Paradise is Not an Orchid

My first poetry book publication on Kosovo, translated by Jeton Kelmendi himself a very talented poet and author.

IWA Bogdani

John Cooper Clarke – TWAT

TWAT

Like a Night Club in the morning, you’re the bitter end
Like a recently disinfected shit-house, you’re clean round the bend.
You give me the horrors
too bad to be true
All of my tomorrow’s
are lousy coz of you.

You put the Shat in Shatter
Put the Pain in Spain
Your germs are splattered about
Your face is just a stain

You’re certainly no raver, commonly known as a drag.
Do us all a favour, here… wear this polythene bag.

You’re like a dose of scabies,
I’ve got you under my skin.
You make life a fairy tale… Grimm!
People mention murder, the moment you arrive.
I’d consider killing you if I thought you were alive.
You’ve got this slippery quality,
it makes me think of phlegm,
and a dual personality
I hate both of them.

Your bad breath, vamps disease, destruction, and decay.
Please, please, please, please, take yourself away.
Like a death in a birthday party,
you ruin all the fun.
Like a sucked and spat our Smartie,
you’re no use to anyone.
like the shadow of the guillotine
on a dead consumptive’s face.
Speaking as an outsider,
what do you think of the human race

You went to a progressive psychiatrist.
He recommended suicide…
before scratching your bad name off his list,
and pointing the way outside.

You hear laughter breaking through, it makes you want to fart.
You’re heading for a breakdown,
better pull yourself apart.
Your dirty name gets passed about when something goes amiss.
Your attitudes are platitudes,
just make me wanna piss.

What kind of creature bore you
Was is some kind of bat
They can’t find a good word for you,
but I can…
TWAT

Birago Diop – Diptych

The Sun hung by a thread
In the depths of the Calabash dyed indigo
Boils the great Pot of Day.
Fearful of the approach of the Daughters of fire
The Shadow squats at the feet of the faithful.
The savannah is bright and harsh
All is sharp, forms and colours.
But in the anguished Silences made by Rumours
Of tiny sounds, neither hollow nor shrill,
Rises a ponderous Mystery,
A Mystery muffled and formless
Which surrounds and terrifies us.
The dark Loincloth pierced with nails of fire
Spread out on the Earth covers the bed of Night.
Fearful at the approach of the Daughters of Shadow
The dog howls, the horse neighs,
The Man crouches deep in his house.
The savannah is dark,
All is black, forms and colours
And in the anguished Silences made by Rumours
Of tiny sounds infinite or hollow or sharp
The tangled Paths of the Mystery
Slowly reveal themselves
For those who set out
And for those who return.

Birago Diop – Breaths

Listen more often to things rather than beings.
Hear the fire’s voice,
Hear the voice of water.
In the wind hear the sobbing of the trees,
It is our forefathers breathing.

The dead are not gone forever.
They are in the paling shadows,
And in the darkening shadows.
The dead are not beneath the ground,
They are in the rustling tree,
In the murmuring wood,
In the flowing water,
In the still water,
In the lonely place, in the crowd:
The dead are not dead.

Listen more often to things rather than beings.
Hear the fire’s voice,
Hear the voice of water.
In the wind hear the sobbing of the trees.
It is the breathing of our forefathers,
Who are not gone, not beneath the ground,
Not dead.

The dead are not gone for ever.
They are in a woman’s breast,
A child’s crying, a glowing ember.
The dead are not beneath the earth,
They are in the flickering fire,
In the weeping plant, the groaning rock,
The wooded place, the home.
The dead are not dead.

Listen more often to things rather than beings.
Hear the fire’s voice,
Hear the voice of water.
In the wind hear the sobbing of the trees.
It is the breathing of our forefathers.

5:52 am (world poetry day)

5:52am she woke me up
not properly,
enough for a sleep fuddled embrace
and kiss,
just to say i love you,
i appreciated that,
it is nice to know
at any time

 

 

 

long night after flesh (world poetry day)

fog
a thick rope about my neck
tethered me to harbor wall
goat to oceans sacrifice,
behind obscured
lights and windows of those
who do not feel this way,
having taken the bus
found myself here,
bagged empty bottle
at my feet,
if any cigarette’s remained
i would of lit one
tasted toasted tobacco
tongue on teeth
chin to chest,
dark swirl foam
nymphs invite embrace
no fear in my heart
not the the fear i had felt
before she touched
fingertips before stepping
out of the door
with him,
closed my eyes wished to fall
forward and accept that
deep fate,
yet i flew
leaving behind the wall
and those if they had looked
would of observed
me leaving

 

World Poetry Day 2014

Cassandra Dallett a reading

cassandradallett.com.

according to the extent of damage

cotton incarceration
warm passive silence
flaccid dysfunction
waiting for something
that will never happen,
the only viability
a son and daughter,
born before the
scent of burning gasoline

freeway interchange
radio an unordered state
of a music republic

traffuic chaos
with thrashing horns

when metal connects
notation raw
screacming crunch
thrown off latitude
subtle tones become blank
face connects with side window
glass can write and deface
what was naturally placed
as can a steering column

concrete scrape added
to symphony
eighteen wheels raised and flipped

soft cushion supports buttocks
with sores that ache
chair propelled by hands gnarled
by whatever connected with them
my hands
unseen yet rolled me forward
as i sketched in mind
floorplan outlay

yet the anger of memories lost
her face one of them,
she would push
and not complain,
butter toast
roast coffee granules
hear her yet so much is gone

that morning
making love
i think or was that last year
subtle flow interrupted
resistance is dead
we talk
lie in comfort
love that abstract definition
has shown it’s truth
worth more than what
i cannot see

Birago Diop -Viaticum

In none of the three jugs
The three jugs where on certain evenings return
the tranquil souls,
the breaths of the ancestors,
the ancestors who were men,
the ancestors who were sages,
Mother has dipped three fingers
three fingers of her left hand:
thumb, forefinger and middle finger

lawnchair before sunrise

ants led the way to the old boathouse
planks softened and warped
shingle roof dipped,
door scraped rough to touch
inside musty scent of the past decaying,
memories inserted of another life,
stacked next to tins forgotten and paint,
four lawnchairs
metal mottled chrome flaked
still cold to the touch,
infused with a past when
there where echoes of a young
family that once been
part of me,
lifting one out
stiff opening action,
outside in the air
it could of turned to dust,
instead it bore my weight
now i had passed an elegant age
lighter not so heavy,
eyes dimmed slowly in slumber,
this chair was symbolic in it’s structure
bending straps
rubber perished
one snapped,
i did not want to move
with wild turkey
and some cigars,
would i see the sunrise
that would have to wait till morning

image from recyclart.org