Haiku for an appetizer

On the cover of my next poetry book, instead of descriptions, there shall be an appetizer (of sorts):

Once more

the Haiku lore

is broken

Count

as you may.

No foray.

It

shall not

help us.

No-thing

can help.

Too late.

The ancient pond -

water unstill.

No peace.

The frog

of poetry

leaped.

All

that remains –

stands by.

One day,

we too

shall stand

in the center

of the capital,

and hear the

alarm of time

reminding us

to recall

to miss

to long

those memories.

Alas,

the memories

are

long gone.

visions and certainty

I am working on a new project

which is part fiction

part poetry

part commentary 

part undecided

and part magic. 

As I was translating from my mother tongue to English this morning, I found the following words as bothering and as captivating as they were when I wrote the first draft, a few years ago: 

Can you be certain of anything ?

I dream of visions!
They do not really come to me.
Only sometimes.
But how can you differentiate between a moment of daydreaming
and a vision
in the real,
deep,
full
meaning of the term ?
One that you can trust
and that will guide you?

An un-rapping rememberance of 2pac 2day

Yes, it is 20 years

to his renowned end 

Lesane Parish Crooks

a.k.a 

Tupac Amaru Shakur

the smart self-made 

artist 

that taught a generation 

before his sudden 

(yet predicted )

end. 

Fragments of identity 

living on 

his soul still is 

rappering as ever  

yes his mama din't raise no fool 

yes, some things never change 

he is still as cool. 

He was a poet

another of those born

ready to die 

a velvet touch to his music 

engulfing a message of steel 

the rhythm 

the cadence

the attitude

all summing up to fortitude. 

He was 

the first artist 

to have an album at number one

while serving time 

in  prison 

(and although it was his word against hers

re-reading the facts

it is hard to avoid the sad conclusion 

that  he was as guilty as hell).

And yet 

in the end 

it wasn't him against the world

just that old tragic rivalry

of the 

gangster thug 

tragically taking down the 

poet-intellectual 

and leaving us bereft. 

procrastination blues

Still haven't done it? 

working late

yet always neglect

that thing 

because of the queue

doing in lieu...  

Oh, how do You do? 

There would have been 

another 

verse or maybe Three 

but summer passed 

and left Thee

looking at me 

singing 

the procrastinator's blues...

Care to walk in my shoes? 

Life needs no prologue, but a second edition does

It has been several years since I've published my first book, the small poetry collection "Poetry escaping the drawer". The passing years have been very laborious (although not too rich with final and complete literary products) and now, as time comes to some meaningful milestones, I've reached the conclusion that this collection shall need a re-publishing and that the new editions shall be slightly different. 

It is most probable a change of tastes, an outcome of the passage of time. 

Shortly after  that fist publication , I published a post here, telling of a hidden poem. In the new edition it shall no longer be hidden. I've also decided to make some changes in that poem, and thought that it might be interesting to the followers of this blog, and those who might be anticipating that coming second edition, to view a prelude, in the form of that poem: 

Life needs no prologue

Life needs no prologue, but

love does

for when it comes

the landscape changes

and sometimes,

afterwards,

only sadness remains.

If let, time heals

and optimism,

of the kind

we all aspire

and share

(on occasion)

shall flood the

pits of sadness.

And life

shall go on

again

with moments of

grief and joy

marking the waves

of the myriad forms

of love that

we all bathe in,

whether we recognize

them for what they are

(or whether we don't).

And nothing

(not even that good night)

Shall take away moments

well spent –

If You

have BeeN

there and then,

Completely.

Dead-Ends

It was the deadline's ugly head,
looking at me from the depths of my consciousness well
swimming joyfully over those waves of sorrow and pain
as I sought for another delay,
yet again.

That slithering monstrosity,  (repressed so hard that
my belly ached like hell)
kept peeping, peeking, teasing
in the cruelest manner that only her kin
finds pleasing.

How can you differ,
when you hear the sound of a knell
between that of which you must despair,
to that other, to which you must commit,
until your last remaining breath of air ?

The maze of opportunities was closing in,
the walls around me so soon became a cell,
"but I have visions that I wish to tell!"
I tried to yell -
alas, no longer could I break the spell.

the dying throes of a blogger

"These are the dying throes of a blogger," I thougnt.
"not real death?" A childish sound within cried !
"No, nothing as real as that." I tried to comfort,
but inside, I knew that these words that I was reading,
were another person's departure.

He had to leave,
reluctantly,
unwillingly,
that place where he was at his element,
because when you are a grownup,
you have to get real.

Reality most probably meant
that he could no longer afford
this luxurious way of living
in which one writes
and no one reads.

He was still writing, knowing this,
fighting the change that was coming like
a giant
wave
about to hurtle him into the employment sea,
and march him onward to a mundane death
following a meaningless
life.

"Our Loss," I thought,
wiping an unshed tear,
and sailed on
in the vast ocean
that is the web.

-------------------------------------------------------------
And lest you leave depressed, another moment of your time - have you toured some of the finest dead blogs out there ?

• The Best Dead Blogs 
• Osama Bin Laden's mock blog
• 1000awesomethings.com's #2: Remembering how lucky we are to be here right now

Don't let those warm, yet dead bodies mislead you. The blogosphere is growing still. On every platform, but Wordpress demonstrates it best. 

Feel good about yourself

The most important is -

they say -

to feel good about yourself.

I swear.

This is what They say.

To be complete with who you are.

Accept yourself,

so that you can accept the other,

and the alien!

So They say.

They say of tyrants,

that they thrive, by making people feel good

about themselves,

feel special,

feel better than others,

feel good about themselves !

They say, that once upon a time it has been said,

(maybe Eleanor Roosevelt said the words, but I don't think she was first)

that for another to succeed in making you feel bad about yourself,

you have to Help.

You see – you feel like shit,

because you cooperate with it.

But truthfully,

I'm not so sure how much in that I still believe.

It seems to me, as I am speaking, that Eleanor was quite naïve.

seemingly inoffensive,

but quite deceptive.

For when the many look at the one,

In a hurtful manner,

He shall be hurt.

And this has nothing to do with his giving them help.

It is because he is the one, and they are the many.

It is the strength of the many.

It is the weakness of the one.

Alas.

And I say that people, too often,

feel good about themselves,

only when they make others feel bad about themselves.

And that's the way it is.

And the one – in this state – where others make him feel so bad being himself,

shouldn't feel bad as well for failing to think like Eleanor,

but instead look around and

not forget that like him there are more,

many more.

If they are not around just then,

then he should know,

there were his likes before,

there will be ever more,

and like them – inside, in thoughts, in feelings –

painful, seething, sadly weeping –

all of us, together,

feel bad about ourselves.

the opening question

One of my recent doings is work on a body of literature and poetry regarding asylum seekers all over the world. This is not a new thing under the sun, of course. If you are not familiar with such poetry,Wystan Hugh Auden's Refugee Blues is a great poem to start with.

But it appears that the developed world has forgotten what WH saw when he wrote this song (and we should remember that Refugee Blues, powerful as it is, was written on 1939, long before the great atrocities of the second World War came to be). Nowadays, asylum seekers are receiving a very indifferent welcome in the best of places. Usually the welcome is hostile, and in many places, the asylum seeking process begins with interrogations regarding the reason the seekers chose that specific country, in the hope that there was another developed or non-dangerous country on their way, to which they can be deported without becoming a burden in the current state. This state of affairs is not only performed despite the clear obligations of the international convention relating to the status of Refugees, but it serves another purpose. If you ask refugees why they came, their replies will sound very similar to the reasons why foreign workers come to the country (legally or otherwise). Thus, the clerks handling the questioning of asylum seekers are able to present many of them as people who came seeking a profitable job instead of an asylum. Therefore, the first question one should ask a person who claims to seek asylum, is what is he running from. I hope I expressed this message (and others) more eloquently in this poem:

When another asks you for shelter and protection,

do not reply by asking the question:

"why did you come here?"
It is not moral  

and it is not wise.

Ask first:

"What are you running from?" 

(Common sense but not policy,

for the developed world does not wish to see.

The pain of the other you deliberately avoid,

leaving asylum seekers to hang in a  void.

One day,

when tables turn

and the tide is nigh

you shall remember these words with a sigh.) 

what do you seek to see when you log into facebook ?

Facebook's recent IPO, and the way this social network has become a part of so many persons lives, has reminded me a wonderful "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" quote:

" 'What's new?' is an interesting and broadening eternal question, but one which, if pursued exclusively, results only in an endless parade of trivia and fashion, the silt of tomorrow. "

You can read more quotes from that wonderful book (written by Robert M. Pirsig). 

grey or gray ?

I asked: "did you know that Both 'a' and 'e' can correctly spell the word grey ?"

and then I added (seeing your body talk): "oh, but do you really have to go away ?"
Inside, I knew you did not have to. It was your need.
And to think that all I really wanted, was your heed.

the wails of the earth

Ho
my land, my country,
my earth !
I hear your wails.

You cry
you mourn
for the pillage, opression and injury
of the souls
of the weak and neglected.

You bear their burden
as they walk upon you
knowing too well
that sooner or later
their anguish shall
become one with you.

nothing shall take away moments well spent

My first published book, the poetry collection "Poetry Escaping the Drawer", has a semi-hidden poem within, and this might be a good an opportunity as any to make sure it does not get completely lost:

No Prologue
Life needs no Prologue,
but when Love comes the landscape
changes
and afterwards sadness
remains.

but if let
time heals
and optimism, of the kind
we all share occasionally
and aspire constantly,
shall flood the pools of sadness.

And life shall go on, again.

And nothing (not even that good night),
shall take away moments well spent,
if you have been there and then,
completely.

Rethinking and Repeating the path to the knowledge of good and evil

Rethinking and Repeating the path to the knowledge of good and evil

(this poem is a recent correspondence with "How would You know evil ?",
the fifth poem in the fourth part of "Poetry Escaping the Drawer")

To sum it all up

once more, 

in a much shorter verse

than the ones versed before - 

What I do Believe

deep in my heart,

Is that

Here

and

Now

each of us may conceive

in each passing second

as the world renews

that opportunity to choose.

With the hard choice made,

With true knowledge

and  its sorrow

We might yet bring upon humanity

a truly innocent tomorrow. 

Poetic organization

While working on "Poetry Escaping the Drawer", I found myself reorganizing my old unpublished poem collections. Don't get me wrong - this was not organization for publication. I have been writing poetry for more than a decade now, and this constant dialogue with my drawer will continue regarding the main body of my work. It is most probable that most of the newly organized collections shall remain unpublished for eternity.

But the tasks woven in the process of publication made me reconsider what I thought connected the poems written in the past. Everyone reading poetry knows that any poet wrote some poems better than others. Every reader prefers some poems over others. This preference would probably make each reader create his own collection out of the body of work of a favorite poet. But the logic behind putting some poems together goes beyond liking them. It has to do with the subjects they deal with, the emotions they raise, the message they bear.

I have a deep suspicion that this internal reorganization is going to haunt me whenever I come close to a point where a I consider another publication. Although extremely uncomfortable at times, the process of picking up an old poem, and examining it with older, more experienced eyes, has a great value in itself, regardless of the resulting decisions....

and yet, another blog

"Monsieur Plan Cha, first, I'd like to thank you for this interview !"

"You are most welcome, oh pretty imaginary journalist", I replied "and please call me Cha".  

"Well,... Cha.", she smiles, "Could you tell me why you chose to write this blog" she asks, anticipating my utterances with an unsheathed pen (being old fashioned, my imagination, I note). 

"Well, I have been taking part in other blogs.
 Several actually.
 This is my sixth blog."

With rounded eyes she asks the obvious: "Why do you need six blogs ? "

"Truth is I don't really need them. It would be much better for my main projects - of prose and poetry - if all my blogs were put aside, let alone another one joined them".

"So why do you do this ? " she asks, quite bewildered.

"You see, I use pseudonyms in most of my blogs.
  This way I try to keep my privacy and to protect my artistic and literary freedoms.
  I don't know if this will actually help in this digitizing world of ours, but one has to try, wouldn't you agree? "

"mm..mm.." she hums in agreement, while her head does a beautifully hidden nod, to the left and to the right.

And I continue: "Once I have made that final step of crossing the Rubicon and  actually publishing a work of mine in a non-blog format, that new form of existence required a new pseudonym.
Like all creations, this pseudonym now has a life of its own, and some creative energy finds itself channeled through it."

"It sounds a bit like a multiple personality disorder", she blurts, leaning backwards unconsciously, and having that unique expression of a person realizing he has spoken out loud a thought better kept sealed.

"You have a point there" I nodded and sent her to the back of my mind, so I could continue working on other things. 

A Meeting

Does the spring comes near ? 

I think I hear

and then I see

your scent is here !