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48/M/New Orleans, Louisiana
I am an American. I live in Indonesia. I like free verse and word painting. I am a digital musician. Married with 3 kids. The …
Poems
Robert Ronnow Apr 2018
City of Hope
Robert Ronnow
Apr 2018
What a city I murmur to myself looking at its map.
We approached the city known as Dis,
with its vast army and its burdened citizens.
At last we reached the moats
dug deep around the dismal city.
What destroys the poetry of a city?
Automobiles destroy it,
and they destroy more than the poetry.
Dante and Virgil chased by 7 or 8 dangerous devils
Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, ***** . . .
Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers
interested in god and what man has done to man
to improvising primitive tools for survival.
Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring
in the nuclear fire – excellent –
during the decline of western civilization.
On the other hand, I hope
our current problems are only temporary
and it’s just a matter of time before
the public ignores the 24-hour news cycle.
Bad news sells but the good life’s all around us.
One feels love and devotion
even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent.
Vaclav Havel said with a wisdom well beyond brilliance:
“Either we have hope within us or we don’t.
It is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not dependent
on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation.
It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart
that transcends the world as it’s immediately experienced.
It is not the conviction that something will turn out well,
but the certainty that something makes sense
no matter how it turns out.”
It resembles grief. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief.
Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks.
Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed. The sorrow and the pity.
Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth.
When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands!
When the laws are broken, what of the city then?
We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope,
where history has been abolished, and a City of History,
where hope can be slipped in only as contraband.
Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching
outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity.
That person, or city, is consciousness.
Two ancient female poets are a revelation,
the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city.
Our enemy eventually becomes our brother,
his misery lifted by coming to her city.
We approached the city known as Dis,
with its vast army and its burdened citizens.
At last we reached the moats
dug deep around the dismal city.
What destroys the poetry of a city?
Automobiles destroy it,
and they destroy more than the poetry.
Dante and Virgil chased by 7 or 8 dangerous devils
Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, ***** . . .
Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers
interested in god and what man has done to man
to improvising primitive tools for survival.
Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring
in the nuclear fire – excellent –
during the decline of western civilization.
On the other hand, I hope
our current problems are only temporary
and it’s just a matter of time before
the public ignores the 24-hour news cycle.
Bad news sells but the good life’s all around us.
One feels love and devotion
even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent.
Vaclav Havel said with a wisdom well beyond brilliance:
“Either we have hope within us or we don’t.
It is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not dependent
on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation.
It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart
that transcends the world as it’s immediately experienced.
It is not the conviction that something will turn out well,
but the certainty that something makes sense
no matter how it turns out.”
It resembles grief. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief.
Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks.
Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed. The sorrow and the pity.
Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth.
When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands!
When the laws are broken, what of the city then?
We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope,
where history has been abolished, and a City of History,
where hope can be slipped in only as contraband.
Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching
outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity.
That person, or city, is consciousness.
Two ancient female poets are a revelation,
the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city.
Our enemy eventually becomes our brother,
his misery lifted by coming to her city.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
--Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, The Inferno, Canto VIII, Italian, trans. Robert Hollander & Jean Hollander, Anchor Books, 2000.
--Ferlinghetti, Lawrence, Poetry Flash, November 1998
--Havel, Vaclav, Disturbing the Peace: A Conversation with Karel Huizdala, Vintage Books, 1991.
--Iyer, Pico, The Man Within My Head, Vintage Books, 2013
--Sophocles, Antigone, Greek, trans. Dudley Fitts & Robert Fitzgerald from The Oedipus Cycle: An English Version, Harcourt Brace & Co., 1939.
--Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, The Inferno, Canto VIII, Italian, trans. Robert Hollander & Jean Hollander, Anchor Books, 2000.
--Ferlinghetti, Lawrence, Poetry Flash, November 1998
--Havel, Vaclav, Disturbing the Peace: A Conversation with Karel Huizdala, Vintage Books, 1991.
--Iyer, Pico, The Man Within My Head, Vintage Books, 2013
--Sophocles, Antigone, Greek, trans. Dudley Fitts & Robert Fitzgerald from The Oedipus Cycle: An English Version, Harcourt Brace & Co., 1939.
Dreams of Sepia Sep 2015
Sundays in Berlin
Dreams of Sepia
Sep 2015
some railway station food shops
are open now,
unlike when we first moved here
when everything would shut Saturday afternoon
the flea markets in the Tiergaten & at
the Mauerpark
are over-ridden with people
selling kitsch
it's early autumn and there
are still ferries on the Havel
& Spree rivers
& a juggling act & a couple of musicians
blend in with graffiti
in the evening we'll go to the B-flat
club & listen to Australian jazz
no need to worry
if the transport runs at night
or whether the stars will shine
are open now,
unlike when we first moved here
when everything would shut Saturday afternoon
the flea markets in the Tiergaten & at
the Mauerpark
are over-ridden with people
selling kitsch
it's early autumn and there
are still ferries on the Havel
& Spree rivers
& a juggling act & a couple of musicians
blend in with graffiti
in the evening we'll go to the B-flat
club & listen to Australian jazz
no need to worry
if the transport runs at night
or whether the stars will shine
Carlo C Gomez Nov 2020
Snow in Berlin
Carlo C Gomez
Nov 2020
Holy Roman Empire
and its Hakenkreuz.
I hear it in my spirit,
It starts to fall,
Flake even.
In open areas of sylvan and pastoral jazz.
On the iron plating of
Spandau, situated at
The confluence of the Havel and Spree.
Along the rails of "we the children from
Zoo Station."
Inside the books about
Katharina, the burned out postmaster.
And at no daylight, no time frame
—the Final Solution, Auschwitz.
I hear it in my spirit,
It starts to fall,
Tell me how I fear it.
Do we buy hatred for our health?
Is it really worth the taste?
and its Hakenkreuz.
I hear it in my spirit,
It starts to fall,
Flake even.
In open areas of sylvan and pastoral jazz.
On the iron plating of
Spandau, situated at
The confluence of the Havel and Spree.
Along the rails of "we the children from
Zoo Station."
Inside the books about
Katharina, the burned out postmaster.
And at no daylight, no time frame
—the Final Solution, Auschwitz.
I hear it in my spirit,
It starts to fall,
Tell me how I fear it.
Do we buy hatred for our health?
Is it really worth the taste?
Hakenkreuz [ hah-kuh n-kroits ] : a *******, especially that used as the emblem of the **** party and the Third *****.