LOVESICK, After a Fassbinder Soliloquy, Edited

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LOVESICK,
After a Fassbinder Soliloquy,
Edited




It’s almost June now in NYC,
But the weather remains unseasonably cold and rainy.

A lot is happening in the world.

A 4.4 magnitude earth quake hit southern California.
Ten strong, aftershocks followed it!

A commuter turbo jet crashed into a suburb
Outside Buffalo, New York, killing all on board,
Another person died on the ground.
The FAA pointed to human error as the cause,
Seems insufficient training was at root,
Besides both pilot and his co,
They had not enough sleep and were
Too tired to handle the emergency effectively,
It was fast icing, which overcame the aircraft.

A new premier in India insures the sub Continent’s
Economic stability; he is a moderate, and his landslide,
Commentators claim, has had a grand effect,
It holds left-wing experimentalists in check.

Of course, the trouble in Pakistan continues;
The army now attacks the local citizenry, as national
Government attempts to wrest control from Taliban.

The Sri Lankan majority has defeated its Tamil foes.

Hard to believe a place like North Korea has the A-Bomb,
And it threatens with far-reaching, missile delivery to boot.

The world faces nuclear disaster on many fronts.

Hold it! Here’s one happy news brief:
The Space Shuttle’s crew spent five days repairing the
Hubble telescope and has now safely returned to earth.

Another pleasant thought or two, from the society pages,
Brad and Angelina have worked out differences,
And media report she is pregnant, again!

And Marc and Jenny ‘from the block’ they appear happy!

Women are my weak point, a mortal failing.
When I kiss one, I start to think of another,
Then begin to wonder about a third.

Sure women are my chief weakness,
But what is a man to do?

I can not help myself, and even if I
Were to go broke chasing after women,
I would write ‘sold out’ on the door to my heart,
And stand on the corner, hat in hand,
Beg some nice lady for relief.

The other day, I was behind Etta in a line at checkout.

We were at the supermarket,
I looked down along her leg from the back,
Saw the way her sneakers embraced her feet,
Saw the way her blue jeans cuffed her ankles,
And realized how desperately I remain in love with her.

Back in the days when I enjoyed the drinking life,
A woman at the bar, and here I record an event,
She claimed that she would tear out an eyelash.
“And stab you with it dead,” she said.

“Then I’ll take my lipstick and paint you all red.

“And if you are still mean to me
Why I know what I’ll do?

“I’ll order fried eggs, and throw spinach on you!

“You, you, you!

“I’ll order fried eggs and throw spinach on you!”

For this week and weekend the “L” subway line
Announces repairs between 12:00 and 5:00AM,
No service between Myrtle Ave. and Canarsie stations.

The MTA plans new experimental doors
To avoid costly repairs, which occur when customers
Force normal openings and closings to fit their hurry.

“Attention. Caution!
Stand clear of opening and closing doors!”

We have a new set of warnings which advise passengers
Their responsibility to report all suspicious packages,
If you see something say something, goes the message.

“Do not walk between cars at any time!”
A voice warns riders in another of ubiquitous alerts.

CATULLUS POEM 58, An Adaptation of an Ancient Roman Love Lyric

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CATULLUS POEM 58,
An Adaptation of an Ancient Roman Love Lyric




Johnny! It’s Lesbia*, our Lesbia,
That Lesbia, the girl, Stanley loved,
Loved more than self and all he calls his own,
Now at the Great Hall, Chicago, Union Station,
Up and down the polished marble floors,
She goes high-heeled, black boots,
Sports a short skirt, and an open blouse.
Corn, she husks corn
For them, for any one of them,
For any spoiled son of Lincoln with dollar in his pocket.



*Lesbia was the name of Catullus’ lover, the woman to whom he addressed his poetry. Her real name was probably Clodia. He did not mean it to designate a sexual preference.


Carmen 58 (in Latin by CATULLUS)


Caeli, Lesbia nostra, Lesbia illa.
illa Lesbia, quam Catullus unam
plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes,
nunc in quadriviis et angiportis
glubit magnanimi Remi nepotes.

BRUNET, Electric Feel

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BRUNET,
Electric Feel



The pen rules me,
And many hours I give to verse.

Tonight the subject is your hair.
God Herself must envy it.
You are one gorgeous brunet!

Were you competing with immortal beauties
In contest for "woman's richest ornament",
World-Title would perforce be yours.

Yet to describe your crowning glory,
I require new vocabulary.

Really! All the right words have been used
Countless times before! Tell me,
What hope have I to praise sufficient
Tresses whose luster utterly captivates my gaze?
What phrase may convey the special
Weight and texture of keratin length,
Which now known to my hand?
Is it enough?
May I sum your majesty, simply say?
I love to curl your hair
Round my fingers when we sleep!

I wish to say, oh girl.
Your hair, it has that electric feel.

Darling, were you to leave me,
Would I ever survive without you?
World too cruel a place,
Neither day nor night could I face without you!

Yet understand I have no wish to suffocate.
I picture no two-bit romance,
Needy lovers joined at the hip. I want
Your freedom and seek only to sleep,
Whatever length of time Destiny grants,
Your body next to mine,
My fingers wrapped in splendor of you, brunet.

BLEEDING LOVE, How Divinity Empowers

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BLEEDING LOVE,
How Divinity Empowers,
Edited



Somebody wrote me,
It was in response to a video;
He commented upon a YouTube upload,
One in which I read some love lyrics of mine.

The writer claims that a man my age
Should quiet and stay content --
Enjoy gardening,
Or the wonders of play with a grand child or two;
He questions how my moments are misspent,
The little time I may have, wasted in romance,
Stuck upon heart rendering verse?

Yea, sure, but grant me my life, and frankly
I care not a bit what purveyors of joylessness think.

Hey! Anyways,

I thank the commentator for his time,
The time he took to compose his thought,
I give that response its due,
Yet I insist, no fear, no worry of rebuke,
I have no problem when I proclaim.

I keep bleeding, bleeding in love.

I take delight when I say
That more command of Word,
That more love’s vocabulary resides within my little finger,
-- Audience, forgive the boast --
Than occupies all the many heads,
Which march in the armies of negativity!

I keep bleeding, bleeding in love.

Once Son of Man lost life,
He was crucified and nailed upon a cross,
And when He rising from the dead,
He fulfilled the Holy Writ and dies no more.
And we ourselves after Resurrection,
Shall be ‘Ever with the Lord,’
And lo and behold he who loves,
Not necessarily wisely, but well,
Remember the promise,
He shall be with Him today in heaven.

I keep bleeding, keep bleeding in love.

MOVIE STAR LOVE, Vision of You

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MOVIE STAR LOVE,
Vision of You




When I remember the scenes of our life together,
I imagine them happening on the silver screen.

You stand up close against me,
A white shirt, a subtle smile,
And look to me warmly and say
Words the heroine whispers to the hero.

I hear violins when you kiss me.

Were it possible, these,
The flickering moments to capture,
I would replay this celluloid forever.

RATNA, You May Laugh At Me, An Adaptation of a Poem by T. Wijaya, Edited

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RATNA,
You May Laugh At Me, Rewrite,
An Adaptation of a Poem by T. Wijaya,







Ratna, you may have left me,
But the blanket on our bed remains.

Sometimes out from the shadows in the street
I hear chatter; I run to the window,
Open the drapes, look outside, and I see children.
Because the event more or less reoccurs daily,
At intervals, fifteen minutes before the ninth hour,
I imagine the children are students, who hurry, hasten,
Not to be late for school.

The sound runs major then quiets,
But before too long it returns, again, to loudness.

Beneath its ebb and upward flow,
Within its clamor’s swirling contraction and expansion,
I swear to it, darling, I swear, the young, collective voice
Throughout all its commotion,
It seems to capture a lyrical composition.
I perceive my poem, this very poem,
It is as if the youngsters have gained access,
Know the words and meter of my heart’s declaration.

In my mind the cacophony coming out from the street,
That swells over my bedroom window sill,
Amounts to no mere happenstance of noisy play,
But is itself poetry, which I myself have composed.

I feel the children have taken my verse
And boldly recite it for the public.

Their voice expresses every splendid feeling and thought,
I hear my love for you, said aloud with excellence,
A match, as though the poet himself read the lines,



2.


Ratna, think how strange it seems, paradoxical when,
These self-same students learn in classroom,
Study the language of science,
Yet my own textbook teaches at odds,
Against current curriculum, revealing solely
Great passion and affection, a knowledge that
No everyday, timely attendance might bring to reason.

No matter the hours, whatever time devoted to lessons,
No amount of homework or study reduces my soul,
Its lyric, to easy, algebraic, chalk–board formulation.

I am reminded of how hapless the task, trying to reason
All the marvelous abundance God bestows,
Although we may not merit, no way deserve
His grace, that bounty which freely befalls us.

Ratna, you may laugh at me, but when I awaken
I pretend to percolate coffee for you,
Or that soon I receive your telephone call,
Your voice at the other end, you,
No longer at business, far away, but here, now,
The distance between us breached,
The gap closed, when I hear your vocal timbre.

Ratna, my dreams of you are constant,
And possess warmth and overall good feeling.

Consider it. Once I recount my story,
The story about you,
You the woman, who has abandoned me,
Would any one, even one solitary soul,
Be drawn to conclude that I am a happy man?

Yet I do not regret a single day.
My thoughts of you, our life together, remain indelible.
And when you promised heaven and earth to me,
Those moments you swore love and your words,
Once spoken ardently – my remembrance of them,
Carry me to joy, and boundless contentment,
They fire within my mind’s eye, and propel my being.



3.


Remember the tree I planted in our garden?
Its fruit has become property of another,
And each and every time I think it over,
Our life, the every moment we spent together,
I find myself sitting at the desk to write,
Hoping to explain, how I trust every word you said,
Wishing to relate the splendid images,
The visceral weight, and the deep compulsion,
To relive the time, our hand was in hand, and
We were held together, our fingers interlocked.

Ratna, in endless run of sentence after sentence,
My life returns to great day, the glory chapters,
Which comprise the big book of our love,
Oh, how thrilled I am to have been at your side.

Ratna, in your heart my love for you may be dead.
But each day I arise in that blue room,
That blue bedroom, where we started the day,
Each day I wake to the same blue sky,
Which houses our Lord, to Him I pray,
I ask for nothing, only His Will for you, for me, today.

Ratna, my lovely light, you, the dream which floods
Across this room, down upon the key board,
And drives my fingers to write the length,
-- Oh, the grand expanse over which my bosom races --
No mere chimera, no flight of fancy,
But real as is the space between earth’s continents,
My ardency covers distance,
Real as the miles, which total our globe’s circumference.

Do not fear me; do not fear this verse.

Ratna, listen not to friends,
Those who claim misgivings,
Who believe I have taken leave of my senses,
That my ultimate design may want best for you.

You know that is not the case.

Ratna, I write in the moment, and, as you already know,
This instance sums all a human may possess,
We own but this one day, alone,
Still I mean every word I say for the ages,
I want world and posterity to learn.

Oh what a lucky man I have been.
My good fortune, the gratitude I feel in having
Loved you and having made your acquaintance!