Oso Para Vos

Absurdities of Perception.

To gain freedom from absurdities of the Mind,
I count my footsteps
(so silent and arhythmic)
upon the wet sand.

The crash of the waves is muffled by the
stillness of the dunes;
the saltwater anaesthetises both
nostrils and swollen feet.

I scavenge the dusk-lit shore for
lost treasures of memory, while
a solitary falcon-gull scries
the abandoned abodes of crustaceans.

One-by-one, all impulses of my brain
coagulate into one thought:
“You will never know yourself until you
become indifferent to the search.”

The jeering laughter of the gull
shatters my Revelation, triggering
my teeth to chatter in
the now-felt cold.

In vain, I retrace the shoreline
in search of my impressions, but
all existence has been cannibalised
by the froth of the moment.

Truly, my absurdities of perception
are a source of refuge:
the complacency of the sage
is the bane of the common man.

(from “Notes of a Madman”, Winston-Derek Publishers, 1987.)

Ariadne 2: Jilting at Naxos.

with the passage
of a single cloud
over the persistent sun,
the image of a victim of
psychological rape is
eternally engraved upon
the chronicles of history —
as tearing out her hair with
contorted face and gaping mouth;
and the incessant wailing of
passionate desperation yields
to rage as the near-drowned
nymph crawls from sea to land
in a half-hearted attempt
at survival.

(from “Collected poems and stories”, Cyberwit Publishing, 2005.)

Changing of the Sails.

The appearance of the Port of Pireaus
on the horizon transforms mirage into reality
as the vagabond ship rocks steadily between
the waves on the 27th day of summer.
Burning rays of sunlight fuel the fervour
of moving muscles on bare-backed men
hoisting ropes and alternating sails
from black to white, thus signalling
their triumphant return from the
grasp of death into the bosom of victory.
And at the helm stands the young hero Theseus,
staring without seeing and smiling with
non-expression: his concentration is
distracted by the solitary image of a
young woman in love, screaming his name
in vain.

(from “Collected poems and stories”, Cyberwit Publishing, 2005.)

Sea lines.

The ebbing of foam and
spray from sea lines
reveals glittering calico
pebbles and shell fragments
upon coastal sands.
During the interim of
drought and abandonment,
the brilliance of this
treasure trove is dulled
by disclosure and desiccation.
There they remain,
rather indistinguishable
from the multitudes,
and dream of baptism
by tidal reclamation.

(from “Collected poems and stories”, Cyberwit Publishing, 2005.)

jeux d’eau.

jeux d’eau ;
dégel du printemps :
gouttes d’eau,
parfois en cascades …
beau à regarder.
et pourtant fascinant de voir
comment ces jeux d’eau
peuvent à la fois
donner une nouvelle vie,
et nous soutenir …
mais quelque fois aussi détruire
beaucoup de ce qui est
naturel et artificiel …

— adam donaldson powell, “Jisei”, Cyberwit publishers, 2013; “Entre Nous et Eux”, Cyberwit publishers, 2017.

THE SCALDING.

The slow dripping of water
Upon blistered skin and flesh
Stages the final element of torture
For the deposed king as each
Drop threatens to erode more
Permanently all hope for
Recovery and revenge.
Melodic shrieks of agony
Maintain symphonic balance
Against the rhythmic trickling,
Indicative of the ironic horror
Endemic to nature’s inevitable
Triumph over civilization
And artificiality.
Perhaps the greatest severity
Is the cruelty of mortality;
For chronology minimizes
Individual humanity with
Each passing moment.

(from “Collected poems and stories”, Cyberwit Publishing, 2005.)

DAEDALUS 4: LAMENT FOR A DYING KING.

It shatters me to see you
Lying there so helplessly;
Playing the ‘waiting game’
Without judgment or choice.
Fearing life now more than death,
You transcend the impatience of desire
Through constancy of pain and
Resignation to the inevitable.
In a singular gesture of compassion,
Your pale lips force a smile
Which silences the teardrop
Skidding down my face; and
Momentarily I turn away inside myself,
Embarrassed by my own self-indulgence.
Still smiling,
You take me by the hand and
Squeeze a bit of your precious life
Into mine, as if to say:
“I know … I know …
(we all live on borrowed time).”

— adam donaldson powell, “Collected poems and stories”, Cyberwit publishers, 2005.