"tourism" poems
navigator’s balcony cocktail hour
rocket orbit ocean liner rising
clenched no teeth no guernica no bam bam bam
correspondent notary republic
address book dial figure 8
charred with a thousand jigsaw pieces
false as a beach chiaroscuro black
on black graveyard womb naked milk glass lit
footprint tourism by candlelight and flare
vaccination fatigue puke fingernail fish
moving a bandaged echo **** him **** her
familiar bell music **** them both **** them all
stretched shirtsleeves spanish toffee slashed tires
(failure as a painter he shaved his wife’s fur coat)
bust your ***** Barcelona red alert
knock-kneed broken squeezebox no hands
standing room only ladies first (please)
unbuttoned interrogation coffee rolls (stop)
marine’s vegetation (stop) early morning tea (stop)
armless menus (stop) pink cathedral fingers (stop)
and (begin again) move
we move
moving inside an eye this eye
that advances step
by step
10.3k
Freedom At Kannyakumari
“The destiny of India is molded in her class-rooms”
Kothari had no confusion; no vision on the fusion-
of the East and the West, as Swami Vivekananda’s vision,
“The comingling of the East and the West will dawn a new Era”.
As tissue culture, transplantation or cloning
we Indians imbibe the Western Culture;
or as G.M cotton or brinjals,or tomato
Indians are produced, transmuted
destroying the very indigenous genus for material growth.
Ayurveda is preserved not in Sanskrit but in English letters, now !
Followers of Lord Maccaulay as obedient servants,
by experiments,bring up Indians only in blood and colour-
in every other respects-Europeans
(using imperialist - capitalist media);
poor sycophants ,for a visa,
the Indians: now , turn to the West for light,
leaving the bright light under the Urn;
cry for a way of progress, safety and food;
and beg:once self reliant nations as cells of a body
No retrospection or introspection,
only putrefaction, hence , no resurrection.
On August 15th ,at Kannyakumari beach , beside me,
a bare body of a woman(my sister?) lay asleep;
I witnessed at the starry cold mid-night:
the surging sea spitting frothing snow
upon the black rocky *******
protruded, greasy, mossy. bare but fair ,
ever young at the feet of Bharat-matha.
Wet in the salty breeze , from the foul smell of death,
I walked and walked searching shelter,
but no room for a single son with meagre wealth.
The tourism net -workers with the thirst of mosquitoes
hummed around me with highly rented room offer-
source of tourism exploitation- I bargained,
till, morning red balloon rose up in the Eastern horizon
cleaving the vapours of the sea,
when , thousand tongues chanted Gayathri;
then , the locals thronged around the woman on the shore;
somebody among them, staring blear eyed
as the police jeep and the ambulance arrived , bewailed
“O! Gayathri, my darling, O! Gayathri…” Unsoothed.
The chanting and the yelling dissolved in the breeze
that passed by the Vivekananda rock, afar, south
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:50 AM UTC
Welcome,welcome
White dove
The hatred wall
That estranged cousins
Have begun to fall
When love
Incarnated in white dove
Started to fly high
Over Ethiopian- Eritrean sky.
Welcome,welcome
White dove
You are an antidote
Border dispute to solve.
Welcome,welcome
White dove
Ethiopia's port problem
Eritrea's financial-return
Challenges
You are sure to dissolve.
Welcome,welcome
White dove
Tourism and trade
Must spur ahead.
So to wipe out
Dislike's filth
Let us put a glove.
Welcome,welcome
White dove
To make up for
Lost resources and chances
Also the two cousins
From dislike to absolve.//
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 2:45 AM UTC
Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution
Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen,
That tall old man with white hair all over his head
Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind
Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart
But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece
Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade
His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself,
Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss
Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift;
A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary
Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine
But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent
Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution
For you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution
That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect
The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour
He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety
He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda
He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi
All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness,
It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade
His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt
To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts,
His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece
And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution
Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk ****
Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness
They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty,
Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism,
Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs,
Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy,
They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets
Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
they
travel
overseas
seeking surgery
the cost is cheaper
in those destinations
yet medical tourist
can acquire those many unforeseen
infections after operations
the theaters of surgery lacking hygiene
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
our health services need to act quickly
surgery should be made affordable
then folks from here wouldn't require
cost saving operations
in countries overseas
those staph infections
would cease pronto
our jets not
landing
there
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
*i once had a girl from poland over,
gave her the tourism of london,
a daughter of my mother's friend.*
i suffered sun stroke one day out
with her, blonde hair and all,
i was bound to feel the cold shivers,
went to a party with a school-friend
of mine and her...
i was left in a bed shivering,
he later said he didn't want to say it
but did, that they kissed...
like i didn't know the shorthand for
oral ***
now i'm drinking a beer, write
one poem weeping, another like this
one laughing prior, slapping myself in
the cheek...
two slaps to the face i didn't receive
from prostitutes **** your moral
relativism, you people only
know that theft and ****** and ****
are equal in the cauldron of einstein's
space-and-time, i accept physical
relativism, but i loath moral relativism,
it's like giving an umbrella to the man
under a champagne waterfall -
and an anorak to a man under a waterfall
of cow **** -
yep, slaps outside the brothel,
the kind women became knights' sparring partners
for the oath undertaken,
it was a practice among knights to get
a handkerchief to ease the sting later...
but when prostitutes don't slap you
for trying to sort your life in order to provide,
you sort of become two knights,
twin siamese, you slap yourself because
all that st. thomas gospel wisdom went into
sex-augmentation procedures and cheap
cancer victims with pill-for-pill profiteering...
leisurely ladies of societies made rich
by easy money, watching operas
but still preferring to notice what
their neighbours were wearing,
the peasant snobism who are more distracted
by what others wear rather than the music...
a herd of wilder-beasts could ease out more tears
at an opera than these "precious" ladies of the new
post-aristocratic society of easy money...
you drink beer, laugh, slap yourself silly on the cheeks
for more laughter... your brain
becomes a monkey in a cage gone mad
rather than turning docile...
so she came over and enjoyed my company,
spotted a fox in an alley to a surprise...
but then i got rudely told that oral *** was a kiss...
well **** me there's a cataphract -
let's ***** slap him silly so no byzantine philosopher
cared to exist.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 8:37 PM UTC
For the first time on campus, Sisters on the Runway will strut and pose for domestic violence awareness.
Sisters on the Runway will be hosting its first annual fashion show from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. tonight in the Business Building. All proceeds will be donated to the Centre County Women's Resource Center, Layla Taremi president of the organization, said.
Sisters on the Runway is a national student-run organization that raises awareness about women and children who reside in domestic violence shelters. There are over five chapters throughout the nation, each supporting the same cause to local shelters. It was founded in 2009 and has grown since then, Taremi (sophomore-marketing) said.
Aside from the fashion show, which is the biggest fundraising event that the organization hosts, Sisters on the Runway is also responsible for other events. The organization hosts a chalking event where they write facts about domestic violence on sidewalks using chalk. This is a way for them to raise domestic violence awareness, Taremi said. It also hosts a walk where all participants walk a mile in heels for awareness.
The show will consist of eleven female models and three male models, Edie Alexander, the event planner, said.
Alexander said the show is expected to showcase clothing from Connections, Dwellings, Diamonds and Lace Bridal and Harper's, who are also their sponsors. Looks Hair Salon will be responsible for hair and makeup for the models in show, Taremi said.
"There is no theme for the show,” Taremi said. “It will be a wide spectrum of clothing."
The male models are expected to walk the runway showcasing suits and tuxedos, Taremi said. Originally the show was not going to include male models. It wasn't until the owners of Harper's decided to contribute to the show by donating some men's apparel for the fashion show.
All the models participating have been building up their confidence for the runway, Alexander (sophomore-recreation park and tourism management) said.
"I'm excited for our first annual fashion show, I hope this brings more awareness to the Penn State community," Vice President Lauren Shearer (sophomore-supply chain management) said.
The organization’s goal is to get a lot of people involved through different events to help raise awareness of domestic violence, Shearer said.
"We’re trying to push people to come, not just Penn State students, because it's not an issue that doesn't only affects college students,” Alexander said. “It affects everyone as well."Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
There The Cafe stood where once it was bare
a new monument in Weston Super Mare.
Why was it not placed in this location before
it would create tourism more.
The Cafe on the promenade not a listed grade
not open for any public trade.
Like it had always been part of local tradition
sitting in that strategic position.
Tourists trying hard to get in there for tea
the menu even looked good to me.
Others were desperate for the fancy loo
it was a TV set they hadn't a clue.
On the long wide seafront it's no real
though has that old Cafe appeal.
With a feel it's been there since the ark
it's Cyril's the place is a lark.
A hub of comical characters as they interact
the central point of fun in fact.
But the series has now been wrapped
evermore will the site be mapped.
Sadly The Cafe will be packed away
knowing it may return one day.
I know it will rise again.
The Foureyed Poet.
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 5:26 AM UTC
*retardation, inflammation, all these kids gettin shot up, diabetes nation. earthquake hits, tsunamis rip, solar flare sun, getting our magnetic polar shift on.
been around much to long to believe all the ******** they are trying to run a country on, think it's about time we awaken, come together and form a new united nations.
grew up in an age where blowin **** up made the front page, trading tourism for terrorism, gorilla warfare versus patriotic heroism.
**** the news, i been hit the with the love struck blues, instead spend my time promoting free energy, "Nikola Tesla's technology abolishes slavery"... Last call to end the fed, freedom for eternity; did you hear Britney Spears shaved her head?*
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 5:29 AM UTC
Overdevelopment in Bali
The Farmers lose valuable water
For use in the hotels
The mushrooming developments have clogged irrigation channels
To rice fields inland,
Often driving them up and driving up the cost of tending the land
The shrinking amount of land available
Has threatened Bali's self-sufficiency in rice
Tourism benefits the economy
But the environment should also be respected
A String of letters
The Height of a man stand in the middle of a lush padi field
They spell, "Not for sale,"
Gede Agus says the words
Are meant to scare off investors
This is his land
He inherited from his ancestors
Development must be halted
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
The tour guide asks
If I'd like to photograph
The bullet hole
In his forehead.
He was one of six survivors and
Gives white people tours five days a week
Of the forty thousand dead,
Pointing out his baby brother's bones,
His mother's skirt,
His lover's toes.
This survivor knows.
With a bullet to the head
He escaped death,
But not the days he lived
Piled amongst the dead.
Standing still and silent,
I respond only in smiling
To his insistence I take pictures
Of tragedy's remaining pieces and
Strangers' screaming skeletons.
Take more, he tells me, always.
A smile, one arm folded formally behind his back,
The other pointing from bone to bone.
I hold my camera to my eyes,
Pretend to press a button every few seconds
While following behind.
I can not take anything from a place already *****
Except for this man and the bullet he carries,
Nothing is left.
Here, I can not take photographs.
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 10:11 PM UTC
The Butler Model of Tourism
I come back year after year
cracked black valise, busted zipper
spring-shot lobby divans drained of color,
to press crisp bills into Monte’s hand
come up for air from the tortoise shell
of his thread bare uniform, ease myself
down on a sagging mattress
wait for the clatter of ancient bones
his creaking cart and shuffling feet
to recede into absolute silence down
the dimly lit hall, broken only by a spate
of conversation between the couple
I can just make out in the water
stained fresco above the bed
two of them lost in a heated row
as if I couldn’t hear their bald appraisals
shockingly frank in this flocked walled room
with musty corners and milky windows
disagreeing only on the degree of my
progression through the dismal stages of
“The Butler Model of Tourism”
him making a half-hearted case for
Rejuvenation, the woman straddling
the thin line between Stagnation and Decline.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
One by one
the list gets longer.
Promises of continuity
turn into emotional tourism.
The word "goodbye"
has built a permanent home
behind my teeth.
But despite the familiarity,
I am still left with a bitter taste.
Alone, I choke on the silence
as I sit in the presence
you once filled
wondering what the hell
is so wrong with me
that no one ever stays
Oct 2, 2023
Oct 2, 2023 at 10:30 AM UTC
~
*precious metal detector
of tourism,
as in a dream,
such device has the power
to make one nostalgic for places
either never visited
or nonexistent.
this strange museum exhibits
sometimes airplanes,
always mortality salience,
and the impossibly probable idea
that travel can change
your sense of time,
so you don't really mind
if things slip away,
or alter in some disenchanted way.*
~
Aug 21, 2022
Aug 21, 2022 at 12:21 PM UTC
Handing out wings
like they were portions of God
this narrow asphalt
made by architects of tourism
movers of time and space
reaching out like insane astronauts or genius heretics
breathing our iodine
becoming halogens
the sky moves sideways
dystrophic airwaves
feeble beacons
eerie radio silence
here come more perils from the sky
Sep 27, 2022
Sep 27, 2022 at 8:31 AM UTC
Sea tides undulate
Salt saturates wide valleys
Fish leap helplessly
Seagulls laugh at moment’s spare
Desert sand surrounds
Lonely land mass residing
Brim with tourism
Festivals ignite the flame
Native culture dance
Parties prosper all around
Sun enlightens all
Skin tans from ash to brown dust
Reggae music blasts
Life turns to relaxation
This is paradise
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
Once daddy decided to teach his son,
His favorite being politics,
He set to teach Civics..!!
He said,
Son let's begin from home,
If I be the head,
I become Prime Minister,
And your mother,
She becomes Home Minister,
At this point,
Mother who was listening
to all the commotion,
From her undisputed department,
The kitchen...!!
Came out and
Explained casually,
Your daddy is the Head,
And he becomes 'President'...
Who has to give formal approvals,
To what is sort from 'The Parliament',
He also gives approval for the budget presented,
And be guest of Honor at various public events,
He gets to speak few times a year,
And he is still the 'formal approver'...
I manage few portfolios,
Prime ministry and Home ministry,
At times I have Finance ministry too,
Defence ministry too mostly stays with me,
I am the 2/3 rd majority, I decide how to run 'The House'!!
And most times I have solid 'Opposition' too,
The leader of Opposition (LoP) is very strong,
She being your grand mother,
Is also the head of oldest party in the house.
Her party has now lost and so she is in opposition,
Disputing every new law I, the PM try to bring.
She is Old Monk with a Gin,
But with her experience and wisdom,
I the PM, is always trimmed !!
Your grand dad, is a gentle politician,
He keeps changing parties from government to opposition,
When he is with us, we give him portfolio,
We make him a minister for Agriculture, Food and Health.
In some houses he is the Retired Former President.
Living a comfortable life with benefits that come with retirement.
You dear son get to keep Games, Education and Tourism ministry.
Nothing more comes your way,
You are forced to believe you are our future,
And so your ministry always need to perform,
Because,
To brighten the future is supposed to be in your hands!!!
Sparkle In Wisdom
August 2018
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 7:39 AM UTC
.you want to relearn the schoolyard? are you sure you want to relearn the schoolyard?! sure... we can relearn the schoolyard... i have a theory though, and it goes along the lines of... you know those pedophile(s)? i have a theory... they're not exactly into smoking, or drinking... like... their female counterpart... i actually think women are afraid of young boys... for what young boys are, per se... well, given Muhammad, hyper-inflated interest in literacy... that covers the whole: illiterate prior, married to an older woman, not drinking, not smoking?! so what's your outlet?! to be an object of what... "subjects"... or to be a "subject" of what... objectifies... case in point, the nuance is interchangeable in the metaphor quadratic of wording... and no... not really... i find it hardly necessary to concern myself with making the sort if accuracy to give a metric unit basis of a centi-, or otherwise, etc.
it's sheryl crow
for fuck's sake...
it's not
katty perry...
that debut:
was... pristine..
seminal...
sure... my feet stink...
what? what's wrong
with Cheryl Crow?!
you better be *******
with me for serious,
otherwise
i switch to: unhinged...
a change?
***** won a ******* grammy!
sure... she married
a glorious child of
the two pedals...
who faked Paris having faked
a tourism ploy of France...
it's still Sheryl Crow though!
a trucker's daydream
of perfect head,
incubated by a mouth
of an 18 year old boy...
no... i like Alanis...
when... whatever that was that came
from a woman's mouth was...
deemed, fun...
now?
n'ah... not really.
all i really want... that sort of **** was
fun...
now? i'm becoming more and more
bemused by the fragrance of my
socks, worn, second day to count
thoroughly...
hand in my pocket...
right through you...
so... BIG daddy gonna come around
to save this teenage girl's cherry ***
the kind of daddy that could never
have a beer with me?
like i'm feeling that:
while using my right hands when typing
feels like i'm using my left hand,
and vice versa?!
no! i'm not having it!
Cheryl Crow... &...
Chrissie Hynde!
no... don't give me the *******
zig-zag argument suggesting
i'm about to see something
"better", via an X, cross-eyed...
blurry, like some reverse Freudian
fetish off Ariel, the mermaid,
blurry, under the water...
Disney princesses my ***
head over feet...
now... that's a song.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
an interstellar vacuum
is far from empty,
all the water in the universe
is melted comets,
and it floods all reason.
bloodstar from afar
or Cape Canaveral close,
no astral projection there,
only a cipher in a foreign quadrant
until...teardrops,
big, wet, unsympathetic drops.
hear it now!
the sonic boom of
marooned tourism,
in short shots,
fast cuts,
horizonal eddy currents
ripe with thorns,
like lakes of suspicion,
if God is listening
then this mission is in trouble.
downcycled planet in the wires
and cigarette lighters,
a home without space,
Andromeda chained in sacrifice
to sate the monster,
her punishing beauty
cascading over the peril
that everything in the universe
is recyclable – even you!
Sep 22, 2022
Sep 22, 2022 at 12:14 PM UTC
That day when I met the Eskimos
they were sitting by an ice cube house
On the hot Caribbean Island of Brim
I was about ten
The Tourism Board parade them like cattle on an auction block
Somehow, this Trinidadian floosy remind me of Eskimo Nate
All eyes in the shop were on her hips
those
bewitching and enticing moves
As she walked away,
Her long dread locks swing from side to side
I knew it wasn’t black pride
who was she trying to impress?
There wasn’t a man insight
just a beauty shop full of high volume of estrogens
and mixtures of hair bleach and toxic fumes
so difficult to consumes
The hairstylist just knew how to work it
with her deep orange outfit,
her usually looking pouty lip;
would make a Godfearing woman turn tricks
The **** bowlegged female *****
Never seem to quit.
She remind me of a younger me
a very long time ago looking for a mate
stylish, feminine young thing
But look where that got me
An unfriendly divorce and years full of hate
The youth of today will carry on the old Madame tradition
If you got it flaunts it.
Make the cowboys want it.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC
Strike a light.
Simple.
Imagine.
Should the great fire of London become again lit?
History.
Ablaze.
In the blink of an eye all gone.
Smouldering remnants.
All Britain’s yesterday’s destroyed.
Gone in a puff of green smoke.
A world of tourism gone in a flash.
Powers that be, think of the cash!
Loyal fire people out on strike.
Spent as matches, if you like!
Even the great fires of anywhere.
Firefighters all out on strike.
Support these souls of bravery.
Stand side by side in strength.
Stand in solidarity.
Far and wide.
Our nation great
No choices left.
Loss of life.
Our nation maybe falls again
(c) Livvi
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
Have you ever stood,
craning your neck to look up into the canopy
of the ancient kauri, Tane Mahuta,
while peace and birdsong permeate your soul?
Have you ever felt
the crusty spray and the satanic whiff
as the Pohutu geyser shoots aloft
while a dozen languages bubble through te reo?
Have you ever shivered
in the receding darkness,
standing in the china-white sand as you waited
for the first sunrise over Makorori Beach?
Have you ever sat
on the summit of Mt Taranaki
and eaten a well-deserved sandwich
while cows grazed far below on the lush, volcanic-rich pasture?
Have you ever experienced
that mixture of fear and awe
as an orca’s dorsal breached beside your too-fragile kayak
in the shining waters of the Abel Tasman?
Have you ever paused
atop a ski run on Coronet Peak
and reflected on the reflections
of sunlight dancing on snow and water?
Have you ever felt sorry
for tourism chiefs and advertising creatives
trapped in offices in the Auckland CBD
dreaming up “100% Pure” and “Clean and Green”?
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC
*i've been to kenya, all that these "charity" adverts are fuelling
is ignorance, they're presupposing
all the african nations are like kindergarten,
they're insulating them... it's like that:
give a man fish or give him a fishing rod,
i.e.: give a man money or give him a
method creating & subsequently circulating wealth:
these charitable companies are insulting
african nations to be at a loss,
they're only feeding european bureaucrats
who are really the only worthwhile
charitable pay-cheque givens, odds 4-5.*
a retired lady selling poppies
for a feeling
committed suicide
being hunted by ninety-nine
charity organisations...
charity organisations...
start-ups akin to apps of
cue: shaved face, young, eager
****** venom ****** statues
of jealousy...
all the bankers' wives have
a tier system, the origin of
charity companies
(surely a wife can't be as pristine
as her husband):
first two don't count,
third: modern art "collector",
fifth: philanthropist,
seventh: possessor of an O.B.E.
and as one bemused englishman said:
king arthur and the zimmerframe table
of knights with walking sticks rather than swords:
money made people lazy, less adventurous,
let alone less tribal and communist,
adventure just became predictable,
tourism...
the modern shopper is envious of
the hunter gatherer... so envious
he wants to look the part, but live as modern
lazy allows... after all... all the gym sessions
can't go to waste... got to run standing still:
hey! don quixote! leave the windmills!
check out the treadmills... you see a caveman
anywhere in the sweaty parlours?
i don't.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
Mid October takes its end of season's leap
into the solitude of post-tourism autumn.
The landscape shows its truer face to celebrate
the reassembly of local solidarity.
Tat and trim tucked into hibernation,
chalkboards erased,
scant takings totaled,
inflatables deflated.
Unsold crafts packed between pages of yesterday's
'Correio de Manha'
Shocked freezers stand open-mouthed
their diet of ice dwindled to a thin trickle.
Sunshades collapse in deep south style,
redundant loungers relax supine.
Kids slope back to school -
a mule-train of shoe-scrapers packed to the hilt
dawdles through warming scents of
post-salad indulgence,
sweet with the street-aroma of 'feijoada',
garlic, and aromatic oregano
pot-grown in a back plot, littered with
discarded placards and tired bikes.
Past men leaning doors, unsure of new routines,
idle hands and minds with new time to fill
mostly in cold bars for warm camaraderie.
Women pick fitfully at quiet-season's crochet
squatting to gossip under a white wash
slung and pegged, stick-sure
against thin bleached facades.
Under Planes, old comrades congregate
shuffling at a make-shift table,
tired eyes set on cards,
playing for cents under a limited sky
once defined by Salazar.
Car parks thin.
Beneath the russet canopies street-sweepers
scorn a reckless wind, where still sun-crisp leaves
gather in gutters, thirstily anticipating
the first deluge under autumn's gathering clouds.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 7:13 AM UTC
she asked him: why did you leave Edinburgh? and he didn't reply, but upon thinking out his reply to a deaf ear: because i didn't come here for you; 'lona 'lona, whisper sometimes, and i'll give you a cat's whisker.
i was in venice,
yes,
i drank absinthe the wrong
way
on a beach,
spent three nights in a hostel
with a bunch of girls,
took a hebrew girl
for a taste of tourism,
listened to the shofar
before i entered a synagogue
outlet extension reading
the 613 commandments
on a computer screen...
venice's pavement traffic and eating
pistachio gelato,
nothing much,
i still preferred the Gothic distancing
of Edinburgh's nights
where i could be with cold-hands
and warm heart inviting;
basically i don't like tourist basins,
or tourist wombs for that matter...
am i looking at something predictable?
yes, i am, a billion other sperms
will see the same thing
and perhaps write about it to insinuate
poetic ambitions - too clogged up
your thinking is to redeem yourself
in poetry - you're hardly dislodged
for the art - get a guitar and couplet it
for a star-riddled pop music hit,
go on, on your way, elbow push through
the queue... go on, on your way...
oh wait, you need clapping to spur
you on?
here's my clapping onomatopoeia:
blah blah, blah blah, blah blah;
yes, i was in venice,
didn't really care to write much about it -
i actually didn't, just now,
a sobering memory,
not the type of memory that gets
you drunk...
well it's there, a bit like the Maldives,
and it drives the delusion
that global warming isn't creeping
about the place like Nosferatu.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC