12 Months

One year ago was a strange day. First a celebration and then news that left the world a little bit stunned.

I was with friends and we had celebrated a birthday. Later that evening whilst watching TV, the news started to come through that Michael Jackson had died. Whilst not a shock, I did not know him, but did like some of his music, it was a little bit unbelievable that he had died.

Not feeling sleepy we met with another friend and went for coffee at midnight. The people on the streets were all discussing Michael Jackson’s death. Quite something that one man had so many people discussing how they felt about him!

His contribution to the music world will be much  missed, even if he himself was controversial.

Violin

She cried for all the broken hearts,
Painted everlasting winters –
Floral patterns etched in ice;
A frozen tear to
Soften up the bastard bones.

Bow made love to needy string
In cooing fling – wanton whispers
Fondled under pianissimos,
Caressing callous hearts.

Melodrama swayed in satin sound
– Yet the player wasn’t there,
Only creamy song, soothing, yearning,
Teasing bitter minds.

I sensed her persevering loneliness
For beauty of an evening:
Romance of a tune; laughing,
Sobbing at the fire.

Then a climax –
Writhing passion cutting deep –
Wounding macho flesh,

And all in a work of musical art:
Ephemeral stories, yarned of music
Honed impossibly through her tones.

Mark R. Slaughter

Nine Poems

Nine poems by Ozdemer Asaf, translated from Turkish. Nine thoughts, nine feelings and nine reflections.

“Minimalism isn’t austere, but intimate and guarded, like fragments from a whispered, feverish conversation. Each poem withholds more than it gives. You read them as you would read a bruise hidden under a shirtsleeve, guessing that the discolored surface signals a story that’s unlikely to be told. But there’s also something bracing and reassuring about their silence, their insubstantiality; the signs of secrecy, a shared moment, a conspiracy.”

—Timothy Carmody, author of The Bridge and the River

We all have untold stories….

Nine Poems

Excerpt from today’s journal

I am sitting by the window looking out at the storm and wondering why I even bothered to leave the bed.

I awoke this morning and felt tired. Old, weary, exhausted and drained. It can take some hours before I have the strength and energy to be bothered to shower and dress. There is no reason to do so, nowhere to go, no one to see, nothing to say.

I have realised, sitting here watching the rain, that by chasing a pointless dream, wanting something I should never have thought I could have, I have lost everything that I did have. All that I have struggled to gain throughout my life, my career, whatever it was worth, is gone, along with my home, my life as I knew it and many of my ‘so called’ friends. All in the pursuit of – what?

I feel old, stupid and foolish. And foolish people deserve all that they get. I am truly not sure that I have the strength to work at rebuilding. Everything is just too much effort. Perhaps the storm is affecting my mood.