August 1914

Hot, hot summer,
dry golden fields of wheat,
harvested

Hot, hot summer,
thunder of a thousand boots
on dry golden fields of wheat

Fire and death
on scorched fields of wheat,
blood harvest

– Niebla (© 2011)

Written and posted for ‘wheat’ at One Single Impression.

This alludes to the beginning of World War I in the summer of 1914 and, more precisely, to Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s novel August 1914, which is about the war on the eastern front, where the Russian army suffered a decisive defeat at the Battle of Tannenberg in East Prussia in August of 1914.

Prisoner no. 9

“Every day is an opportunity!”
“Padre, why are you telling me this?”
“Every day is an opportunity for everyone.”
“So what do you want me to do? Flutter out of here? Spread my wings?”
“Even the caged bird sings.”

– Niebla (© 2011)

The word over at Sunday Scribblings is ‘opportunity’ – and this might be called a brief and extreme treatment of it, weighing in with the idea that opportunity is sometimes severely curtailed by circumstances. Theoretically and philosophically speaking, it’s still a question of what you make of what you have, how ever little you may have.

This alludes to a Mexican song, El preso no. 9, about a prisoner soon to be executed who is singing the song to the priest as his good-bye to the world. For good measure, I threw in a grain of I know why the caged bird sings (title of Maya Angelou’s autobiography).

About the weather

I much would prefer the sun to sizzle
to today’s grey dreary drizzle.

– Niebla (© 2011)

So much on the topic of ‘sizzle’ at Writer’s Island.

Various events

Gotta be yourself
Be more like I tell you
– Joan Armatrading

These eyes
have seen too
much again
today, they
plain hurt.
These fingers
have hit too
many keys today,
that is another fact.

I talked to you
tonight, and we
did not connect,
and it wasn’t
because of the bad
connection. I’m
sorry that you
got fired, and by
your ex-boyfriend
no less, by letter.
We talked and did
not connect, but
I don’t believe
you should go
on that raw food
diet, and the doctor
who’s sicking
that onto you
does not see you
but only dollars.

– Niebla (© 2011)

A telling you like it is poem if I’ve ever seen (or written) one. Precisely that was the intention for Poetic Asides.

Slightly irreverent

It’s San Fran
with two birds in stone hand
and none in the bush.

– Niebla (© 2011)

Inspired by the above picture at Magpie Tales (Mag 65). Simply could not resist playing around with the proverb.

Sunny Saturday in May

What could be more irritating
than the nasty violence of a chain saw
shredding a perfect day like this?

– Niebla (© 2011)

Razor edge of time poetic seasonal reporting for Writer’s Island.

Piece of …

Hey, it’s a piece of
cake – you get
the right ingredients,
mix them up
as written down,
shove the thing
in the oven
and let it brown.

It’s a piece of
cake …

– Niebla (© 2011)

Written for Sunday Scribblings and ‘cake’.

Now comes the unpoetic part: how come it does not rise sometimes, or goes way beyond brown to a burnt crisp? Transpose it to life, and the first question is: what are the right ingredients? Nobody said it was easy. Nobody said it was going to be a piece of cake.

In lieu of you

For you

You’re not with me –
a passionate pizza
will have to do

Batter kneaded
with love and
affection, flung
in the air with
lofty ease

Tomato, not
called paradise
fruit without
a reason in
certain parts

Artichokes
a-plenty for
the bristly
part of you

A sprinkle
of olive oil –
little iridescent
flower eyes
that sparkle
for you

Peperoncini –
that very
stuff of passion

– Niebla ( © 2011 )

Written for One Single Impression and Passionate.

And so he continues to write for her. Almost as good as that old stuff for Laura and Beatrice. Or were they really just as elusive?

To the Prince of the Grail …

and other love poems by German Jewish poet Else Lasker-Schüler (1869-1945).

This English translation by Johannes Beilharz was just published in the latest issue of The Drunken Boat.

A gift

For her

“Here, take this comb in token of –”

“In token of what? Your certain uncertain feelings for me?”

“Come on, don’t complicate things. Get over it. I told you there never was a chance.”

“It might be poisoned.”

“What?”

“The comb might be poisoned, like in the fairy tale.”

“And I’m your evil stepmother, right?”

She threw it down on the floor and stomped off with a disgusted shake of her long black mane.

I was nearly proud of myself. I had finally elicited some kind of strong emotion from her – even though it was a useless one and, most likely, was going to be very momentary.

– Niebla

Written for One Single Impression and ‘comb’.