Flowing

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It pulses. Listen?

At heart, it hears the river flow
the humble river the river burns.

No real direction
from your starting point
other than onwards downwards inwards
it heals as it runs up stream down stream streaming constant flowing constant changing constant motion reckless breaking through the banks the dams the walls that hold that stand that shelter that keep that ground that close that stop.

It pauses. Shuffle?

Stumble upon stumble into another stream another beam another ray no other way to run to lose to loosen off this crude matter it don’t matter where when there then the forces beyond forces within forces join and grow and glow and flow wild harder faster further higher more than more then anchored grounded held still stood stopped.

It pleases. Feel?

how it shapes | how it shares | how it flows
what it shapes | what it shares | what it grows
why it shapes | why it shares | why it knows

Know how. Know what. Know why. Now.

Glitch

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our demons
our demons can’t
can’t kill us
our demons
starve the ego
and fly
by night our demons fly
only by night

between two points
(on my watch)
drive it
(on my watch)
drive it like
(take to the night)
drive it like you stole it
take to the night

bad wings can’t
kill us
can’t carry the sun
(I need my memory back)
and we swarm
we starve
we can’t
can’t kill
fly

keep
to the beat
keep
to the heart
keep
control
feed
control the feed
feed
the heart

NaPoWriMo 2015 Day 30 – When You Describe War

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When you describe war, death
– words cannot make it.
Tears spring forth
from the soul’s source,
falling in the heart’s chasm.

Spasms of pain
course through your limbs,
lacerating a young smile
– shocking, continuous story
of a split country.

When you describe war, death
– your gaze falls
on the blank page.
Bombed by thoughts
– words die
in the eyes of humanity.

[Original Italian by Grażyna Miller (1957-2009)]

NaPoWriMo 2015 Day 29 – Where

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Where have my robots gone?
Is there another shelf for them
or desk on which to lead
their silent plastic lives?
A room that is one
and two and four
and a space that is more than
what it seems, more
than what it sounds.

Where has my artwork gone?
The wordland, the doctor,
the space between will and power
and better angels still?
No room for one more
as the walls are
laid bare again –
to prosper perhaps beyond
the boxed papers whispered
by faceless passers by
and sudden saxophones.

Where have my covers gone?
Are there no more layers
for them to build upon truths
and cushion the inevitable fall?
There is room for more
than one person
more than one body
to lie away
from the streets
more than one spirit
to inhabit the shape
left behind by another.

Where have my words gone?
Were they lost
where I last saw
where I last heard

Where will my room
find its space
find its sound
find its place
once it’s gone?

NaPoWriMo 2015 Day 28 – Notes

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I* once knew a young man* in Norwich
who enjoyed** teaching classes*** in college****
I liked a good rhyme*****
if a few at a time******
flurb******* flergle flarg fliggle floridgh********

—-

*actually same person
**broadly
***seminars
****university
*****debatable, both the good and the liking
******is this even English
*******..wha?
********You just gave up, didn’t you?°
[°but you rhymed, well done. I guess.]

NaPoWriMo 2015 Day 27 – End of Term

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Collect
module evaluations,
write a report.

Send
students emails
to check in.

Tweak
teaching portfolio
for future posts.

Open
neglected work,
stare and sigh.

Check emails again:
‘Ready to collect’.

[A hay(na)ku sonnet, as per prompt from Napowrimo.net.]

NaPoWriMo 2015 Day 25 – Nomi

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Ci sono sentieri
che avvitano e svitano
intorno a macigni
che non riesci
a spostare.

Ci sono carte
che ti sdegnano
perché non ne sai
perché non ne puoi
perché magari non le hai.

Ci sono piatti
che ti segnano
le dita e la bocca
di tutti te li ricorda
e lascia asciutta.

Ci sono animali
che stagnano
nelle frasi di chi
dice di accogliere,
nomi raccolti al molo.

Ci sono strumenti
che non suonano mai
musica e che stonano
tutte le note di
ogni accompagnamento.

Ci sono gruppi
di cui non fai parte
ma le parti che reciti
in pubblico e nel tuo
piccolo non aiutano.

Ci sono nomi
che santi non hanno
che poeti non sanno.
Ma c’è chi dimentica,
e fa danno.

[Spunti da Cecilia Strada, tramite questo. Meno male siamo liberi.]

NaPoWriMo 2015 Day 24 – Nothing

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‘The child’s laughter is pure until he first laughs at a clown.’

I never really thought about those words. They were just a little note from the early years, when I was still looking for inspiration. I do remember them though, even now. When I was pure. Before I laughed. Before I smiled. The words make me smile.

you are nothing

I cannot remember the first time. The first sound. The first smile. I was not pure the first time. I knew who I was, but I knew nothing. I was nothing, really. But I was inspired, I was passionate. It filled something. I remember the first time.

you are

So I tried again. Hiding my face. In fear. Anxious, nervous, excited. Facing the truth.
Help rebuild from inside. Bring a smile to their face. Sounds of pure laughter. Again.
And again.

you are the son of man

‘Nothing will come of nothing.’ Another note? Same book I think.
I cannot make myself out of nothing. Be pure.

And so I gather my tools, night after night, and choose my new face.
Night after night, the show must go on. I slide into the crowd, as nothing.
Search for a new one. I am nothing without a face. Nothing. Just a tool.

you are

Before I leave the room, I look in the mirror one more time.

Skin as white as bone, nose as red as blood, lips as blue as a corpse.
High-pitch laughter shrieking in the dark.

you

NaPoWriMo 2015 Day 23 – The story of my person

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The story of my person
is the story of a giant fear
of being myself,
opposed to the fear of losing myself,
opposed to the fear of the fear.
It could not be otherwise:
in apprehension we lose our memory
in submission everything.
It couldn’t,
my childhood,
pillaged by family,
allow me a stable, concrete maturity.
Nor my solitary life
allow me something less fragile
than this thrashing between worries and insecurities.
I survived childhood,
I survived adulthood.
Almost nothing compared to life.
But I survived.
And now, in the ruins of my being,
something, a firm utopia, is about to bloom.

[Original Italian by Piera Oppezzo (1934-2009).]