"parsifal" poems
My name is Thomas de Charney
16 years old but rarely play
Father a humble Templar Knight
Pedigree noble bloodline might
Was born special is all I know
For God’s direction to and fro
Shield from danger ab ovo
Reason revealed from His glow
Broadsword and lance, reading abound
Practice and fight til victors crowned
Warrior and Monk seen as one
One and Only Begotten Son
Father taught me the skill to fight
Learn skill to read on parchment write
Knight Templar to be, but then what ?
Fate left to God with no rebut
Then one day Father came to me
Young Parsifal son you will be
Sequestrated as directed
Pushed to excel unaffected
Templar Knight who carries his sword
Doing God’s work for no reward
Beget with specific design
Some day made known I do consign
_______________________________________
Father, it’s time we practice, yes—deke the
wield of your sword and parry your blows, and
push myself until all the sweat has left my
body. For I am a young Parsifal soon to become
a Templar Knight.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
My red haired lady was reading a book
when my eyes with love did upon her look,
She was lyrically wrapped in her world
as I walked to the counter for my tongue to unfurl,
She politely asked what it was that I wanted at the cinema to watch
but my words spilled and on the counter left an inky blotch,
I finally asked her what it was that she was reading
and she smiled shyly and said "Richard Wagner is what I'm studying",
She was intrigued one such as I knew so well Parsifal
and so there it was our first meeting so quaint and graceful,
I to the cinema would then often trek
just so that I could with her gently chat,
This was the beginning of our trust and friendship
but something happened and she is now in silence gripped.
©Rangzeb Hussain
Apr 14, 2010
Apr 14, 2010 at 12:52 PM UTC
I am a practitioner of art,
said Alice, oil and canvas
are my daily bread, charcoal
blackens my fingers, darkens
my soul, my dreams are of
*** and men lost, I bed sad
men in my thoughts. My art
keeps me from asylums, takes
me from the doctor’s couch
to the lonely studio, the air
full of fumes and stale food
and my unwashed body.
My mother was a slave to
the kitchen sink, her life spent
in domestic chores, in my father’s
bed, in the worrying times she
popped the pills, drank the
bottles dry. I am the spyer of
secret lovers, my sister’s men
in her double bed, the laughter
and tears in equal measure,
the flowers and bruises all fondly
kept, the split lips and black eyes,
she wore with pleasure. I am
the painter of other’s souls, images
oiled in with the darkest colours,
their features blended with the
darkness of their lives. My brother
sat with his demons, supped with
them in his lonely hours, injected
the nightmare makers with the
addict’s skill, he slept uneasy in
another’s bed, chased by his
demons and women until he died,
a bullet in his head. I listen to Parsifal
on the old Hifi the Wagnerian opera
is my secret drug, my opener of days,
my closer at nights, the background
to my daily arguments and fights.
My father was my only healer, his
loving touches healed my hurts,
stitched my cuts and wounds, he
watered down my temper’s scorns;
he alone shared my soul’s foul deeds,
knew my heartaches, my scars of ***
and doctored my soul’s lack. He was
cornered by the cancer’s hold, its
icy fingers in his bones and skin, its
deadly smell in his breath and flesh
and his parting words were lost in
the final rattle. I am the artist of life’s
dark wars and ancient wounding battle.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 5:48 AM UTC
empezó a llover vacas
y en vista de la situación reinante en el país
los estudiantes de agronomía sembraron desconcierto
los profesores de ingeniería proclamaron su virginidad
los bedeles de filosofía aceitaron las grampas de la razón intelectual
los maestros de matemáticas verificaron llorando el dos más dos
los alumnos de lenguaje inventaron buenas malas palabras
esto ocurrió al mismo tiempo
un oleaje de nostalgia invadía las camas del país
y las parejas entre sí se miraban como desconocidos
y el crepúsculo era servido en el almuerzo por padres y madres
y el dolor o la pena iba vistiendo lentamente a los chiquitines
y a unos se les caía el pecho y la espalda a otros y nada a los demás
y a Dios lo encontraron muerto varias veces
y los viejos volaban por el aire agarrados a sus testículos resecos
y las viejas lanzaban exclamaciones y sentían puntadas en la memoria o el olvido según
y varios perros asentían y brindaban con armenio coñac
y a un hombre lo encontraron muerto varias veces
junto a un viernes de carnaval arrancado del carnaval
bajo una invasión de insultos otoñales
o sobre elefantes azules parados en la mejilla de Mr. Hollow
o alrededor de alondras en dulce desafío vocal con el verano
encontraron muerto a ese hombre
con las manos abiertamente grises
y las caderas desordenadas por los sucesos de Chicago
un resto de viento en la garganta
25 centavos de dólar en el bolsillo y su águila quieta
con las plumas mojadas por la lluvia infernal
¡ah queridos!
¡esa lluvia llovió años y años sobre el pavimento de Hereby Street
sin borrar la más mínima huella de lo acontecido!
¡sin mojar ninguna de las humillaciones ni uno solo de los miedos
de ese hombre con las caderas revueltas tiradas en la calle
tarde para que sus terrores puedan mezclarse con el agua y pudrirse y terminar!
así murió parsifal hoolig
cerró los ojos silenciosos
conservó la costumbre de no protestar
fue un difunto valiente
y aunque no tuvo necrológica en el New York Times ni el Chicago Tribune se ocupó de él
no se quejó cuando lo recogieron en un camión del servicio municipal
a él y a su aspecto melancólico
y si alguno supone que esto es triste
si alguno va a pararse a decir que esto es triste
sepa que esto es exactamente lo que pasó
que ninguna otra cosa pasó sino esto
bajo este cielo o bóveda celeste
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