"Take my hand I'm a stranger in paradise All lost in a wonderland A stranger in paradise"
-Tony Bennett, 'Stranger In Paradise'
Here am I in paradise, they said. This is as close as it gets to it on this earth, they said. But someone forgot to mention that I don’t belong in paradise. I breathe my air charred and sticky with sweat. I take my water salty and warm. Even our mountains are shabby and riddled with people. And it’s the people in hell that I miss the most: red-hearted, red-tempered, loud and obnoxious like their laughter.
Here, I take trams all day, going nowhere, always seeking a savior. I reach out my hand only to find it in my pocket. I seek in the frozen faces floating by a little bit of the warmth of hell, but hell has frozen over, leaving me all lost in wonderland.
Here, Prince Charming wears an Armani suit and picks up his “date” in a Porsche Cayenne with an unsuspecting child-seat in the back. The princesses are all trapped in castles up the hill, looking down, missing it all. Looking beyond, dreaming of that hand, pretending it’s not the same one that locked the door this morning. Pretending paradise is still elsewhere, somewhere they may belong to…
These charades we make
to do and undo each other,
what for?
This life, a blink and then
hereafter.. what for?
...
The sun shines like rain never happened,
the sky is a sarcastic shade of blue,
and the breeze blows so delicately it's almost fake...
Sure, the swans spread their wings for food again,
and the irises are in bloom like winter didn't exist,
a masquerade of life: bold, shimmering and vain...
You'd think no one will die today,
no soul will crack, no one will find
the water inviting for more than a swim...
Life is never crueler than it is on such days,
never more callous, never more slanted;
the shadows are never darker than in sunlight...
It is on a day like today that I want to leave;
give life and the living a slap in the face, deny them
at their most beautiful, most seductive, most invulnerable...
Only when life is smiling shall one stick a spear through its heart,
remind it of its worth, its worthlessness,
its lightness divine...
"Life has become unbearable for me... Forgive me." 25 years ago, on May 3rd 1987, Dalida took her own life, leaving a suicide note which read that ("La vie m'est insupportable... Pardonnez-moi"). May she rest in peace...
I'm a writer in search of a subject,
a patriot in search of a land.
I'm a lover in search of a longing,
an impostor in search of a farce.
I'm a joke in search of a punchline,
and a song in search of a voice.
I'm a poem that's lost its words,
a prophet who's lost his calling.
I'm an actor without lines,
a crime without sin,
hope without faith.
I'm the yearning that fills your heart right before it sinks,
the thought that steals your sleep just as it sets,
and the feeling that lingers from a dream
you didn't want to wake from.
I'm walking in fresh snow just when you thought it was spring,
I'm the meaning that glimmers right before it fades,
and the solitude that possesses you when you realize
it's all going well without you, and it always will.
"Today I want to see your eyes without anger
Brown city, growing on the hills.
Poems are short tragedies, portable, like transistor radios.
Paul lies on the ground, it's night, a torch, the smell of pitch.
Impatient glances in cafés, someone yells, a small heap of coins lies on the table. Why? Why not?
The roar of cars and scooters, hubbub of events.
Poetry often vanishes, leaving only matchsticks."
I only try to kill time
so that it wouldn't kill me.
Here, in the shadow of affluence,
the city waits in a deep ravine
where lives tick by methodically.
Their faces turned, expressionless,
climbing the cold step of a tram,
or shattering on steely waters.
Their throats clear familiar sounds
rendered foreign and hurried
and full of phlegm.
I wait behind curtains
the color of freeze-dried spring;
at some point you'll be back,
closer perhaps, though the distance persists.
It isn't you who's kept it this time--
somewhere over there I linger.
In the flurry of departure, it turns out,
that thing that kept nagging me,
the thing we forgot to pack,
that which stayed behind--
Whatever the night is,
I’d tell you it’s the heaving mass
Inside somebody’s kicked skull,
A dark so dark that intricate things begin to shine
Like a snail’s trail,
Like the lights strung out like cheap beads
Along some city street
Where people work and dream and die.
I don’t say live. From a distance,
The city looks like broken glass
You see in any city lot
Under the faint, faithless chant
Of streetlamps. South of the city, too,
The Spanish chapel without faith—
Is merely sad and lovely as the flowered dress
Of the girl who sweeps the chapel steps at dawn,
Or as the girl herself whose eyes
Won’t meet your eyes, or as the dust
That seems to resurrect itself
Wherever she’s just swept.
You can already tell I have nothing
To offer you beyond this flash of hope, this echo
Fading as it ranges westward
Across a continent that can, at night,
Still seem nearly empty. Mine is the one
Window left lit as you walk
Through this neighborhood and through this night
That quicken your step. And the night
Keeps coming back, as if you were the one
Returning to it—moments
When you hear what sounds like hell’s orchestra
Blasting from a car,
Or when what you’re afraid of seems to drift
Close to the shore of whatever river
You love: Ohio, Mississippi, Rio Grande.
When now fails,
Was is all there is;
Elsewhere we lose always.
My cigarette smoke floating off in the night
Is the fire of my autobiography in ashes.
We only win at trying not
To be. But anybody
Can tell you that—can call escape pride,
Meanness humility,
The arc and hiss of a match flicked into the water
The deep brief love they once felt for the world.
What little they find in my pockets
When it’s over, You can have.
Just like one year has to end for another to begin, new beginnings often mean new endings, as well. I have finally handed over the reins of PhillyPoetry.com, and the new administrator of the site, Sherone, has kindly featured me as the Spotlight Artist of the month.
Thank you, Sherone, for that, and for taking on this labor of love. I wish you the best of luck with the site in the New Year & beyond! And I kindly ask all of you to continue to use and support the site so that poetry may continue to flourish in Philadelphia.
I, perhaps I never will be, perhaps I was not able,
never was, never saw, don’t exist:
what is all this? In which June, in what wood
did I grow until now, being born and born again?
I didn’t grow, never grew, just went on dying?
In doorways, I repeated
the sound of the sea,
of the bells:
I asked for myself, with wonder,
(and later with trembling hands),
with little bells, with water,
with sweetness:
I was always arriving late.
I had traveled far from who I was,
I could not answer any questions about myself,
I had too often left who I am.
I went to the next house,
to the next woman,
I traveled everywhere
asking for myself, for you, for everybody:
and where I was not there was no one,
everywhere it was empty
because it wasn’t today,
it was tomorrow.
Why search in vain
in every door in which we will not exist
because we have not arrived yet?
That is how I found out
that I was exactly like you
and like everybody.
i, perhaps i never will be, perhaps i was not able, never was, never saw, don’t exist: what is all this? in which June, in what wood did i grow until now, being born and born again?
i didn’t grow, never grew, just went on dying?
in doorways, i repeated the sound of the sea, of the bells: i asked myself, with wonder (and later with trembling hands), with little bells, with water, with sweetness: i was always arriving late. i had traveled far from who i was, i could not answer any questions about myself, i had too often left who i am.
i went to the next house, to the next woman, i traveled everywhere asking for myself, for you, for everybody: and where i was not there was no one, everywhere it was empty because it wasn't today, it was tomorrow.
why search in vain in every door in which we will not exist because we have not arrived yet?
this is how i found out that i was exactly like you and like everybody
Just heard this on Fresh Air; it reminded me why I love poetry so...
In your next letter I wish you'd say
where you are going and what you are doing;
how are the plays and after the plays
what other pleasures you're pursuing:
taking cabs in the middle of the night,
driving as if to save your soul
where the road goes round and round the park
and the meter glares like a moral owl,
and the trees look so queer and green
standing alone in big black caves
and suddenly you're in a different place
where everything seems to happen in waves,
and most of the jokes you just can't catch,
like dirty words rubbed off a slate,
and the songs are loud but somehow dim
and it gets so terribly late,
and coming out of the brownstone house
to the gray sidewalk, the watered street,
one side of the buildings rises with the sun
like a glistening field of wheat.
--Wheat, not oats, dear. I'm afraid
if it's wheat it's none of your sowing,
nevertheless I'd like to know
what you are doing and where you are going.
I'll be showing some of my artwork (wax collage / conceptual sculpture / video installation) tomorrow at the PhilaNOMA 2nd Annual Art Expo and Networking Event. That'll be at Triumph Brewery in Old City; so you can grab some good locally grown organic food and a couple of their great craft beers, as well, while you’re there:
This unique exhibition showcases works of art created by some of Philadelphia's finest urban architects, artists, photographers, graphic artists, fashion and interior designers.
Enjoy complimentary hors d'oeuvres while networking amongst entrepreneurs and artistic individuals from various professions. There will be something for all art lovers to enjoy, including photography, illustration, paintings, poetry, fashion and more! COME to browse, buy or just mingle amongst friends...
Happy hour drink specials are available until 9:30pm.
MAKE SURE TO RSVP!
Admission is $5 donation* at the door WITH EVENTBRITE RSVP.
*Proceeds from this event will help benefit PhilaNOMA's CAMP Sustain.Ability program for 8th & 9th grade students interested in architecture. Visit http://philanoma.noma.net for more information.
Since I haven't been very active in the Philadelphia poetry circles recently, I've been thinking of handing over the Philly Poetrywebsite, calendar and Facebook group to someone else who's more involved these days. And as readers of this blog, I thought I'd offer you this opportunity and see if any of you would be interested in taking it on.
The calendar and the website are still the no. 1 & 2 search results on Google for "Philadelphia poetry", so they get some decent exposure. I currently pay $30 every 6 months for the web-hosting of the site (along with my own personal site, through 1&1). I have ads on it, but I have to say I have yet to collect any revenue from them. We can figure out how to transfer the hosting of the site and other details, if you're interested. Let me know...
There's a belly in heaven that I love.
It wriggles with satisfaction
like a Buddha's would
at the sight of Jello and whipped cream. ______It doesn't give a damn.
There's a belly in heaven that I miss. ______It jiggles with beer.
It's great for a hug and a squeeze.
It devours cakes, cookies, and pies.
It shakes, rolls, and giggles at bad jokes.
______Get out of my sight diet man.
Take a hasty trolley to hell ______mean man, ______lean man, ______bean man, ______exacting man.
______Scram
new man,
reasoning man,
jogging man,
calculating man,
, 
