of poetry come in?
TP. Poetry adapted to Internet very fast because it can be read fast. It can be recycled also. But you read it and you forget about it. If you have a book you can go back and read it as many times as you wish, and it does not weary your eyes like the monitor. There will be always a special love for books, libraries and bookstores.
PS. You spend a lot of time travelling from one country to another meeting various poets and writers. Why do you do this? What feedback do you get?
TP. Most of my travelling is for diplomatic reasons. I just combine my interest in meeting writers, artists and poets because these are my favourite kind of people. I prefer to meet poets because I understand them better than I understand politicians. Poets are very special people. They are never boring. I fall in love every time I meet a poet.
PS. What is your relation with Maltese poets?
TP. Before I went to Malta I had the idea that all of the Maltese poets were knights. It was a very romantic idea. My visit to the island was very pleasant. The buildings and the hills and the sea confirmed that feeling of adventure and the poets that I met confirmed my idea of knights and chivalry. Some day I will visit Malta again. Thank you very much for asking.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Two poems translated in Portughese
The following are two of my poems translated in Portughese by Teresinka Pereira, President of the International Writers Association. The first poem was written by me in English (One Past) and published earlier on this blog. It is a poem dedicated to my mother. The second poem (Breakfast and TV) was also published earlier on this blog. It is a political poem which discusses our indifference towards countries and people who suffer during all their life. It is also about mass-media and alienation. Thanks Teresinka for giving me the opportunity to share my poetry with Portughese speaking people.
UM PASSADO
Eu ouço as vozes passadas
vagando sobre um deserto
de tumbas mudas
Os insetos voadores são sedentos
pela sua presença
e eu estou sedento por água...
Lembro-me de você
lavando roupa na bacia do Twyfords
com cheiro de Higiene
queimando seu álito.
O sol queima e lembro-me
de quando criança
eu estava acalentado em
seus braços maternais.
Para min, hoje você está
em todas partes
e em nenhum lugar
sempre e nunca, tudo e nada
ontem e hoje... e amanhã?
Hoje eu salto os degraus pesados
dos dias, um a um
e em silêncio olho para frente
a ver se posso alcançar chegar ao final
- um desconhecido embora tão perto –
impotente de ver que algum dia
tudo encontrará seu descanso
em um passado sem saber...
Translated by Teresinka Pereira
O CAFÉ DA MANHÃ E A TV
O segundo dia do Ano Novo
mas nada de novo para o café da manhã:
o copo de sangue gelado dos mortos
e a torrada queimada dos corpos espalhados...
Sua voz monótona anuncia o menu do dia
sempre o mesmo, e no fundo da tela
a já conhecida música da metralhadora
e os gritos sem fim de vingança e tristeza...
Presidentes, primiero ministros,
generais e embaixadores nos servem
o prato comun com um sorriso impecável,
e nós, com nosso garfo e faca canibais,
saboreamos o prato fino cru
enquanto fazemos nossa parte
de estupidez brincando de deus,
condenando o bem e o mal
apoiando o bem e o que é justo
(e eu sempre me pergunto onde
estão exatamente os dois, se são
aliados ou pretendem ser?)
Já passaram muitos anos desde que
se anunciou a paz, mas as nuvens
negras ainda cobrem nossos olhos
e o vento frio sopra em nosso coração
e as mortes continuam batendo
nos nossos ouvidos.
Quase sem notar eu me levanto
e começo a caminhar para
o outro quarto. Vou assobiando...
Translated by Teresinka Pereira
UM PASSADO
Eu ouço as vozes passadas
vagando sobre um deserto
de tumbas mudas
Os insetos voadores são sedentos
pela sua presença
e eu estou sedento por água...
Lembro-me de você
lavando roupa na bacia do Twyfords
com cheiro de Higiene
queimando seu álito.
O sol queima e lembro-me
de quando criança
eu estava acalentado em
seus braços maternais.
Para min, hoje você está
em todas partes
e em nenhum lugar
sempre e nunca, tudo e nada
ontem e hoje... e amanhã?
Hoje eu salto os degraus pesados
dos dias, um a um
e em silêncio olho para frente
a ver se posso alcançar chegar ao final
- um desconhecido embora tão perto –
impotente de ver que algum dia
tudo encontrará seu descanso
em um passado sem saber...
Translated by Teresinka Pereira
O CAFÉ DA MANHÃ E A TV
O segundo dia do Ano Novo
mas nada de novo para o café da manhã:
o copo de sangue gelado dos mortos
e a torrada queimada dos corpos espalhados...
Sua voz monótona anuncia o menu do dia
sempre o mesmo, e no fundo da tela
a já conhecida música da metralhadora
e os gritos sem fim de vingança e tristeza...
Presidentes, primiero ministros,
generais e embaixadores nos servem
o prato comun com um sorriso impecável,
e nós, com nosso garfo e faca canibais,
saboreamos o prato fino cru
enquanto fazemos nossa parte
de estupidez brincando de deus,
condenando o bem e o mal
apoiando o bem e o que é justo
(e eu sempre me pergunto onde
estão exatamente os dois, se são
aliados ou pretendem ser?)
Já passaram muitos anos desde que
se anunciou a paz, mas as nuvens
negras ainda cobrem nossos olhos
e o vento frio sopra em nosso coração
e as mortes continuam batendo
nos nossos ouvidos.
Quase sem notar eu me levanto
e começo a caminhar para
o outro quarto. Vou assobiando...
Translated by Teresinka Pereira
New poems in Italian
Poetic inspiration for me is not a daily presence. Months may pass before I feel tempted by Muse to write a poem. However, my mind is always on the go: it analyses reality, thinks uninterrutedly, and sometimes I write short essays in Maltese regarding the daily social and political issues. During these last two or three years I am also writing a number of short stories for children in Maltese.
The following are three of my poems in Italian. Notte alla moviola and Lo sguardo che veglia were originally written in Italian, but Il sangue e la pace is a free translation from a poem I originally wrote in Maltese. It's about civil war in the Middle-East, but also about the charismatic figure of Pope John Paul II.
NOTTE ALLA MOVIOLA
Passa come alla moviola la notte
scandita da mille piccoli rumori
conosciuti o sconosciuti
da mille pensieri pesanti e leggeri
da mille dolori che pesano
su spirito e corpo.
Un’ombra nemica la notte
di chi afflitto dall’insonnia
è trafitto, inesorabilmente,
da mille riflessioni...
Poi l’alba porta con sé
un urlo stridente di pneumatici
e migliaia di notizie in fila
che torturano il cuore umano
o quello che ne resta
e passa così il giorno, veloce...
seguito dal tramonto che annuncia
di nuovo
l’arrivo di un’altra
notte alla moviola.
IL SANGUE E LA PACE
La pace distesa su larghe pianure
di margherite, acetoselle, caprifogli, papaveri,
la pace sulle vertici più alte dei monti e nelle valli
la pace nello sguardo curioso di un bimbo
la pace nel bacio materno di mattino, la sera
la pace che nasce dall’amicizia
la pace nel sorriso di una giovane
che passeggia lungo una spiaggia color onde blu
la pace di una coppia anziana che cammina ancora a braccetto
la pace che sgorga dal lavoro quotidiano...
Il sangue nei mercati e nelle strade dell’Oriente
il buio nelle parole e negli sguardi di centinaia
che danno al fuoco bandiere e promettono vendette
pezzetti insanguinati di membra umane seminate lungo l’aia
fucili e cannoni che sparano feroci
pseudo condottieri che fomentano rabbia tra i deboli di spirito
popoli divisi in Oriente e Levante, Sud e Nord
Cristiani e Musulmani, rossi e blu.
Milioni che cadono come foglie rinsecchite
carestie, malattie, guerre
e i pochi che s’abbuffano,
figli dell’avarizia e della vanità...
La pace sulla bocca del vecchio Apostolo
che trema inclinato aiutandosi da un bastone
più forte nello spirito di qualunque falco
che grida parole spietate!
LO SGUARDO CHE VEGLIA
Ricordo ancora il tuo sguardo caldo
lassù nel balcone del quinto piano
a vegliarmi mentre aspettavo l’autobus
sulla fermata
tardi le fredde sere...
Ricordi azzurri come i tuoi occhi castani
respiro caldo
sguardo sereno
sorriso angelico...
The following are three of my poems in Italian. Notte alla moviola and Lo sguardo che veglia were originally written in Italian, but Il sangue e la pace is a free translation from a poem I originally wrote in Maltese. It's about civil war in the Middle-East, but also about the charismatic figure of Pope John Paul II.
NOTTE ALLA MOVIOLA
Passa come alla moviola la notte
scandita da mille piccoli rumori
conosciuti o sconosciuti
da mille pensieri pesanti e leggeri
da mille dolori che pesano
su spirito e corpo.
Un’ombra nemica la notte
di chi afflitto dall’insonnia
è trafitto, inesorabilmente,
da mille riflessioni...
Poi l’alba porta con sé
un urlo stridente di pneumatici
e migliaia di notizie in fila
che torturano il cuore umano
o quello che ne resta
e passa così il giorno, veloce...
seguito dal tramonto che annuncia
di nuovo
l’arrivo di un’altra
notte alla moviola.
IL SANGUE E LA PACE
La pace distesa su larghe pianure
di margherite, acetoselle, caprifogli, papaveri,
la pace sulle vertici più alte dei monti e nelle valli
la pace nello sguardo curioso di un bimbo
la pace nel bacio materno di mattino, la sera
la pace che nasce dall’amicizia
la pace nel sorriso di una giovane
che passeggia lungo una spiaggia color onde blu
la pace di una coppia anziana che cammina ancora a braccetto
la pace che sgorga dal lavoro quotidiano...
Il sangue nei mercati e nelle strade dell’Oriente
il buio nelle parole e negli sguardi di centinaia
che danno al fuoco bandiere e promettono vendette
pezzetti insanguinati di membra umane seminate lungo l’aia
fucili e cannoni che sparano feroci
pseudo condottieri che fomentano rabbia tra i deboli di spirito
popoli divisi in Oriente e Levante, Sud e Nord
Cristiani e Musulmani, rossi e blu.
Milioni che cadono come foglie rinsecchite
carestie, malattie, guerre
e i pochi che s’abbuffano,
figli dell’avarizia e della vanità...
La pace sulla bocca del vecchio Apostolo
che trema inclinato aiutandosi da un bastone
più forte nello spirito di qualunque falco
che grida parole spietate!
LO SGUARDO CHE VEGLIA
Ricordo ancora il tuo sguardo caldo
lassù nel balcone del quinto piano
a vegliarmi mentre aspettavo l’autobus
sulla fermata
tardi le fredde sere...
Ricordi azzurri come i tuoi occhi castani
respiro caldo
sguardo sereno
sorriso angelico...
Sunday, March 09, 2008
My poetry translated in Dutch
The following are two of my poems translated from Maltese to Dutch by a friend of mine, Jan van den Hoek. Jan is more than a friend: he is a polyglot who knows languages such as Chinese, English, German, Portughese and Spanish. He's been studying Maltese for some years by now and thus when we correspond through internet or traditional post he writes in fluent Maltese. He even visits Malta on a regular basis and always spends some hours with me to brush up his conversation tecniques in Maltese. The two poems below were originally entitled Albania (later, Borders) and Selmun (this is a rural place in Malta). Thank you Jan.
Albanië[1]
Help
de roep van duizenden
de roep van mannen, vrouwen en kinderen
bejaarden en zuigelingen één en al rimpel
om ‘n stukje brood, ‘n slok water en wat beschutting.
Tv-kijkers
ik en degenen om mij heen
betreuren verzadigd andermans tegenslagen
plengen krokodillentranen
en klagen over maagzweren
als gevolg van onze ongeremde gulzigheid.
Hier
zijn wij gedoemd
in een kringetje rond te draaien
tot we ongemerkt duizelig worden
en met een druk op de knop
keren we terug naar de Apathie
vorsten, vorstinnen, tuig van de IJdelheid,
blind en doof, glimlachend.
Nog steeds zijn er de grenzen die ons scheiden
ze zijn tastbaar, geen schimmen uit het verleden.
[1] Geschreven op 4 december 1997.
Selmun[2]
Het wordt dag. . .
Vermoeid
is de maan ondergegaan om te rusten
achter de heuvel.
Zo ook haar licht zo witachtig
als melktandjes,
zo ook de ijzige weerkaatsing
van haar schijnsel op de Maltese klei.
Een ander licht wordt geboren
achter de roodachtige
horizon
alsof het verlegen is, eventjes,
verbergt het zich achter grijze wolken, ver weg,
achter de schaduw van heuvels dichtbij.
De branding van de zee kust het strand van de baai
ze is er niet mee opgehouden
alsof ze wist dat ik op was gebleven
is ze niet stil geweest.
En de liefkozende bries . . .
Eindelijk wordt het dag!
Lang is de nacht
langer dan de tocht
van de wolken door de lucht.
Hier voor me is een ster,
laatste van vele flikkeringen,
aandenken aan de gestorven nacht..
De bries . . . heeft de zeemeeuw gewekt,
de vogel verscholen in de boom tegenover me
die zich omhoog slingert tegen de nabije klif.
De schoten van een pistool deden me opschrikken,
doordrongen me ervan dat de mens was opgestaan
en met hem de noodzaak om te doden.
Het rood van de horizon
het rood van het bloed!
Maar de heuveltop tegenover me
kijkt machtig voor zich uit
naar de horizon.
En de nabije boom
met open armen
lijkt zich uit te rekken
in onverschilligheid.
En het is dag geworden . . .
[2] Oorspronkelijk geschreven in september 1992, in een van de baaien van Selmun. Herzien in november 1996.
Albanië[1]
Help
de roep van duizenden
de roep van mannen, vrouwen en kinderen
bejaarden en zuigelingen één en al rimpel
om ‘n stukje brood, ‘n slok water en wat beschutting.
Tv-kijkers
ik en degenen om mij heen
betreuren verzadigd andermans tegenslagen
plengen krokodillentranen
en klagen over maagzweren
als gevolg van onze ongeremde gulzigheid.
Hier
zijn wij gedoemd
in een kringetje rond te draaien
tot we ongemerkt duizelig worden
en met een druk op de knop
keren we terug naar de Apathie
vorsten, vorstinnen, tuig van de IJdelheid,
blind en doof, glimlachend.
Nog steeds zijn er de grenzen die ons scheiden
ze zijn tastbaar, geen schimmen uit het verleden.
[1] Geschreven op 4 december 1997.
Selmun[2]
Het wordt dag. . .
Vermoeid
is de maan ondergegaan om te rusten
achter de heuvel.
Zo ook haar licht zo witachtig
als melktandjes,
zo ook de ijzige weerkaatsing
van haar schijnsel op de Maltese klei.
Een ander licht wordt geboren
achter de roodachtige
horizon
alsof het verlegen is, eventjes,
verbergt het zich achter grijze wolken, ver weg,
achter de schaduw van heuvels dichtbij.
De branding van de zee kust het strand van de baai
ze is er niet mee opgehouden
alsof ze wist dat ik op was gebleven
is ze niet stil geweest.
En de liefkozende bries . . .
Eindelijk wordt het dag!
Lang is de nacht
langer dan de tocht
van de wolken door de lucht.
Hier voor me is een ster,
laatste van vele flikkeringen,
aandenken aan de gestorven nacht..
De bries . . . heeft de zeemeeuw gewekt,
de vogel verscholen in de boom tegenover me
die zich omhoog slingert tegen de nabije klif.
De schoten van een pistool deden me opschrikken,
doordrongen me ervan dat de mens was opgestaan
en met hem de noodzaak om te doden.
Het rood van de horizon
het rood van het bloed!
Maar de heuveltop tegenover me
kijkt machtig voor zich uit
naar de horizon.
En de nabije boom
met open armen
lijkt zich uit te rekken
in onverschilligheid.
En het is dag geworden . . .
[2] Oorspronkelijk geschreven in september 1992, in een van de baaien van Selmun. Herzien in november 1996.
A young Italian friend and poet
My best friend in Italy is Marcello Moretti. I got to know him in 1994 when I left work here in Malta to follow a two-year course in criticism and literature at the Universita` degli Studi di Firenze. We used to live in a Jesuits Convent half an hour away from the lecture premises and so we had many time and opportunities to share experiences and thoughts. Marcello is a very intelligent person, well-read, profound in his thoughts, active in culture circles. He loves cinema and writes short stories and poetry in Italian.
In summer of 1997 he spent a week at my place here in Malta and it was a nice time, especially because my studies in Florence were finished in June 1996. We also met during my honeymoon in Florence in 2002. From then on we keep contact through traditional post and internet.
Some days ago Marcello included one of my poems in his blogspot and called me a writer, poet and intellectual. Too good a comment according to me. However, I'm very happy that Marcello still keeps me one of his best friends.
In 2006 we co-published a small poetry anthology entitled Pensieri che planano/L'orizzonte degli eventi. The following is a short poem of his taken from this anthology:
VIATICO
In questi giorni accumulati e agnosici
di guardia bassa e di vento
sono con te
come il compagno di Sirio
nell'istante eliaco.
Marcello's poetry is not simple to understand. One has to be well-read. I'm sure that among his favorite poets are Eugenio Montale, Mario Luzi and Umberto Saba. Those interested in Marcello Moretti's writing see his blogspot: http://www.marcellomoretti.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
4 images from coast of Gozo
This February I took part again in a SPEAR activity, this time on a boat trip around Gozo. I and the Environmental Science teacher, Konrad Pirotta, together with 9 students, left Cirkewwa at 8.45 a.m. on a lancja. The sites we were focusing on are Xlendi Bay and Dwejra Bay.
The four photos here testify the marvellous coastline of Gozo. The first photograph shows one of the watch-towers built during the period of the Order of St. John (1530-1798) to guard the islands against possible invasions from the Turks. The fourth photo shows one of the many semi-submerged caves and caverns along the Gozitan coastline. The second photo shows the Dwejra "Window", while the third photograph shows the Fungus Rock (known in Maltese as Il-Gebla tal-General, The General's Rock).
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Verse translated directly from Maltese
I originally wrote these two poems in Maltese. However, some time ago I decided to translate them in English to give an idea - to those who are not familiar with Maltese - of the contents of my verse which discusses social issues such as war, famine, racism, inequality and the like. Borders originally was named Albania: I wrote it after watching a documentary on Italian tv about the social situation in Albania some years ago. The title of the second poem is heavy with irony: peace is weakening as time goes by. However, there are strong personalities such as Pope John Paul II, who beleived in peace throughout all his life.
Borders
Help
The plea of thousands
The plea of youth, women and men
The aged and newborn one wrinkle
Their arms wide open
Praying to be given a handful of bread
A sip of water and shelter.
Tv spectators
Me and those around me
Pity comfortably our neighbour’s misfortunes
Sinking in crocodile’s tears
Moaning ‘cause of ulcers in our stomachs
‘cause of our greed in which we’re drowning.
Here
We walk godless
The same closed circle
’Til we stand no more, unknowingly,
and with the touch of a button
we go back to Apathy
kings, queens, ruffians of Vanity
blind and deaf, smiling...
The borders that divide us are still with us
Tangible, not ghosts of the past.
A toast to peace
The word of peace was transformed
In a stone-sling
The promises melted in tear gas
Youth is lying dead massacred in the streets.
Dressed in a double-horned hat for the occasion
The politician-clown wears a hypocritical smile
Traversing his whole face
Mumbling bombastic nonsense
Promising heaven on earth
In the near future.
The guardian of justice
Washed his hands
And he who acts apelike since birth
-And spits in the face of his sheepish neighbour-
Was given the right to kill in a split-second
once, twice, thrice
knowing that dressed in jacket and tie
can easily gain his liberty through bail
or else live scot free hiding behind insanity.
Mother earth, mother of us all
Is breathless
Drowning in her offspring’s blood.
And we are too busy and in a hurry
Can’t afford a short moment of reflection...
Two thousand years after, daydreamers
We’re still searching the grail of justice!
Borders
Help
The plea of thousands
The plea of youth, women and men
The aged and newborn one wrinkle
Their arms wide open
Praying to be given a handful of bread
A sip of water and shelter.
Tv spectators
Me and those around me
Pity comfortably our neighbour’s misfortunes
Sinking in crocodile’s tears
Moaning ‘cause of ulcers in our stomachs
‘cause of our greed in which we’re drowning.
Here
We walk godless
The same closed circle
’Til we stand no more, unknowingly,
and with the touch of a button
we go back to Apathy
kings, queens, ruffians of Vanity
blind and deaf, smiling...
The borders that divide us are still with us
Tangible, not ghosts of the past.
A toast to peace
The word of peace was transformed
In a stone-sling
The promises melted in tear gas
Youth is lying dead massacred in the streets.
Dressed in a double-horned hat for the occasion
The politician-clown wears a hypocritical smile
Traversing his whole face
Mumbling bombastic nonsense
Promising heaven on earth
In the near future.
The guardian of justice
Washed his hands
And he who acts apelike since birth
-And spits in the face of his sheepish neighbour-
Was given the right to kill in a split-second
once, twice, thrice
knowing that dressed in jacket and tie
can easily gain his liberty through bail
or else live scot free hiding behind insanity.
Mother earth, mother of us all
Is breathless
Drowning in her offspring’s blood.
And we are too busy and in a hurry
Can’t afford a short moment of reflection...
Two thousand years after, daydreamers
We’re still searching the grail of justice!
Friday, February 08, 2008
Another elegy in Italian
Quello che mi rimane di te... (What's left of you...) ia another elegy dedicated to my mother. One discovers the real importance of a mother's presence when she is no more... This poem was inspired by the introductory lines which are takem from the poem of a well-known Italian poet, Ada Negri, who has also written an elegy for her mother.
QUELLO CHE MI RIMANE DI TE...
“De’ tuoi bianchi capelli, si leggeri
Alla carezza e pur sì folti, in uno scrigno
Una ciocca serbo...”
(La ciocca bianca, Ada Negri)
Quello che mi rimane di te
e` il calore materno
che mi hai forgiato
in quel momento estremo
quando ti baciavo la fronte
quando ti tenevo la mano, forte
mentre il tuo respiro si ritirava
poco a poco
come si ritirano i fiori
anche i piu` semplici
dai campi freschi di primavera.
Quello che mi rimane di te
e` l’estrema scoperta...
le tue dita lunghe
della tua mano cara
erano quelle di un’artista
che suonava il pianoforte
non quelle sciupate dal duro lavoro
che donavi con amore.
Quello che mi rimane di te
e` qualcosa che gioca a nascondiglio
dentro di me
ma che non posso esprimere
con penna e inchiostro
né con queste misere parole
che cadono pesanti e si seccano come foglie...
e` qualcosa d’impercettibile ma presente
che bussa spesso alla mia porta
e io, lieto, le apro ogni volta
anche se vedere non posso né toccare
ma solo godere della sua amabile presenza.
Quello che mi rimane di te
non e` una ciocca né nera né bianca
ma un cestello di beati ricordi e fotografie
e questa penna e questo inchiostro
che m’aiutano a ricordarti
a ridarti vita e respiro
anche se per pochi effimeri istanti
dopo lunghi lunghi mesi di esilio.
Quello che mi rimane di te
e` un pugno di lettere minuscole
con un significato maiuscolo
...A M O R E.
QUELLO CHE MI RIMANE DI TE...
“De’ tuoi bianchi capelli, si leggeri
Alla carezza e pur sì folti, in uno scrigno
Una ciocca serbo...”
(La ciocca bianca, Ada Negri)
Quello che mi rimane di te
e` il calore materno
che mi hai forgiato
in quel momento estremo
quando ti baciavo la fronte
quando ti tenevo la mano, forte
mentre il tuo respiro si ritirava
poco a poco
come si ritirano i fiori
anche i piu` semplici
dai campi freschi di primavera.
Quello che mi rimane di te
e` l’estrema scoperta...
le tue dita lunghe
della tua mano cara
erano quelle di un’artista
che suonava il pianoforte
non quelle sciupate dal duro lavoro
che donavi con amore.
Quello che mi rimane di te
e` qualcosa che gioca a nascondiglio
dentro di me
ma che non posso esprimere
con penna e inchiostro
né con queste misere parole
che cadono pesanti e si seccano come foglie...
e` qualcosa d’impercettibile ma presente
che bussa spesso alla mia porta
e io, lieto, le apro ogni volta
anche se vedere non posso né toccare
ma solo godere della sua amabile presenza.
Quello che mi rimane di te
non e` una ciocca né nera né bianca
ma un cestello di beati ricordi e fotografie
e questa penna e questo inchiostro
che m’aiutano a ricordarti
a ridarti vita e respiro
anche se per pochi effimeri istanti
dopo lunghi lunghi mesi di esilio.
Quello che mi rimane di te
e` un pugno di lettere minuscole
con un significato maiuscolo
...A M O R E.
TWO NEW PUBLICATIONS
In the last months of 2007 I have published two new textbooks. The first is Temi fil-Poezija Maltija u lilhinn (De la Salle Brothers Publications): it is intended to help students studying Maltese poetry at Intermediate and Advanced levels. The book is divided in four sections which discuss four important themes in Maltese poetry: National Identity; the Spiritual Experience; Life Experiences; and the Natural Environment. The four themes are then divided in other sub-themes thus discussing aspects such as Toponomy, Historical Events, Christ, the contribution of religious poets, the sea and the vallies in poetry, the micro and the macrocosm. Temi f'Il-Poezija Maltija u lilhinn takes the form of 18 essays which discuss the abovementioned aspects and some others, always in relation to Maltese poetry of the 2oth century.ORA! is another textbook which
offers the student preparing for his Intermediate and Advanced Italian exam a number of comprehensions, summaries, grammar exercises, essay titles, information regarding different aspects of the Italian culture such as cinema, literature, newspapers and journals, music and politics. It also includes cloze texts and exercises which help to better one's idiomatic skills in Italian. The book is divided in three sections: The Religious Experience; the Arts; and Social Problems. In this way students are helped to recognise different registers and increase their vocabulary. The different articles taken from presentday Italian newspapers and journals can also serve as a starting point for discussing different issues.
Monday, September 24, 2007
3 good novels to be read
This summer I had some free time dedicated to reading fiction. I really had fun reading THE RELIGION (2006) of Tim Willocks who has been to Malta in July to sign copies of his novel. It's about the Great Siege that took place in Malta in 1565. It's a novel about war, violence, courage, freedom, love, loyalty, treason, and much more.
The second novel is PORTRAIT IN SEPIA of Isabel Allende, who was born in Peru and bred in Chile. It's a novel about woman emancipation, values, and the confrontation between traditional and modern societies.
Presently I'm reading WAR TRASH of Chinese writer Ha Jin. It's about the Korean War in the early 1950s and also about the life of Chinese and Korean POWs. Like the previous two novels WAR TRASH is about humankind, regardless religion, colour of skin, ideology and nationality. Ha Jin writes about the individual in a world where the individual means nothing and where world power and politics mean everything.
The second novel is PORTRAIT IN SEPIA of Isabel Allende, who was born in Peru and bred in Chile. It's a novel about woman emancipation, values, and the confrontation between traditional and modern societies.
Presently I'm reading WAR TRASH of Chinese writer Ha Jin. It's about the Korean War in the early 1950s and also about the life of Chinese and Korean POWs. Like the previous two novels WAR TRASH is about humankind, regardless religion, colour of skin, ideology and nationality. Ha Jin writes about the individual in a world where the individual means nothing and where world power and politics mean everything.
An elegy in Italian
I wrote this poem thinking of my mother who died of cancer exactly three years ago. Here I imagine myself a cancer patient. Indirectly I express my love towards my mother who dedicated big part of her life for her family, me included. A mother dies but is never forgotten.
ULTIME RIGHE NEL DIARIO DI UN MORIBONDO
Sono arrivato al capolinea
Ho appena sputato sangue
O era un pezzo di carne insanguinato?
Sono diventate secche le mie vene una dopo l’altra
Con tutta quella chimica che ne passa
Son trascorsi lunghi mesi, anzi anni
Da quando ho intuito l’inizio della discesa
Era un giorno come gli altri
Con una sola novita`:
la notizia m’era arrivata fredda, indifferente
m’avevano assicurato che non era niente di grave
solo un piccolo intervento
e poi svaniva tutto il male
ma di dentro non mi convincevo...
Mesi dopo il male era ricresciuto
Quella volta m’avevano suggerito
La radioterapia
E poi la chemioterapia
Lunghe ore d’attesa solitaria
Lunghe ore di tacita sofferenza
Io e la macchina
Io e l’odore di medicina
E dentro i pensieri che esplodevano
A migliaia
La paura della fine
La puntura di un ago minuscolo
La sostanza ambigua
che si mescolava col mio sangue
I momenti di panico
le grida dentro la fredda stanza
Sdraiato su un letto a fissare il neon, rimbecillito
Le visite settimanali dallo specialista
Con il suo sorriso ambiguo
Le sue parole ambigue.
Al reparto incontravo tanta brava gente
Con il male dentro pure loro
Ognuno con il proprio peso della croce
Alcuni la portavano da dieci anni,
altri di piu`, altri di meno
e io mi sentivo forte tra certi poveri Cristi
malgrado il dolore, le crisi interminabili...
Stasera ho appena sputato sangue
O forse era un pezzo di carne insanguinato?
Una voce nascosta m’ha detto che
Ero al capolinea
Quelle ultime due fiale di speranza
M’hanno tolto ogni speranza
Bruciato dall’interno
Cazzo che inferno!...
M’hanno portato di corsa all’ospedale
Un infermo
Seduto su una sedia a rotelle
Il dolore era talmente grande
Che supplicavo la morfina
La morfina, amica morfina...
Adesso supino disteso sul letto
Guardo il mondo attraverso un velo di nebbia fitta
Riesco a seguire le parole degli altri talvolta
E talvolta gli rispondo persino
La gola e` secca, un deserto, mi fa male
pero` m’hanno sconsigliato di bere
ho la bocca una ferita aperta
mi siedo sul letto e a intervalli
m’aiutano a fare qualche passo
con la macchina della morfina che fa tic tic
anch’essa a intervalli
e mi segue come un’ombra
mi da` fastidio la corrente
e chiedo di chiudere la finestra che da` sul porto
e chiedo di rimettermi disteso sul letto
mi sento stanco, sfinito
e chiudo gli occhi
mi s’annebbiano i sensi
ma sento ancora le voci lontane
e qualcuno mi tiene la mano calda...
Sono arrivato al capolinea
È ora di fare le valigie
Metaforicamente
Balbetto una mezza preghiera in segreto
Il fiato si fa piu` raro
Sono tranquillo, molto tranquillo
M’avviluppa il peso del sonno
E uno dopo l’altro s’interrompono i sensi
Si spengono gli interruttori
Mi sento leggero, molto leggero
E so che sul mio volto che non è piu` il mio
S’e` formato un bel sorriso, tranquillo...
ULTIME RIGHE NEL DIARIO DI UN MORIBONDO
Sono arrivato al capolinea
Ho appena sputato sangue
O era un pezzo di carne insanguinato?
Sono diventate secche le mie vene una dopo l’altra
Con tutta quella chimica che ne passa
Son trascorsi lunghi mesi, anzi anni
Da quando ho intuito l’inizio della discesa
Era un giorno come gli altri
Con una sola novita`:
la notizia m’era arrivata fredda, indifferente
m’avevano assicurato che non era niente di grave
solo un piccolo intervento
e poi svaniva tutto il male
ma di dentro non mi convincevo...
Mesi dopo il male era ricresciuto
Quella volta m’avevano suggerito
La radioterapia
E poi la chemioterapia
Lunghe ore d’attesa solitaria
Lunghe ore di tacita sofferenza
Io e la macchina
Io e l’odore di medicina
E dentro i pensieri che esplodevano
A migliaia
La paura della fine
La puntura di un ago minuscolo
La sostanza ambigua
che si mescolava col mio sangue
I momenti di panico
le grida dentro la fredda stanza
Sdraiato su un letto a fissare il neon, rimbecillito
Le visite settimanali dallo specialista
Con il suo sorriso ambiguo
Le sue parole ambigue.
Al reparto incontravo tanta brava gente
Con il male dentro pure loro
Ognuno con il proprio peso della croce
Alcuni la portavano da dieci anni,
altri di piu`, altri di meno
e io mi sentivo forte tra certi poveri Cristi
malgrado il dolore, le crisi interminabili...
Stasera ho appena sputato sangue
O forse era un pezzo di carne insanguinato?
Una voce nascosta m’ha detto che
Ero al capolinea
Quelle ultime due fiale di speranza
M’hanno tolto ogni speranza
Bruciato dall’interno
Cazzo che inferno!...
M’hanno portato di corsa all’ospedale
Un infermo
Seduto su una sedia a rotelle
Il dolore era talmente grande
Che supplicavo la morfina
La morfina, amica morfina...
Adesso supino disteso sul letto
Guardo il mondo attraverso un velo di nebbia fitta
Riesco a seguire le parole degli altri talvolta
E talvolta gli rispondo persino
La gola e` secca, un deserto, mi fa male
pero` m’hanno sconsigliato di bere
ho la bocca una ferita aperta
mi siedo sul letto e a intervalli
m’aiutano a fare qualche passo
con la macchina della morfina che fa tic tic
anch’essa a intervalli
e mi segue come un’ombra
mi da` fastidio la corrente
e chiedo di chiudere la finestra che da` sul porto
e chiedo di rimettermi disteso sul letto
mi sento stanco, sfinito
e chiudo gli occhi
mi s’annebbiano i sensi
ma sento ancora le voci lontane
e qualcuno mi tiene la mano calda...
Sono arrivato al capolinea
È ora di fare le valigie
Metaforicamente
Balbetto una mezza preghiera in segreto
Il fiato si fa piu` raro
Sono tranquillo, molto tranquillo
M’avviluppa il peso del sonno
E uno dopo l’altro s’interrompono i sensi
Si spengono gli interruttori
Mi sento leggero, molto leggero
E so che sul mio volto che non è piu` il mio
S’e` formato un bel sorriso, tranquillo...
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Photos from Comino (sister island of Malta)
Some days ago I and two other teachers spent a day on the island of Comino. Reason: to take photos and collect information for a European project we and some students are working on this year (SPEAR Project). Comino is so small an island, yet with many beautiful corners to see and fall in love with!
Saturday, April 21, 2007
This is an elegy I wrote last February 2007, dedicated to a colleague of mine, Olaug Vethal, teacher of art and artist.
Eternal peace and rock and roll
Saturday evening
I was holding my child ten months old
looking into her eyes full of life
her smile innocent.
And at the same time I was thinking of you
yet no more.
It ticked in my brain continuously
people die and people are born
people come and others go
it’s naturally so.
But do all leave so strong a mark behind?
I’ve seen you there in bed immobile
breathing your last instants of a life so meaningful
a heavy mist in your eyes
and human voices echoing at a distance.
I’ve seen you at ease, praying hand in hand,
I heard you whispering that “Everything’s ok”
while waiting silently and patiently
to embrace, alas, eternal moments of peace
and let time tick for us who stay behind.
I’ve asked myself while holding your hand, warm,
why you, not me or he or she, or him or her
but you?
A painting once so bright, today a chiaroscuro?
Is this an early winter or a late spring?
Monday morning
while we bid farewell
I thought that for me you were no mother
but only a friend
with whom at times I shared thoughts, verse
and green tea.
But I’ve also been a son again that day
I cried and prayed with your son
(you used to talk about so much these last months).
Alas!
I bow to destiny
and leave all shades apart
to remember nice moments lived together
your smile so genuine
your laugh a roar...
For us your presence was paint and brush alive
you left your colours bright on our canvas-hearts.
This morning
you rest in eternal peace
while life outside is rock and roll
once more...
Eternal peace and rock and roll
Saturday evening
I was holding my child ten months old
looking into her eyes full of life
her smile innocent.
And at the same time I was thinking of you
yet no more.
It ticked in my brain continuously
people die and people are born
people come and others go
it’s naturally so.
But do all leave so strong a mark behind?
I’ve seen you there in bed immobile
breathing your last instants of a life so meaningful
a heavy mist in your eyes
and human voices echoing at a distance.
I’ve seen you at ease, praying hand in hand,
I heard you whispering that “Everything’s ok”
while waiting silently and patiently
to embrace, alas, eternal moments of peace
and let time tick for us who stay behind.
I’ve asked myself while holding your hand, warm,
why you, not me or he or she, or him or her
but you?
A painting once so bright, today a chiaroscuro?
Is this an early winter or a late spring?
Monday morning
while we bid farewell
I thought that for me you were no mother
but only a friend
with whom at times I shared thoughts, verse
and green tea.
But I’ve also been a son again that day
I cried and prayed with your son
(you used to talk about so much these last months).
Alas!
I bow to destiny
and leave all shades apart
to remember nice moments lived together
your smile so genuine
your laugh a roar...
For us your presence was paint and brush alive
you left your colours bright on our canvas-hearts.
This morning
you rest in eternal peace
while life outside is rock and roll
once more...
Monday, February 05, 2007
Breakfast and tv
This is a poem I wrote on the second day of 2007.
Breakfast and tv
New year’s day two
but nothing’s new for breakfast
a glass of cold bloody killings
and a burned toast of scattered bodies...
His monotone voice announces the daily menu
neverchanging
and in the background
a much known music made up of
machine-gun fire and unending cries
of vengeance or grief...
Presidents, primeministers, generals and ambassadors
serve us the usual plates
their shiney impeccable smiles
and us, with cannibal forks and knives,
savour the raw delicacies
while engaging in annoying nonsense
playing the part of god
condemning the bad and evil
upholding the good and just
(I’m always asking myself where do
these two exactly stand?
Are they friends or foe?)
Many years have fled
since the year of peace was announced
but still black clouds cover our eyes
and cold winds blow in our hearts
and the usual killing notes knock incessantly
at our ears’ doors...
Almost unknowingly
I see myself stand up and walk
towards another room
whistling a happy tune...
Breakfast and tv
New year’s day two
but nothing’s new for breakfast
a glass of cold bloody killings
and a burned toast of scattered bodies...
His monotone voice announces the daily menu
neverchanging
and in the background
a much known music made up of
machine-gun fire and unending cries
of vengeance or grief...
Presidents, primeministers, generals and ambassadors
serve us the usual plates
their shiney impeccable smiles
and us, with cannibal forks and knives,
savour the raw delicacies
while engaging in annoying nonsense
playing the part of god
condemning the bad and evil
upholding the good and just
(I’m always asking myself where do
these two exactly stand?
Are they friends or foe?)
Many years have fled
since the year of peace was announced
but still black clouds cover our eyes
and cold winds blow in our hearts
and the usual killing notes knock incessantly
at our ears’ doors...
Almost unknowingly
I see myself stand up and walk
towards another room
whistling a happy tune...
Friday, October 20, 2006
Poem in Italian
This is another elegy dedicated to my mother which I wrote last May 2006:
Servano questi scarabicchi...
Servano questi scarabocchi
come linfa che nutre l'albero che frutta
i miei ricordi di te...
Servano come eco infinita
che rimbomba la tua cara voce
ora non piu'...
Servano a ridare respiro
a te persona in carne e ossa
al tuo sorriso acqua di ruscello
ai tuoi gesti generosi...
Servano questi spruzzi d'inchiostro
ad innaffiare le mie lacrime roventi
a colmare questa lacuna tra te e io
a rendere la distanza meno dura...
Servano soprattutto
a far crollare parzialmente
questo muro maledetto di silenzio
che da troppo troppo tempo
ci separa!
Servano questi scarabicchi...
Servano questi scarabocchi
come linfa che nutre l'albero che frutta
i miei ricordi di te...
Servano come eco infinita
che rimbomba la tua cara voce
ora non piu'...
Servano a ridare respiro
a te persona in carne e ossa
al tuo sorriso acqua di ruscello
ai tuoi gesti generosi...
Servano questi spruzzi d'inchiostro
ad innaffiare le mie lacrime roventi
a colmare questa lacuna tra te e io
a rendere la distanza meno dura...
Servano soprattutto
a far crollare parzialmente
questo muro maledetto di silenzio
che da troppo troppo tempo
ci separa!
Saturday, March 18, 2006
2 poems in Italian
The following are another two elegies I wrote soon after the death of my mother. The memory of people you loved and who loved you remains, their words, those special and daily moments, the way they talked and moved, their favourite places. And this is stronger when the missing person is a mother! I know that what remains of my mother are photos, bits of video-tape and echoes of her voice or words, that’s all. However, deep down there is a wish of mine: that someday and somewhere, my mother and I meet again.
Resta solo...
Crepuscolo gemere delle campane
luce e tenebra
chi tra di voi è l’amico e il beffardo?
M’avviluppo nella tenebra
e bramo la tua fisica presenza
ieri così vicina ora lontanissima...
Resta solo la luce del tuo ricordo
le dolci note della tua voce battono ancora
segretamente
dentro il cuore mio,
resta solo la luce del tuo
materno sorriso.
Insieme seguiremo il corso del fiume
Vorrei incontrarti di nuovo
non più moribonda...
vorrei incontrarti
in un deserto giardino
coperto di foglie dorate
e ascoltare la tua voce
nel fruscio autunnale
e là abbracciarti
bagnare le secche foglie
con queste lacrime
che continuano a ritornare
inesorabilmente
finquando morirà questo
mio vuoto interiore che
pesa da morire
finquando insieme seguiremo
il corso del fiume là vicino...
Resta solo...
Crepuscolo gemere delle campane
luce e tenebra
chi tra di voi è l’amico e il beffardo?
M’avviluppo nella tenebra
e bramo la tua fisica presenza
ieri così vicina ora lontanissima...
Resta solo la luce del tuo ricordo
le dolci note della tua voce battono ancora
segretamente
dentro il cuore mio,
resta solo la luce del tuo
materno sorriso.
Insieme seguiremo il corso del fiume
Vorrei incontrarti di nuovo
non più moribonda...
vorrei incontrarti
in un deserto giardino
coperto di foglie dorate
e ascoltare la tua voce
nel fruscio autunnale
e là abbracciarti
bagnare le secche foglie
con queste lacrime
che continuano a ritornare
inesorabilmente
finquando morirà questo
mio vuoto interiore che
pesa da morire
finquando insieme seguiremo
il corso del fiume là vicino...
Poem in English
I wrote this poem in October 2005. It’s another elegy, this time dedicated to my dear mother who left this world in September 2004 at the age of 60. Immediately after her death I began to feel the sensation that we as human beings are only temporary, our stay in this world is so short and ephemeral. Questions that frequently come to my mind are: “Which place is truly ours? This world or somewhere else? Is our stay here a short dream or crude reality? Is there a better place than here?” After my mom’s death I started feeling myself homeless, at certain moments.
One past
I listen to past voices
wandering over a desert of mute tombs.
The bees are thirsty for your presence
and I am thirsty for water...
I recall you
washing the laundry in the Twyfords basin
the smell of Hygene burning your breadth.
The sun burns and I recall as a child
your warm motherly arms.
For me today you’re nowhere and everywhere
always and never, everything and nothing
yesterday today... and tomorrow?
Today I limp the heavy steps of the days
one by one
and in silence look straight to see if
I could sight the conquering end
- a stranger yet so near -
impotently aware that some day
everything will find its rest
in one past, unknowingly...
One past
I listen to past voices
wandering over a desert of mute tombs.
The bees are thirsty for your presence
and I am thirsty for water...
I recall you
washing the laundry in the Twyfords basin
the smell of Hygene burning your breadth.
The sun burns and I recall as a child
your warm motherly arms.
For me today you’re nowhere and everywhere
always and never, everything and nothing
yesterday today... and tomorrow?
Today I limp the heavy steps of the days
one by one
and in silence look straight to see if
I could sight the conquering end
- a stranger yet so near -
impotently aware that some day
everything will find its rest
in one past, unknowingly...
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