stone steps the comfort of a sixteen-century house. life after war, health after disease and plenty after famine. death in bed as grandparents. the courtyard in the darkness, my bicycle gleams. a small golden ribbon still flutters on the back stays, reminder that once what mattered most a radiant smile
more than a few drunken words less than random infidelity silence deep into the winter night rains acid on my stainless heart armies gather, generals scheme africans starve, legions offshored terrorists forged, unpaid mortgages our souls vagaries not even news but you see them, loud and high a tsunami of emotion breaking into timeless centuries in your steps in these strophes of mourning and i thank you for this. for one day you and i really exist. and i wonder why it is we cannot pass paradise and in silence collect our bliss. 31.I.2004, toronto
seductive the sun wherever she wandered, followed wrack and ruin, light to dark, the sky ever dim. immune to time, she laughed and passed the glade once more hoping for more than is given on this earth to man or woman. but gods mate no longer with mortals, no zeus or apollo, no olympia beyond the horizon, instead another city more cafes and bars and empty talk loved by many but keeping none, the fragile self hardens and wears thin, sudden the light not so bright, the love not so fierce, desire inane.
something about those carinthian women. strange dark artists. carinthia is beautiful, the mountains and the lakes. what are they so despondent about? is it in the water? i drank my share this summer.
astrid is the first for romantic realism... a new artistic movement and genre.
there was girl named for a star fair and small, she grew and twinkled always like a jewel: saphires, rubies and diamonds most of all she loved . astrid sparkled in the morning and at night. her mother loved her and took care that nothing hurt fair astrid for she was lovely and unique, a mind full of words and books a fairy tale princess who lived in a tower, the miller's daughter, cinderella, all the roles of the world lived in her heart. she grew and grew and finally had to leave for the city to study all by...
vienna can be very dark in winter so one seeks the sun. one of the best places to find it is the hofberg square beside the national library and across from the art galleries. so there i went with philip larkin's high windows in hand. and was surprised at the strength of his language. i read his poetry at trinity college. my gay professor's reedy voice did not do larkin justice. he describes a late night dinner in an english coutnry inn: The wine heats temper and complexion: Oath-enforced assertions fly On rheumy fevers, resurrection, Regicide and rabbit pie. he...