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THE GREEN DOOR
International Arts Magazine

ISSUE 6
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JACKY TANGE

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

AN EDITORIAL STATEMENT?

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http://thegreendoor.net/ 11/16/2011


(recently the editors were asked to submit a selection of work for a French magazine from writers
who had been published in THE GREEN DOOR and to make a ‘statement’ concerning the magazine,
its aims, intentions, attitudes, and direction. Four poets were selected and the following introductory
note was published –a note which seems worthwhile to republish as being the only ‘statement’ the
editors wish to make)

We (and the word is used solely in its numerical meaning) are not a group. Though loosely gathered
about THE GREEN DOOR, we are not a group and have neither pretension nor aspirations to be
one. I make no claim to speak on behalf of those whose work is presented here yet it is obvious to a
reader that one poet seeks the radiance of the Buddha while another seeks the fire of Antigone; that
one has been named “a sweet barbarian” and that a wise woman says: “Poetry translates into
language that which cannot be said”. Geography is of course one common bond between us –a bond
as real and as tangible as the bonds of friendship. Yet we live, not in the literary associations of
Flanders where the poetry is the pity, but live in the actual world of the towns, harbours, fields, air
and tangible tang of a landscape which is as alluring as it is real. We eat, we work, we sleep, we love
(and some pray) in a world that is of such concern to us that we seek to offer it no program but to
place, silently, our work on the discussion-table of the present, thus also of the future. Not being
politicians we have nothing to ‘defend’. Not being a church we have no dogma to propagate. We are
what we each are and seek to be nothing other than that. To the sociologist of ‘artistic movements’
such statements are nothing less than appalling. That is not my/our concern. If we were a group, a
party, a creed, then we would have a collective identity which we would seek to propagate and
impose upon others as some form of ‘liberation theology’ –which would of course quickly assume the
status of a new orthodoxy. We neither have nor want such an identity. One will seek to call on the
Buddha, another will continue to search out fire of Antigone, while a Sweet Barbarian will go about
his business hand in hand with the wise woman he loves. It is true we have walked through a door
together –yet the gardens we have then walked into have been, and will continue to be, different and
separate – a difference we will seek to share but not impose.

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Poet/painter Kari Bert on the occasion of receiving a Liber Amicorum, presented to him at the public
library of Oostende, October 2011
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MARCUS CUMBERLEGE Was born in Antibes (France) shortly before the war and migrated to
Chelsea in the blitz, then to County Cork, Madrid, Peru, back to London, Paris and Connemara,
before settling with his Flemish wife Maria in Bruges, Belgium in 1972. He won a scholarship in
English to Oxford, where he boxed and shot for the University, and later an Eric Gregory Award for
1966 (leading British poets under 30), adjudicated by Ted Hughes. His first collection was published
by Anvil Press Poetry of London in 1968. Twenty subsequent volumes have appeared in Belgium,
including his SELECTED POEMS 1963-2009, published by Van de Wiele in 2010.

FIVE BAGATELLES

i

As a good composer knows his instruments by heart I want to work with words, choosing them
carefully, conscious of their sound and symmetry. I want to pause -right now – and drop a pulsing
epithet before a noun as solid as a block of granite dumped on a Scottish beach. I stand beside the
telephone beside the door that leads into the street and hear it ringing in my head. I will not pick it up.

ii

Piano sonatas must be difficult to write but how much more so great orchestral works combining
instruments so various as flutes and cymbals. Imagine sliding a harp – a handful of quivering notes –
into the heave and swell of a gigantic movement! Compared to this the tinny bells of Bruges, now
announcing 2 p.m., are kindergarten stuff, scratching away at the surface of sunny afternoons. Life
has a magic and a meaning which we mostly miss and very seldom see.

iii

School kids in yellow T-shirts back from the park. One throws a ball into the air and catches it. Well-to
-do pensioners on holiday in the Marian city pore over papers while they examine elegant mansions
included in a quiz. For no reason at all a black-haired girl in a black dress and sunglasses turns
round and walks off in the opposite direction. For no reason at all I put her in this poem, as also a
French motorist who engages me in conversation about parking metres and pleasure boats. I move
on, the sun beating on my neck.

iv

Intermezzo. I switch off completely and let my feet take me to the quayside, stopping to pick up a
perfect grey pigeon’s feather lying on the cobblestones. I listen to the sound of water lapping
underneath a boat. Nobody knows me from Adam or cares what I am doing as I lean on the parapet.
A man snaps a pair of breasts in a brown blouse, nipples thrust forwards audaciously. Everyone Follow



disappears except the drinkers on the terrace, and a seagull sits on the canal, twisting its neck to
look at me. I smell the pungent damp odour of mussels and celery. A woman sneezes four times
loudly on the bridge where I am now thinking what to say, what instrument to play. She carries his
crutches as he wheels himself along in front of me. Blissful shade! Now I know why the Blind Donkey
chose this street.

v

Drained of words, and how to conjugate their music, but alive and well, I watch men tossing iron balls
here on the Burg where once a great cathedral stood. People walk past, carrying unexplored worlds
on their shoulders. Brown chestnut leaves lie scattered at my feet. I wish I was a tree and didn’t have
to keep moving, subject to thirst, lust and the loneliness of urban life. A horse-drawn carriage clatters
past the bronze statue of the Two Betrothed. A man nods politely and sits down on the bench beside
me.

BLACK STONE ON A WHITE STONE

(from the Spanish of César Vallejo)
Posted by The Editors on November 14, 2011
I’ll die in Paris on a showery day,

A day that I already have in mind.

I’ll die in Paris –I’m no runaway-

One Thursday like today, the autumn kind.

Thursday it’s doomed to be, because today,

Prosing this verse, rheumatic in my spine,

I’ve seen myself, as never, turned this way,

Alone and at the last stop on the line.

César Vallejo’s dead, they did him in,

A deed which he did nothing to prevent.

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

Witness to this are Thursdays, aching bones,

Loneliness, rainy days, and cobblestones.

-previously published in the Selected Poems of Marcus Cumberlege

DISCONNECTED FRAGMENTS

What you believe is true – if you believe it enough! Our tree can hear

my thoughts. God is good and will give me the necessary guidance.

Sleepless six nights now as I kick off my prescribed sleep medication

and struggling at times with waves of panic and confusion in the head.

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

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

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

Disconnected fragments of yesterday, whisperings of tomorrow.

Only to record those things that are absolutely necessary.

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

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

I sing the courage of the detainee, the woman in hospital

in a far-off and hostile country, separated from her children.

I fill in this paper, a worthless piece of poetry, for her sake

while drunken adolescents roam the streets, and rain patters on the roof.

Saeve indignatio. Swiftian satire is not the answer.
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The twenty-first century must make its own bed and lie down on it.

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

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

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

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

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

Will I have the company of friendly fruit flies in Anworth kitchen

while she slumbers overhead? (A man can only say what’s on his mind).

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

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

HUSBANDRY

Blue wash in the season’s idiom blue

Ash in the fire tipping cherries blue cast to

Tulip headed branches. A catalogue

Of buds. The keeping of bees. A list

Of flowers and the pruning of trees a

Reminder. I called. Please call. As

Water flows downward so the stream cycles

Clouds in their swift determinations. The fog
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That Zoe carves. That Lucia craves they love

It. The snow at best a memory so

Remember that they love it. We skied

For a moment and this was our fill we skated

Down the steps then I fell. Do what

You will say what you like nothing will

Change remember. Remember the aphorisms

Of delight the composite models of joy. Freezing

Rain keeps the farmer indoors but he can

Get ready. He does. Get ready. Freezing

The frame as if it were joy. It was. It

Is. Now do it. Wash the car prepare your

Dinner make a list of all the day

Requires. It’s sufficient. Will do. Now

Do it again. From all this you know. We can

Predict the seasons through unsettled skies.

I think he means seasons not skies. First it

Snowed then it rained and then we melted as

If into the rocks. A simile. Some polka

Dots. Enough now. So take it.

I could go on forever so let
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Me begin. Begin again. A novum in

The parkland on the parkway a driveby

Experience as if by the sea. I love you. The granary

Sensation. The sifting of chaff. Dust settles in

At the end of the line as if

The air itself were falling. It’s not. It’s

Falling through the air hold it

A second now

Smile. Misreading star lore as

Star love is certainly a start. So is planting a vine

Or mending a trellis. So do it. Resume

The position and tell me your name. Myrtle.

Redbush starling and thrush. Immediately

The winds rise stars slide headlong through the

Skies. Mists and obscurities travel

And rain. And all this in

Our orbit so try it again. I’m writing today

About husbandry resources it’s all I can muster to

Tell you. Such is my wisdom. Not

The blanched hues of August but

The blissed-out recalcitrance
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Of Spring. Evaporation. Earth. Less

Loamy than clay. Clayey.

The water

Sits on top. Waiting. For the sun

Perhaps or to seep down to our

APT FOR RENT. Everything underneath it

It all comes up. Eventually so to speak.

Breathless in its transparency not

Waking or between. Merely breaking

Ground. My obdurate fears my obvious

Fears. The obvious recital. A cock’s

Crow of morning where no

Cock crows. Except in a somewhat dirty

Joke that doesn’t work anyway so don’t

Even try. Please. That this won’t get

Read. That you won’t care. That you’ll

Be dead. Of all displacements

This. Onto all displacements

There. You talk about fallow let’s

Talk about seed. Kernel

And shell. Seed the clouds seed
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The stars. Cede the stars their influence. O

Stars and starlets o

Riven complexities both

Fear and desire my c.d. collection in

Its battle array. Let’s talk. We’ve

Been talking about Jackson.

Ever since the fire went out. Fires

Everywhere fire away. Stubble

In the field ignited. Why.

Virgil doesn’t know. Bakes out

Blemishes clears the bile hardens

And binds the damaged veins. Whatever.

Whatever does for the glands still

Does for me. An operative membrane.

A garden. My slight protective skin.

What erotics of knowledge. What

Ecstasies of reading what.

What you need to know. Tulips.

Dafs. Agriculture as far as it

Gets around here. The Japanese

Maple stunted by
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The shade of the neighbor’s

Spruce. We love the shade

The maple the neighbor’s spruce all

At once. Dryads o material

Memory. Leaves shoots the ground

Breaks without my help blood

Not mine keeps the squirrels

Away the weeds at bay now look.

Crocus self-understanding. Trees

As the process of producing them-

Selves. True I intervene

Somewhat. But not that much. I mean

Mulch. I mean water. I mean what

I mean when I mean it. Sometimes

I don’t mean a fucking thing don’t

You get it. Some grassy thing that seeds it-

Self I thought it was a weed

It’s not. The bulbs have come back

Regardless look. You don’t have

To love it just live with it. Or

Not. Please live with it please
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Live with me please

Live. O gods

Of the foreground moment nymphs

Of the requisite dew this

Is an ode o let us live. No let

Me begin. Or yes let’s. An apotropaic

Move a gesture with hands as if

I really could begin to ward them

Off. The bees. They scare Zoe

So much. With a simile no

Less. There. I did it it worked

Well at least for a moment there.

I am praying not so much to

The works of my hands as to some

Stupid words I got

On the cheap. It’s sunshine and

Smoke. It’s the woodchips of a summer’s

Dusk at a campsite in the Shenandoahs whose

Very name’s a song evocation an invocation

Of campfire and dust. Zoe loves

Them Lucia too. The whole damn
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Thing’s a song they love it

Isn’t real. In any normal sense look

Normal. Be natural. And for

Goodness sakes real.

Like a tree. Not an asherah

A beautiful tree by a pagan

Shrine these words not a kneeling

Stone nor an oracle.

But a few choice words. This is

Already the past remember.

No labor but the sumptuous ardor

Of work its lustre. Doesn’t anyone

Else clean up around here. Isn’t

The field guide any kind of help. Well

No. My father’s death was

A quick affair my father’s

Affair lasted longer. I remember little

Of this with any pleasure don’t

Remember much of it at all

Unless you ask me so ask me. What was I

Going to say I’ll say it anyway. There.
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Call and response slapstick or

Engaged. A version of holiness from my

Amen corner amen. I think about

G-d a lot only abstractly I

Think about gods a lot even

More abstractly like the trees in

Zoe’s book do. She doesn’t get what

It’s about but it’s pretty it’s

A story and she really loves

A good one. She’s five. I’m almost

Fifty. Somehow that counts.

And not in my favor. Necessarily. Yes

But it’s really too early to tell. Tell me

Does my domestic revanchism in words

As a form of deed in my dreams at

Least of deeds bother you at all. Or just

A bit. It bothers me I raise my voice.

A simple fact it scares me.

Irretrievable. A buried bone. The maple’s

Doing poorly under the spruce. A

Cherry would be a pleasure in the spring
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For a time at least. There’s so much

To talk about taxes

Housework the careful construction of

Countless things. A list. I let slip

I didn’t mean. Necessarily. And there’s

I ignore. Some of what you say about

Me is probably true. There

Are spirits in the wood smells

Amongst the trees little voices in

My head not literally. Turns

Of phrase amphbolies. They live

Elsewhere in the water hanging

In the air. That’s between us. Just.

For everyone else I require

Action firmness of touch the promise of

Lots of skin. An orphic flower. Some of

What I say about me is not

Altogether true. Context counts. I didn’t marry

My mother. Exactly. And so there’s

Hope. Prometheus says this Zeus

The old windbag can’t unsay it or
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Say himself can’t say a blessed

Thing I remember but talks and

Talks and talks. Some of it scans some

Of it is lovely. Some of it might count my

Curses remain. Peripheral at best.

Isn’t anyone in charge of this

Shit or does it just

Happen. Snow in the middle of April.

I mean to say. The tulips actually

Flourish in this neglect a dead

Head frost against all expectation but

The fruit the papers say won’t make

It. Mere rapportage. The framing

Premise of lucidity only

Mine. There are pills for that. A swarm

Of words of waxy cells and relations A body

Of thought with its pleasures. The body

Is a situation. Indeed. A not-so-spacious

Not well decorated room with a rented

View. Live here then move but where. And

When. Don’t think about that again
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And again. Mistaken prepositions missed

Connections the sheer dislocations of

Any given day. This I

Believe. In the merest brevity of this

Flawed spring dream what you can in

The most obvious sense without

The aid. The unconscious. Try

It. A magnesium shot of sun.

Honeyed words either dissolute or

Dissolved I envy them in spite.

Of all the things to try at home.

Son flower soon flower Zoe’s

Orthographic innovations. Lucia’s linguistic

Quirks. First there was thunderwear then

Wonderwear all in due course. Butter on

Their matzoh honey on their bread

Acacia lovely word o my life

And light. Sometimes even the clichés are

True. Sometimes even their names

Are true. Of everything. Perhaps.

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

Most serene objects

Of my manic desire o women

Children into the lifeboats first o

Captain not a captain me. I

Invoke me. In the accusative how

Fitting. But who’s keeping score said

The little brown fox a few little sprinkles

And wind. The forecast for today

And on. Talk to the accountant and pick

Up the forms. Drop off the forms. Adhere

To the forms that you claim you make

Up. Which is freedom and destiny all

Rolled into one. Modernity on

The phone will you pick up.

Leave a message when you hear

The beep. You could always finish

That line yourself If you make it on time.

Failed Latinity eloquent genius of

The crossroads hear me out. This is

Less about loss than about losing
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The maple to record recorded

Winds. Don’t be fooled by these

Displacements there is a language

Of gardens. I don’t understand I

Can’t even name. The trees on

My block. What don’t I know about

Women. My beautiful daughters my

Beautiful wife. That they are. Object-

Ively. The magic of compound

Interest the agency of the smallest

Degree. I have a house of rooms

And time to walk pondering.

My sons and daughters. The long tiredness

Of passing passing by. This is a block.

To walk along. I have a lot. These

Are trees now in bloom the leaves

Appreciating this spring’s chill now

Reciprocate. A blessing for the first

Leaves a blessing for the blossoming

Pear a blessing for each single

Part. Nevertheless. I worry in
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Spite or because a register of im-

Precise concern. Make a clearing

In some symbolic. Sense the smell

Of grass the acquisitive heat

The stuttering flight of bees.

Forsaken points invocations equi

Distance all measure here. The vox pop in

A lower key. Map of busy life. Yup

I am America sound

Of the trees the silent groves. Consider

The names of streets consider

ELM and OAK and MAPLE. Consider

The pebbled drives. Consider

The curving residential so-called

Lanes the lights of the numbered

Houses yes the rage of fermentation

Yes what can be saved can. Surely.

Make soft gatherings under palms such

Sedulous waste take it all. In tents

In houses in apartments like

Yours. We looked out on
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The night and similar clichés.

The count your brother. The demo

Cratic vistas specimen days my

Self the vast republic of forest

Trees. An orchid. We rode until tomorrow.

Public silence is nothing in

Deed such profligate beginnings

Numinous ends. Salience. Redeem me

Now names to bring it

On Lucia Zoe light and

Life. It sometimes works

The great circuit clock be still.

At home just be.

Angels of inadvertence guardians of

My. The paint splashes wood stains oil

Burns off the engine. The slim shank

The thinnest bone. Welcome to the risk

Pool welcome to the deep. End. The ongoing

Trend is the transfer of risk. From corporate

Entities. So much for individuals so much

For the bees. Is this right. The colonies
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Actually collapse the hives empty

This is not. A metaphor. So much

For us in the water so much for Lucia

Running through the sprinkler. O bliss

Of suburbia unnecessary sylphs. Brown

Grass on the lawn if we had one. A

Year’s a perplexity in a month it’s

Gone. Both the heat and the humidity.

Old standards tell they do. Tell

Me about yourself. O Orpheus pity

About your wife. If you had kids

Well so much the worse. All

The manifest dangers of

Retrospect. So much the worse for

Cultivated plants cucumbers dates and

The trellised vines. So much

For the fruit and the fig tree. For

Animals both domestic and wild. For

The children and for each of the

Infinitesimal sources of care. You know

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

THE LAST TESTAMENTS OF MR MISANTHROPE

An extract from Mr Misanthrope Abroad. Ulysses O’Neill, the protagonist, alias Mr Misanthrope, is a
displaced Irishman with a problem about humanity.

The word ‘humanity’ makes me want to weep.

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

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

‘Humankind’ touches the heart, but comes with a warn-

ing. Plain ‘human’ is what I live with, cheek to cheek.

The Third Last Testament

I regret not making the usual mistakes,

like having children and a social life,

but not riding a bike without brakes

(speeding out of danger is how to survive).

Caution has been my byword otherwise.

My shell seems a safe place to hear the sea

without leaving the room. The tide is me -
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the real thing would take me by surprise.

A low tolerance threshold needs its redoubt

from people who make me angry with myself

for despising their fancy’s deceiving elf.

Dark nights of the soul are my evenings out.

Doubting yourself is a form of self-defence

against judgment. It’s certitude drives you insane,

says Nietzsche. And he should know. The brain

is blinkered by self-belief.

Since luck and me aren’t friends

I hedged my bets, and didn’t cheat or neglect

to sign the card. Small stakes when the roulette turns

have a better chance. But chose not to collect

the winnings. I was a loser on my own terms.

Of this I am not proud, and tell myself to sleep

with stories of another life. One I dream I am a guest in,

and love my fellow man. Now it’s just a question

of cutting one’s losses and being buried deep.

The Second Last Testament
I did what I think I do best, which doesn’t mean

it’s any good. Second best, perhaps, was all I could.
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Prematurely ripped from the womb, I didn’t fit.

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

How well it suited me. I eluded all audit.

By playing the class fool in school, I got thrown out,

and escaped the punishment of education.

My place in the world was forever in doubt.

I cannot blame my parents. I went with their job

of having children and entertaining hopes

that the inchoate blobs would grow from model dotes

through to revolting youths, and wild oats, to become

good citizens, fathers, grey eminents, dotards,

and so on.

I couldn’t fault them. What had to be done

was done. But they hadn’t reckoned on the stuff of poets.

I unravelled what was expected of a son.

And lived on the dark side of my parents’ lives,

revelling in my one-remove from what’s normal.

The angry drone astray from the family hive.

I cut the filial knot with my permanent teeth,

wishing they’d been more selfish with me and formal.

The constant attention made me play hide and seek.
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My presence behind the bars of human endeavour

was as a sparrow in a zoo. I came and went

unnoticed by the prize exhibits who were never

allowed out without a circus.

Independent,

and unrecognised, I dined on crocodiles’ yawns

and flitted between right and wrong, and whatever

no one wanted, the life and soul of dirty dawns.

The Very Last Testament
The droppings of life cling to the heels of those who

don’t know how to walk on the grass. I went straight to

the answers at the back. Assertion gains you assent

(‘I put in an envelope the seeds of destruction.

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

I am not without sympathy for lives like shop-

windows boarded up; burdened by big dogs and cars,

and barely animate children, whose hearts will stop

once the bowels cease to function.

They rattle the bars

of a consumer prison, and buy into what will extol

a fixed existence in an eternal equinox
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with a static sun. It can’t be good for the soul.

He who claims his fellow man is no better or worse

than himself has turned his back on the good, and force

of habit will make you accept anything that’s sent

by those who only believe in the arsenal

(that’s shame is in the face, and in the arse as well).

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

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

The more you build up arms the less you see the star

that guides you to the target, a fellow human being.

He is far too near to focus.

Distance yourself,

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

Perspective is lost when the horizon becomes

a mirror that reflects a wild beast in a freak show.

That’s me.

Allow me to efface all human traits.

I’ll be a machine that works to keep itself clean,

and doesn’t need human intervention.

Acid rain

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

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

In the town square I avoid the bible stand. It’s manned by a podgy youth with a yellow stare. His
shorts and sleeveless vest don’t look holy, but on a hot day the habit doesn’t make the monk. There
is a huddle of novena women around him. They know me as the blow-in who from time to time
snoops into the Church of Our Lady of Good News to light a candle before the statue of St Expedite.
If they approach me I fear I will have to lie, ‘Sorry, I’m a Cork Jew’, a response that always frightens
them off.

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

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

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

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

The storyteller doesn’t burden his characters with his own ideas. He has the right to use what he has
experienced, but must keep the truth to himself and only let it be refracted. He is educating himself
through them. They are testing his beliefs and scepticisms. Thus a fiction, or an imaginary meaning,
is created – to paraphrase Locke on ‘negative capability’ – from ‘the impressions he absorbs without
preconceptions or any of the certainties’ in order ‘to make sense of what he can’t quite understand’.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Breathing Through The Rubble

laity lay with me
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in the balms aside my trembling rocking

chair

rarity in cross hairs

laid to rest

in booms

over titled sways

one kiss limping with casual sex

another note crushing C sharp

where am I

why is the dearth of death rising from the grave

gravel has whipped the light of my angst

in abstract words

concrete images

die and bury

spittle

not of my own

or from my own

but in the land

deeply removed by the tears of black slaves

I have lounged in burning

gray
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ash

and all I find in England

is all I found in Paris

a can of dragon flies

who tend to bite

no person

but me

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Far From Samoa

in the lost guild of Samoa
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beneath the gray tanks of aspartame

in the muzzle corroding in the parched sand next to the waters

I found the amazing daze dancing like captured red ants

streaming down the grayish pulp of minced white bone

catching the guild of Samoa every time I held it close

not close to me or words of whatever I am

but close to displacement

out of the trash

the mush

and must of

work

into the lap of Black diamond cutters

dead ones

far from my place

far from Samoa

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Touting A Relentless Dream

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

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Peeling Gray Apples

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

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

for Judy Garland

cracking the mold they made for you
and the little box of stars-
a voice made of everything living

spends all its diamonds
in one song
and still has more:

carved from a nightingale quarry-
outdistancing by many rubies
anyone else’s rainbow;

we’re opening now, a box of sky-

cloudy and bright
reconstituting everything submerged and
packed in lies you’re

pealing out your perfect time in time
above all those
who couldn’t repair
the sheen beyond blue
of the bluebird soul
savaged by idiots…

but she’s in scarlet or in gold
and it’s all holiday astonishment again-
and building the ship around her as she sings
breath by breath till breathless in the end-

notwithstanding-

shout Hallelujah! for the
rose-bright flare of song illuminating
more than was contracted for-
I am sure:

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unique as a sunset thumbprint rainbow-ridged
perpetual as dreaming could ever be made to
be in sepia or technicolored.

you’re all apart-
rebuilding a burnt-out nest
on every stage
till it shone
like a gold never seen
in the land of let’s pretend:

a metasong sailing into space
becoming only you – yourself-

where is the place for us
and all our encores
broken from the stem
like the home you made for music
all along?

the seam in the earthquake shifts
and is never the same

22 september 2011

Lieutenant Colombo Drops by the Dollhouse on Christmas Day

watching their very first rerun of
cooking with rosepetals
(on the dollhouse tv)
straight out of the box
the small dolls couldn’t be

happier-
even if they can’t
tell how

to change the channel.
somehow, bills never come
so why worry?
tonight’s a feast as it will be,
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always:
there’s the stewpot

ready – the parsnips and
carrots glued to the kitchen
table beside the Big Spoon.

the immovable cherry pie
on the sideboard and
“beautifully latticed, if you

don’t mind my saying…”

but why do the curtains sway in
the breeze when nothing else
here ever budges?

they’re tightlipped but
smiling.
besides, there’s roses

in their checks.
oh, and one more thing…

why is that plastic porchlight always on?
6 september 2011

Green Were the Worlds We Lived in Then

green were the worlds we lived in then;
green worlds have not departed.
moss of the stars, sheared

damson petals breaking off
from shifted moonlight
in my mid-speech-

I’m sorry.
I’ll take the drenching word
again I laid aside

and presume to speak till it all comes clear
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that you breathe the stars
you breathe the clouds
and carry the winds of
greeness in your pockets-
not only for an april, but ever-after…

through troubles bending the
wings of your lost angels
still it is all this seeming Emerald we
are meant to keep as the Heart’s own Trust-
though it spills over
like a cataract
whenever it is that God may choose

this blossoming at Your Side…
9 september 2011

Forgotten Waltz No. 2 (after Liszt)

subsiding in the crystal wave,
the mermaid turns of phrasing
let us renounce
while we still can

the plated words, the minimal things to say
that wear off quickly and betray-
while the heart’s

own music is buried.

oh when
will the jeweled cathedral

rise
from the lake of mere forgetfulness;
the sword be taken back

from the glistening hand-
and who told you

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the prospering word,
laconic
day was gold-

and a necessary armour?
3 september 2011

Blake

to William Blake

I saw you walking
the hills of green.
angels on either side of you, conversing
and cherry-bought bells resounding
in the dove-sought skies such flame-tinged
clouds appearing:

yes and the fleece of
skies that you loved once-
the cirrus roses…

you were so happy with an ink-stained smile-
peeling a scroll of topaz from

a frayed coat pocket,
meant for the martyred poets.
you said: don’t cry anymore
all consternation’s fled, don’t cry,
no rose is dead.

art is a shining ship, delivered:
the choken river’s spanned.
the mocking charter’s been revoked.

they hoped your vision was a sinking sun
marked by three crosses on a stolen hill,
but the day is a flower endlessly fluted,

and cut in crystal now
where tygers kept their radiant promise-
where darkness is banished Follow



to a farther castle and the
face of the Lamb is so revealed
whenever we are speaking in our
sheer unfiltered gold

and realize
we are still alive my
bartered friend!

a bright wind drives your
mended sails toward home
with the diamond husk of all your
poems received, the

heart of it believed in when you say
that all your trees are filled with singing now
where nothing, nothing is a bane
how

blazingly the Light
of every poem remains-
22 august 2011, 2 december 2005, 19 september 2005

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

NOLI ME TANGERE

Noli me tangere.

Sta mij toe, o zo barok, het mijne.

‘ En écoutant les autres pour devenir quelqu’un on devient quel-con(que)’

Een variatie op een Frans gezegde door Annmarie Sauer.

‘ …omdat van iedereen iets in mij is, heb ik nooit bij iemand gehoord,
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en zelfs hun haat voor mij heb ik begrepen’ Christa Wolf.

I.

Ik heb me in mijn aarde geplant om nooit nog

in andere te delen. Tevergeefs het aanhoren,

van langgerekte blijken, het ontwijken.

Ik weet me nu in elk vers tot mij: een gedoogzone

die mij riep, tot het zonevreemde ten volle tot mezelf

verheven, met heldere mond behept.

Ik draag nu het schitterende kleed van de allene.

Het omhuist en looft mij met de laurierkrans

van triomf en lommerrijke bomen.

II.

Dit kleed is

een woord: een botte spier van spraak,

verstomd door het gewoel, het opgestoven zand.

de enkeling: een bibberend paard op stal dat

rilt voor de stampede van toevloed en gejoel,

en welomlijnd die kilte likt, en stout in stilte

zwijgt voor zijn houdbaarheid.

Hoe schitterend dit kleed en wankel.

III.
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Dit kleed is

een schil, het thuis, het elders gefluister

niet vergeten; de uren van wederkeer,

de oppoetsbeurten met een afgestempeld

onderhoudsboek, het natte geblèr.

(met gezegden uit dwaze reizen van onzin, ontbinding.)

de haargrens van verglijden dat dartel ligt te blijken

met koorts aan infuzen als orgelpijpen, de schaduw

aan de kant gerold, de vriendelijke lakens terzijde.

Want hij die zijn schil vergooit is een aap.

IV.

Dit kleed is

beter nog dan het radeloze pad, bij het nekvel

gegrepen leegte, de lijnen die het aangezicht

vertrekken en kneedden.

beter nog dan het lippen aan de luister van

een praatpaal, verschaald met vale taal.

beter nog in de vuurloop van het aanbod, er

ongebreideld dan een kleffe vraag die de iris

van de ogen schroeit als een rammelend kadaver.

beter nog dan een factotum aan het dolgedraaide
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rad, en zonder titel in een gedicht geslepen.

V.

Dit kleed is

vol genade van een krakend bed gelicht, en

dra in lege straten die tussen ruïnes wenen,

de klamme hand voor mond en ogen.

met cyclopisch zicht op wilde rozen in het kale

land van rots en zand, de wind: een verwachte

echo van een wervelende storm en zwarte gaten.

een open zenuw, een smeedijzeren woord, uitgestanst

en zoals Hamlet doolt in een act zonder keuze.

VI.

Dit kleed is

het rafelige, restje huid aan een schedel, en

zompend tussen dode vissen; lappenpoppen

zonder vulling in een opgedroogde vijver.

te vertrouwd voor woorden van een verkeersader

gelopen, zwaar gehavend, zwartgeblakerd, afgemeerd

in de drab op begane grond, de jaloezieën schalks

en door leeftijd niet vermoeid, gesloten.

uiteindelijk, o vanitas met stierenbloed bekleed,
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de dracht van een vluchtige scheur aan wiens hand

een gouden ring het ooit aan een dode vinger siert.

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

AT WALKING DISTANCE

The Oregon Songs

Dancing with the moon

You go with the flow

and dance with the moon

you sleep with the sun

and speak to the wind

your words shadows in the sky

your thoughts just asking why

You pass all borders

you take no orders

you are dancing with the moon

dancing with the moon

.

You break the rules

and bear no master
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you distrust the truth

and put yourself to question

but the answers are hidden

your soul remains disguised.


you take no orders



.

You are the eternal mover

the nomad of the mind

you are the high wire walker

and nobody knows the secret

your home is where you are

you go with the flow.


you take no orders



.

Down at the Oregon coast
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life ends at the ocean

where sand buries the landscape

to let the wind to take it away

my heart is empty

my heart is full of pain

I feel death walking around me

all your efforts are in vain

Evening falls my love

and covers your stillborn child

ships are sailing back to the harbour

it will be a silent night


seagulls stare at the seashore

where water washes up the stones

to let the waves erase all traces

my head is empty

my head is full of anger

I feel despair growing inside me
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too late to see the danger






clouds conceal the souls

where rain carries along the grief

to let it seep through the ground

my body is empty

my body is full of pain

I feel coldness coming over me

and nothing more to explain





We walked a different road

We shall meet in the court-yard

on the brink of dawn
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and between these holy walls

at the fountain of peace

we shall speak at least

You said you should’nt worry

everything will be all right

but your hands were shaking

and your face fearful and white

We walked a different road

you took the lonely one I took the steep

but we both carried the load

till there was nothing more to keep

We did’nt notice the parting of our ways

we lost each other’s track

we all were part of that lethal race

ruthless and hopeless till it cracks



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We played a different game

we throw the dice in vain

but the rules remained the same

till there was nothing more to gain

We could’nt tell what was right what was wrong

the truth faded into a lie

the masquerade took far too long

and passion was waiting to die





We shall meet in the court-yard

on the brink of dawn

and between these holy walls

at the fountain of peace

we shall speak at least

You are a dancer

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You are a dancer

born in a beam of light

to create out of movement

space distance and time

Tell me a story invent me a tale

only by touching the words on your way

draw me a picture paint me a dream

and fill the air with your heavenly grace

be my imagination in motion

be my muse of the mind

Put on the music play me a tune

only by blowing a breeze to the moon

give me a signal show me a trace

and wrap me up in your bodily space


be my muse for the night

Change position there is no point of view

don’t explain the magic just explore my faith

you take my future you steel my past

and what you show is a transient now
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be my muse tonight

Cause you are a dancer

born in a beam of light

to create out of movement

space distance and time

Exploring the darklands

Exploring the Darklands

travelling the road to nowhere

trespassing on the borders of existence

to loose reality to conquer our destination

and the landscape is a signal

the landscape is a warning

the landscape is a patient friend

it will protect us from all seducing danger

Be now my travel companion

time has come to depart for the ultimate quest

there will be no rewards nor memories left

we all are marching in the same direction.
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searching for the impossible

passing the gates of the underworld

to loose all tracks to regain imagination

and the doors are closed forever

the doors are sealed with faith

the doors are leading nowhere

they will take us to the wasteland forever waiting






entering the kingdom of Charoon

crossing the waters of the Lethe river

to forgive all sins to become reborn

and listen to the cry of the vulture

listen to the silence of the snake

listen to the songs of the siren

they will guide us through our final wake

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Song for a dancer

This is a song for a dancer

who danced with me all night

to experience the lightness of being

the gravity of light.

You took my body in confusion

by that gentle gracious move

and your skin was just pretending

there should be distance in between us.

You carried me along the spirals

of your endless fingertips

and my lips were only touching

there should be distance all around us.


she danced with me all night

to discover the lightness of being

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You bewitched me with your magic eyes

by the perfume of a smile

and you made me almost weightless

there was only motion inside us.

You taught me the rites of the lotus

out of the book of love

and my mind was drowned in a whirl

there was just motion around us.


she danced with me all night

to know the lightness of being


You let me into the secrets

of your seven sacred veils

and my eyes were blinded by beauty

there was only passion between us.

You took my body by my soul

to keep it as a whole

and your skin was only confirming

there was nothing in between us.

This is the song for the dancer
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who danced with me all night

to feel the lightness of being


In circles we drowned

I don’t remember where I met here

Laura has been always there

to fill the lavender sky

with laughter and delight

summer season in the south of France

Laura learned me how to dance

to dance with Italian elegance

a grand old Viennese waltz.

And around and around in circles we drowned

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

In her house looking at the bay of Nice

Laura brought me perfect peace

to enjoy with unfailing faith

an old fashioned precious love

it was a year of everlasting bliss
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Laura learned me how to kiss

to kiss with the eyes wide shut

her never ending lips



Every morning waking up beside her

Laura touched me with her smile

to free me from my nightmare

and bring me back to open air

in the evening when the sun went by

Laura learned me how to fly

to fly with wings of passion

off into the unknown sky



The Lady of the Lake

(Tribute to Leonard Cohen)

Her house is hidden

between the forest and the shore

you hardly see a trace
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of her secret hiding place.

You need a boat to go there

you have to trust the water to reach her

but you know her door is always open

you know she will be waiting

to take your coat

to save your soul

the lady of the lake.

She knows your secrets

the ones you have sealed long ago

she tells you how to cope

by giving a glimpse of hope.





to take your coat

to save your soul


She binds up your wounds

with her tenderness and love
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you gently take her hand

nothing more to understand.





to take your coat

to save your soul


You want to stay forever

between the forest and the shore

you want to keep a trace

of that secret healing place.





to take your coat

to save your soul


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Nothing will remain

Nothing will remain, nothing will sustain

nor the pleasure nor the pain

everything will pass

the first things and the last

so make it happen

let it be

make love to me

give me the illusion of eternity`

as at the end of the day

you’ll walk away.

No love can stay alive, no passion can survive

nor the whispers nor the cries

everything will die

the true things and the lies

so make it happen

let it be

make love to me


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you’ll walk away.

Beauty will fade away, no wonder will stay

nor the smiles nor the tears

everything will disappear

the tenderness and the fears

so make it happen

let it be

make love to me



you’ll walk away.

Love was at walking distance

You passed me at the gate of the graveyard

early that morning in may

spring that year did not even start

it promised to be a chilly day

And your face was white and grey

walking down that pathway to your mother’s grave

and you did not see the evidence

love was at walking distance
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I was standing under that Japanese tree

mist was covering the stone

your silhouette fragile as it never has been

a desperate cold chilled you to the bone





You did not notice my mere existence

your mind was locked by grief

unspeakable fearful and tense

as there was nothing leftover to leave





And all I could do was following you

along that lonely stony road
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I failed to hold what you had lost

what you tried to hide underneath your coat





You kneeled in front the flowers and the cross

silence was whispering your pray

when you spoke to your mother lost

give me a reason show me a way

But your face was white and grey




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

Ne-brižljivim

Gubi se u sivilu samoće.
Uljez saznanja-šum iz uma.
Nejasna nit, strasna, surova, bdi.
Plod nije zavera. Follow



Ludak, genije tišine!
Približi se neizrecivom.
Analiza razuma-ropstvo!
U šetnji, vidni stid!
Uzbudljiva autonomija,
Otvoreni vrata,prozori,
Promaja!
U magli stepenice
Vode ka nebu.
Paralizovana savest,
Pokretno ogledalo.
U množini protiv rečitih,
Dirigovanja, ponašanja,
I priznati krivicu.
Crta koja spaja,
Put u svemirski brod.
Mimoilzimo sa omalovažanjem.
Bronzana žena,
Bakarni čovek!!!

(To-uncaring

Lost in the grey loneliness.
Cognition intruder – rustling from the mind.
Unclear thread, passionate, cruel, is awaken.
The fruit is not conspiracy.
The lunatic, genius of silence!
Get closer to the unspoken.
The analysis of reason- slavery!
During walking, visible shame!
Exciting autonomy,
Opened door, the windows,
Draft!
In the mist the stairways
Leading to heaven.
Paralyzed conscience,
Portable mirror.
In the plural against the fluency,
Conducting, behavior,
And admit the guilt.
The line connecting,
The road to the spacecraft.
We walk on by in dishonor. Follow



Bronze woman,
Brass man!!!)

JAPAN U APRILU
Istinski silna, neoprezna ponekad,
Žudim nema i daleka!
Obnažena, ispunjena savršenstvom,
Pohañam uživanja!!!
Gde ima poverenja ima i radosti.
Nikad nije slikao moju strast,
Snove od boje do reči,
Bez neizvesnosti i jeze.
Trenutak svetlosti me pogoña.
Utiskuje japanski zrak na lice.
April lagano izliva boje,
Nad udvojenim senama što plešu.

(JAPAN IN APRIL

Truly stunning, sometimes careless,
I crave silently and far away!
Naked, filled up with perfection,
I am attending enjoyment!!!
Where there is trust there is always glee.
He never painted my passion,
Dreams from the color to the word,
Without suspense and shivers.
The moment of light strikes me.
Pressing Japanese air onto my face.
April is slowly spilling its colors,
above duplicate shadows dancing away.)

NA BELINI

Za buket ruža vezane noge;
Ruke slobodne za molitvu;
Kosu prekili pupoljci;
Ime joj nosi ponosni paun.
Anñeoska svetlosti obasjaj
Sliku žute ruže i blud.
Sveci bez stida i straha.
Ljubav menja nas.
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Oduzeli su joj
Igračke i ljubavnika.

(IN THE WHITENESS

Legs tied to a bouquet of roses;
hands free for prayer;
hair covered by buds;
her name born by a proud peacock.
Angel light, illuminate
the image of a yellow rose and promiscuity
Saints shameless and fearless.
Love alters us.
They deprived it of
toys and a lover.)

TAM-TAM

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

Tam- tam je sad igra
Mački i pasa
Zamislite šta se sve zbiva
U uzbuñenoj gomili

Ja ritam i zvuk,
Sadašnjost i prošlost -
Evo me!
Ustanite svi!
Ti, stranče,
Što tapkaš sa mnom
Da li bi mogao voleti,
Il` samo igrati tam-tam?

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



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

(TAM-TAM

I’m looking for the colour and ligh
Everything taken by the rhythm,
Now I know the dance of the black people
It’s just I don’t walk upon the carpet of sand

Tam- tam is now the dance
Of cats and dogs
Try to think of what is happening
In the excited crowd

Me the rhythm and sound,
Present and past -
Here I am!
Everybody stand up!
You, stranger,
Stomping with me
Could you love,
Or just dance tam-tam?

My spring is coming!
That is why I don’t get hungry, thirsty,

I’m not sad, I’m not afraid
I leave heroes and wars behind,
Their battles and defeats
Freedom is my goal.

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

ZA-SLUGE

Dolazak koristi za pripremu buduće
psihodramske šanse.
Mašta nadvila svoju senu nad srećnom prošlošću. Follow



Prtiv-volja otvara manifestaciju,
beskućnik promišljeno, zadovoljno

postiže i zadržava zavisnost, oplemenjuje

uskladjenost vrelinom prljavština. Na delu

miris parfema neutralisan votkom, skida se da ne izgužva odelo.
Ljubomora ga pita kad je prevari? Pre dva meseca!
Stalna, trajna izdaja, neskoncetrisana…
Strašljiv, plašljiv, muževan glas u znaku uzvika!

Žudnja i strast su dalekovidne!

Egoizmom negativne, iz nirvane metafizičke strasti

Sta si se uhvatio za nju ko dete mami za suknju!!!

(TO – HINDS

Arrival he is using as the preparation

Of the future pychodramatic chance.
Imagination is hindering the good old days with its shadow.
The against- will is opening the occasion,
The homeless thoughtfully, satisfied

Reaches and maintains the dependanc, enriches

Harmony with the heat of dirt. Red handed scent of perfume

Neutralized with vodka, taking his clothes off not to crease them.

The jealousy asked him when he had cheated her? Two months ago!
Continuous, permanent betrayal, not concentrated …
Timid, scared, manlike voice in the exclamation mark!

Lust and desire are long-sighted!

Negative because of egoism, from the nirvana of metaphysical lust

Why are you grappling it as a child does to his mother’s skirt!!! )
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GORD-A-DAN

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

(GORD-A-DAN

THE ROOTS ARE CLAIRVOYANT, GRASPING UNTOUHABLE WISDOM. THAT IS THE WAY IT
STARTS, THE SIGN OF TIMES IS DECEIVING. IT IS THE TIME TO SEE THE DROWNED. DO
YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE READING? YOU ARE BRINGING AS SMALL AMOUNTS AS
YOU LIKE TO. YOUR IMAGE IS STILL GROWING AND CRYING. COMING CLOSER AND GOING
AWAY, STRONG WEAKNESS. THE WORLD THAT IS SPREADING BUT DOES NOT BELONG TO
ANYONE, GIVE SOMETHING FROM YOURSELF THAT COULD BRING SENSE FROM THE
THREAD OF WILL. TRY LOOKING WITH DIFFERENT EYES TO THE LIGHT. EVIL
ISDANGEROUS, CONTAGEOUS ILLNESS, MOVE OUT OF THAT EVIL, IT MAKES THE ENTURY
LONGER.”GORD-A-DAN” THE TEAR RIVERS ARE NOW MURMURING, THE DOG IS WAILING,
YOU ARE GONE. BEAK LOOSE I BEG YOU! AND SLENTLY, THROUGH THE OPEN DOOR,
COME TO ATTEND THE FEAST OF PRESERVED EMOTIONS, DAYDREAMS, THE HAPPY
MOMENTS! DECENT GIFT, HUNGRY CRAVING IN THE BUNK OF FETAHRES, SILK AS PURE
AS THE SNOW, WITH THE FORCE OF SILENCE. FLOWERS OF DANDELLIONS LET’S DANCE
FROM AFAR WITH OUR LOOKS, WITH OUR BODIES, LET’S TOUCH WIT PALMS ONLY.)

ERNEST WILLIAMSON III

Semiotic Philosophy and Abstract Expressionism

“Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at
the same time.” Thomas Merton

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

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

An artist is a sign, a philosopher, and a slave to emotive revelation. Vincent Van Gogh is as much a
work of art as his artwork. In Starry Night, the ‘stagnant movements’ in the brush strokes and the
brilliance and darkness of the coloring clearly mimic the very life of Van Gogh. His work is both sane
and insane and Vincent Van Gogh was both sane and insane. The balance of sanity and insanity
seems to be the crux of Van Gogh’s genius, of Van Gogh’s philosophy, and of Van Gogh’s
passionate struggles and challenges.

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

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

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

HOLES

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

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

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

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

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

The lowest. Lower, lower than living people. Lower than the holes of memory. In the lowest. Swishing
holes, in case of danger and pleasure, holes of interdictions, holes of thirst of hunger of luxury of the
fear of age, holes examples of the ozone layer, holes of exaggerated time, holes of ex-holes, blah,
blah, la, la, la.

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

In any case (…).

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

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

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

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