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AMÉRICA, NO TE RECONOZCO.
Imágenes de mi patria
destruídas por la realidad:
fronteras cerradas,
sospechas y
paranoia inherente …
impresiones digitales obligatorias …
registro electrónico de inmigrantes …
guerras preventivas de guerras.
América, no te reconozco.
(Shhhhh …)
América … No te reconozco …
No te reconozco …
América …
BOLERO MODERNO.
Las estatuas de los ángeles
tiemblan de miedo.
Las madres valerosas
lloran en secreto
al comienzo
de cada día de escuela.
Mentes bellas de jóvenes
torcidas
en un baile
perverso …
descarado.
Mientras
las bombas estallan,
las vírgenes prometidas
juegan al escondite …
y no se oye más música.
VERDE.
Manzanas,
peras, aceitunas,
apio, espárragos,
brocoli, aguacates,
árboles, esmeraldas,
chakra corazón,
ojos seductores,
culebras de Boy Scout,
política ambiental,
chaquetas militares,
dólares americanos,
avaricia, celos …
verde.
MIENTRAS ESPERAMOS
Pacientemente — nos mantenemos,
desesperados por creer en Dios,
en la justicia y la humanidad.
Repetidamente — sufrimos
nuestra propia ignorancia e inmovilidad.
Admirablemente — nos hacemos mártires,
e intentamos paliar nuestro dolor con santidad
y consideración.
Inevitablemente — nos vengamos,
con las mismas tácticas de nuestros agresores.
Últimamente — nos avergonzamos
por todos los que pensaban que éramos extraordinarios.
Típicamente — esperamos
que el mundo reconozca sus equivocadas críticas.
Irónicamente — no aprendemos nada,
y no se olvida ni se perdona.
ALEGRÍA.
¿Dónde buscamos la alegría?
¿En la sonrisa del niño
en su fiesta de cumpleaños?
¿En la cara del adolescente orgulloso
que alcanza su primer orgasmo?
¿En la mente del padre
cuando nace su primer nieto?
Repito …
¿Dónde buscamos la alegría?
¿En las noticias: que los gobiernos ricos
de occidente han dado
otra dura lección?
¿Escuchar que todo esta bajo control y
que los insurgentes han sido detenidos?
¿En el anuncio de que la economía mejora
o que pagaremos menos impuestos?
Repito …
¿Dónde buscamos la alegría?
¿En nuestras calles hermosas
llenas de mendigos y de ladrones?
¿En saber que la gente pobre del mundo
goza de más justicia y de menos pobreza?
¿En el trabajo por la paz y
la igualdad en un mundo para todos?
Repito …
¿Dónde buscamos la alegría?
BOUNDARIES.
Peripheral lines
in my psyche
and yours
dance and intersect
with agreement
and understanding.
But crossed
boundaries
lead both
dogs and nations
to quarrel.
ZODIAC.
You and he and they
in opposition to
my circle of One.
The moon is in Fresno —
long gone retrograde
and void of course.
OF FOOLS AND KINGS.
The tides of time
separate fools and kings
much as ocean waves:
swelling, crashing and
mixing water and sand —
and in a passing moment
one is indistinguishable
from the other.
ANOTHER AMERICA.
Few Americans know that
the face of Miss Liberty
is actually that of a
Frenchman’s mother.
Like the masses of immigrants who
yearly forsake old world for new,
we too see majesty of choice
through all-too-childish eyes:
“Rustler, hustler, bankerman, anchorman,
cop, fag, redneck, punk;
baglady, bastardbaby,
stockbroker, chimneystoker,
doctor, lawyer, plumber, drunk.”
Yes, we’re all watching you,
America … with Mom’s apple pie
on the kitchen table, and the
girl next door at our side.
One nation, trusting in God,
down to our last hard-earned dollar.
“Careful not to step on the crack …
broken backs are hard to mend!”
But the sons of Genet are most
grateful for the vigilant
two-in-a-thousand who
cross the seas frequently,
and dream …
of another America.
UNE AUTRE AMÉRIQUE.
Peu d’Américains savent
que le visage de Miss Liberty
est celui de la mère d’un Français.
Comme les foules d’immigrants qui
délaissèrent le vieux monde
pour le nouveau,
nous aussi, nous considérons
ce choix merveilleux
à travers un regard quelque peu enfantin :
“Voleur de bétail, gigolo, banquier,
présentateur de télé, flic, pédé, punk ;
clocharde, nouveau-né bâtard,
agent de change,
ramoneur, médecin, avocat,
plombier, ivrogne.”
Oui, Oh Amérique, nos yeux sont
tous rivés sur toi …
avec la tarte aux pommes de maman
qui attend, encore fumante, sur la table
de la kitchenette,
et la jolie voisine à nos côtés.
Une nation, qui croit en Dieu,
jusqu’à notre dernier dollar
si péniblement gagné.
“Attention au précipice …
un dos brisé est si dur à réparer !”
Mais les fils de Genet sont
on ne peut plus reconnaissants
à ceux qui — deux sur mille —
traversent fréquemment les océans
et qui rêvent …
d’une autre Amérique.
(adapté de l’anglais par Albert Russo)
Copyright Adam Donaldson Powell, all excerpted from “Three-legged Waltz” and “Gaytude: a poetic journey around the world”)
“Lockdown — Summer fun”, oil on canvas, 55 x 46 cm., 2020, is perhaps self-explanatory. This painting is a continuation of my self-portrait series, in which I explore different ways of seeing and presenting myself — with various styles and painting techniques.
REVIEWS OF ADAM’S LAST NOVEL: “THE TUNNEL AT THE END OF TIME”:
🔳 “LOOK INTO YOURSELF” By Irene Brodsky on June 8, 2010 Format: Paperback “The Tunnel At The End of Time” written in English/Russian by Adam Donaldson Powell and Rick Davis, with foreword by Adam Donaldson Powell and Azsacra Zarathustra.
It is an honor to review this most eye-opening, very well written and beautifully expressed book of poetry & drama that was written in two languages; and also includes a 14 Act Play! The book appears to be a serious look into one’s self, soul, being, spirit, surroundings, thoughts, reactions, and can be seen as philosophical, religious, mystical, spiritual, anger, reaching out for an answer, telling it like it is, no holds barred. I recommend this outstanding book for adults, age 18 & over because there is some strong language to express one’s deep feelings.
This book would be an excellent addition to the libraries and I am giving my ownpersonal copy of this book to the landmark Brooklyn Public Library Grand Army Plaza Central Branch. It is my recommendation that the library catalog this book, and place it on their shelf where it can be shared by many readers. In this way, Mr. Powell’s magnificent book will be automatically added to The World Catalog of Books which is the greatest honor a writer can ever have.
It was my pleasure to review Mr. Powell’s book and recommend it very highly.
Sincerely, Irene Brodsky
Faculty Member Brooklyn College City University of New York Teacher of Philosophy – adult education program author of Poetry Unplugged and The Adventures of Silly Kitty, Princess Jasmine and First Puppy
🔳 A New Way of Writing By Isagani R. Cruz on March 5, 2010 Format: Paperback
The Tunnel at the End of Time is a masterful symphony of languages, religions, cultures, and literary techniques, all journeying to one inevitable destination: the individual wrestling with self. Covering our most human to our most divine urges and activities, the poetic, science fictional, experimental, even cinematic book leads us through words to what is beyond or behind words: the inscrutable mystery of our own being or, more precisely since the book revels in Emptiness, our non-being. In the process of stripping away the several skins that we use to protect our inner selves and to keep us from exercising our freedom to live a full life, the book also comments on writing itself, turning itself inside out, so to speak, so that we are forced as readers to become the writers themselves, merging our selves with theirs without meaning to and without remembering the meaning that we wanted to find, finding ourselves apparently in the future but actually in the present, or even more precisely, in the past, as time stops for us. In the end, the future humans, aliens, and angels turn out to be really us today, as we find ourselves aliens within ourselves, alienated not from the world as lesser writers would have put it, but from ourselves, as only the truly alive realize, perhaps as only angels really know. For those less inclined towards philosophy, the book offers gripping suspense, continuous action, and provocative scenes; the narrative scaffolding, however, is there only to lead readers to deeper levels of reading. I recommend this book to everyone honest enough to admit that we do not know ourselves or that we are not just nothing, but perhaps even Nothingness itself. Have fun, but be warned!
🔳 Powell’s great interest in spiritual alchemy and extra-sensory world inspired him to write THE TUNNEL AT THE END OF TIME By Dr. Karunesh Kumar Agrawal on September 8, 2012 Format: Paperback
Powell’s great interest in spiritual alchemy and extra-sensory world inspired him to write THE TUNNEL AT THE END OF TIME (Feb 2010) in collaboration with Rick Davis, the follow-up novella to 2014 with a poetic introduction by both Powell and Azsacra Zarathustra a poetic dialogue with the Russian artist/author Azsacra Zarathustra, entitled: “Transforma und Vrebatima,” an English-Russian poetic follow-up to “2014: the life and adventures of an incarnated angel” TRANSFORMA UND VREBATIMA is an epic poem, written by Azsacra Zarathustra (Russia) and Adam Donaldson Powell (Norway), primarily in English and Russian.
“Creating art and literature requires a creative imagination as well as the ability to get things done in a disciplined manner. Live in the moment, and plan for tomorrow.”
— Adam Donaldson Powell
SHORT AUTHOR BIO:
ADAM DONALDSON POWELL (Norway) is a multilingual author, literary critic, and art photography critic; and a professional visual artist. He has published several literary books (including collections of poetry, short stories, and novellas, two science fiction novels, and essays) in the USA, Norway and India; as well as numerous works in international literary publications on several continents. He writes in English, Spanish, French and Norwegian. He has previously authored theatrical works performed onstage, and he has read his poetry at venues in New York City (USA), Oslo (Norway), Buenos Aires (Argentina), and Kathmandu (Nepal). His book “Gaytude” (co-authored with Albert Russo) won the 2009 National Indie Excellence Award in the category gay/lesbian non-fiction. Powell was also the winner of the Azsacra International Poetry Award in 2008, and the recipient of a Norwegian Foreign Ministry travel stipend for authors in 2005. Powell also took initiative to planning and organizing the “Words – one path to peace and understanding” international literary festival in Oslo, Norway in 2008. He has been an author under the Cyberwit label since 2005, and he has published 12 literary books since 1987.
PERSONAL STATEMENT ABOUT EXTREME ART AND LITERATURE:
“Extreme literature” can be philosophical, political, religious, sexually-oriented, profane, or just downright ‘dangerous’ because it rocks others’ boat(s) personally. Not all literature is “pretty”, and even humour can be considered provocative. Many authors have works they (and others) consider to be “extreme”. All throughout the history of art and literature, artists and writers have pressed against and played with society’s tolerances – in both “liberal” epochs, “conservative” epochs and (as now) in states of “moral confusion”, where Western concepts of freedom of speech sometimes butt against national and local cultural mores and social politics; and where danger lurks and thrives on non-specific and situational social codes and fears.
The concept of ‘EXTREME ART AND LITERATURE’ changes all the time. What is actually ‘extreme’ today – in a mixture of globalised, regionalised, nationalised and localised perspectives? My own opinion is that ‘extreme art and literature’ today takes its starting point in the accepted banalities of everyday life, experiences and consciousness on the respective and combined levels (social, philosophical, political, economical, sexual and spiritual). Contemporary ‘extreme art / literature’ no longer attempts to shock in an obvious way, but rather entices the public to feel that he / she is a ‘member’ of the experiential understanding and consciousness, only to interject a “triggering” aspect that creates a sense of uncomfortableness caused by the realization that one has been busted by a banality. These “trigger mechanisms” are (in fact) integral parts of the art itself – often passing by in fleeting moments, sometimes blended in with an obsessive and “flat” (journalistic or photojournalistic) expression or a long tirade of banalities that do not even pretend to be surrealistic. These small “electrical shock” triggers will hopefully ignite an inner experience within the public so that the viewer / reader begins to investigate his / her own personal reality, his / her actual contributions to a collective reality and hopefully to re-evaluate his / her own concept of what one prefers to create as an individual and collective reality. The illusion of spiritual and emotion separation (the illusion that we are all separate, individual and self-sustaining entities that can determine our roles on Terra or in the Interlife totally without contact or influence with / from others) is a vital element here, and that common illusion is therefore “fertile ground” for artists. Here we artists and authors can play, provoke, prevaricate, entice, seduce and fool the audience to believe in us as a part of “themselves”, and then trigger the reader / viewer to consider the possibility that there might be (in fact) a miscommunication or misconception running loose … a sense of everyday reality that is inconsistent or which has consequences that one was never aware of.
Perhaps the most meaningful and interactive way to help another person to ‘wake up’ from their perceptual drowsiness is to enter into their everyday dreams and illusions (their banalities) and suddenly say “BOO !!!” Artists and authors who attempt to shock through their art with the blatantly obvious, often thus fail to explore and exploit the deeper, symbolic depths of the subconscious and the more mystical elements that make up our everyday and banal thoughts, activities, attitudes etc., and therefore are denied “personal access” by some viewers / readers who may consider the art to be too intellectual, too elitist, too directly confrontational, or too foreign. Sex and religion are often used today in art and literature as “shock elements”. It is not necessarily sex or religion which are provocative or interesting in themselves, but rather the unspoken and quietly accepted perceptions that we chain ourselves to unquestionably, and which can totally be set in chaos just by the artist and author changing or adding one simple element or context that we do not feel belongs in our reality-defining “picture”.
‘Extreme art and literature’ is thus not blatantly provocative in itself; it rather shows the audience the possible ramifications of acceptance, non-involvement, personal meanings and behaviour by confronting us with triggered or mixed in ‘extreme’ moments, and then lets the audience choose to begin its own personal creative life process of evalution and re-creation (if desired) … without commentary or guidance.
When I recently presented myself to Marina Abramovic as a “retired activist” she responded by asking me if an activist can ever be finished with activism. Of course, she is right. The process of rebellion is nothing more than one intermittent set of activities and actions in a constant redefining and assertion of the Self, both individually and collectively. Art is the ultimate expression of the process of rebellion. If an artist loses that quality, he/she “dies” in a certain way. My art and literature are not just extensions of me … they are my created persona: a sweet mixture of heaven and hell, with a pinch of mediocrity for flavoring.
Adam Donaldson Powell, Norway
NEWS! EXCITING NEW BOOK NOW AVAILABLE FOR DOWNLOAD ON AMAZON.COM AS PAPERBACK, AS WELL AS AN E-BOOK:
If there is one poet who will mark this 21st century, I ask you, dear reader and lover of literature, to discover, or rediscover an artist named Adam Donaldson Powell. I use both words purposely: literature and art, because this “Esprit Universel” is a multi-talented man who excels in whatever discipline he tackles: poetry, fiction, essays, photography, painting, and goodness knows what else. He probably has other hidden secrets that will enchant the aesthete, once he pulls them out of his magic hat. By the way, he also writes in several languages. And proficiently, what’s more!
It is much too restrictive to call Adam Donaldson Powell a gay poet, or gay whatever. And yet, he describes love, gay or not, with the most sensual, elegant, compassionate, but also at times crude, vengeful and downright poisonous words. He wears ‘no gloves’ as the French say, when it comes to telling a story – yes, his poems have themes too, which makes them reachable to the adult public, even to those who don’t care much for poetry – of abused children, scorned transvestites, sons and daughters of mixed blood, or prostitutes who are prey to the most despicable whoremongers, roaming the streets of every capital and city, large and small, of our planet. But, oh lovers of beauty and eroticism of the finest quality, delve into some of his romantic poems and you will dream that you are the hero or the heroine of these verses! It has often been my case.
There are millions of scribblers on the Net who think they are poets. Some excellent poets do exist, but here I urge you to read these humble lines, for you will never regret having tasted the equal of our century’s Verlaine, Rimbaud or Baudelaire. Adam Donaldson Powell’s own FLEURS DU MAL are flowers to be treasured a lifetime.
I have published various literary works: poems, stories, novellas/short novels, literary criticism, essays, art photography criticism; and also work with painting and photography. I was born in the USA, and reside in Norway. I have been a professional visual artist (since 1995) and a writer (since 1987). I have published 12 books, in USA, Norway and India, as well as 4 e-books and several short works in literary publications. Among my many literary and artistic themes are multilingualism, the transcultural, spiritual development, societal development, LGBT issues, hiv/aids etc. I have written, performed and published works in English, Spanish, French and Norwegian. My poetry and essays have been translated into several languages, including: Spanish, French, Russian, Japanese and Bengali.
I have had one-man and group exhibitions at art galleries and public institutions in Norway and Sweden. My art serves as book cover art and internet art as well as fine art.
COMMENTS ABOUT “JISEI” FROM AUTHORS AROUND THE WORLD:
J. Richard “Rick” Davis (USA):
This book of poetry, is more than just a collection of poems, on life, death, and AIDS. It is a guidebook for anyone struggling with the meaning of it all – whether it’s AIDS, or cancer or any travail that is causing one to question the meaning and purpose of why we’re on this planet.
Albert Russo (FRANCE):
Qui est Adam Donaldson Powell? Ce poète rare qui parle de la beauté, de l’amour, de l’amitié, comme l’homme découvrant le monde à l’aube de l’humanité. Avec angélisme, direz-vous? Aucunement, il en parle avec la poésie du philosophe et du mystique. Il traite la maladie et la mort, non comme des ennemies, mais comme des connaissances, avec sérénité, presque avec sympathie, il va même jusqu’à causer avec elles comme l’on cause avec des passagers lors d’un voyage. Il se mets même à blaguer avec ces trublions, sachant qu’au bout du compte, il retrouvera la dernière.
Maria Cristina Azcona (ARGENTINA):
Adam es el esclavo líbero, el que rompió las cadenas y nos golpea con su martillo de oro las nuestras, incluso aquellas que volvemos a crear a cada momento, enfermos pero de la cabeza mientras él, enfermo del cuerpo está cada vez mejor de la lucidez mental, cada vez más cuerdo y descarnado. Su poesía es cada vez más aleteo y menos cuerpo, más alma y menos carne, más verdad y más arte hasta que llegará el momento ese sublime en que el hombre se hará poema, para siempre, en nuestra mente que ahora, tarde, podrá ver en el interior de su alma.
Lisbet Norderhaug (NORWAY):
I disse vidunderlige, dype og mørke diktene kan vi synke inn i oss selv og la oss treffe av lyset som gjennomstråler mørket. Adam har satt ord på den gjenkjennelige fortvilelsen over å måtte forlate livet, men han beskriver også gløden som skinner til oss fra den andre siden. Han har hevet, ja, transformert, historien om ett menneskes dødsprosess til en sang for oss alle.
EXCERPT FROM BOOK INTRODUCTION:
AIDS has changed the world in more ways than we may possibly know. We will never fully comprehend the impact of losing so many people taken by this disease. Their contributions could have altered the face of humanity, the world of art and literature, the rearing of future leaders, the impact on communities, and the hearts of countless individuals. And this is all looking at the impact of AIDS in a broad perspective. It is a disease that, regardless of our own personal admissions, affects us all. However, behind the public fray of communal loss, social change and medical advances, lies the experience of the individual who must still awaken each day with the acknowledgment that they carry inside of them an evident ticking time bomb. No different from the rest of us who live with our own mortality, but distinct in that their clock has a name. That name is AIDS.
— Christina Landles-Cobb (USA)
COMMENT BY THE AUTHOR: My first public performance of my poetry in New York City was at a trendy art gallery in the SoHo district, back in 1986. The place was packed, wall-to-wall, and the audience was enthusiastic. I was reading from my soon-to-be-published first book of poems, entitled “Notes of a Madman” which was an illustrated collection of mystical poetry from Pagan and Sufi traditions. The gallery owner, an enigmatic young man, was particularly obsessed with the poems and spiritual messages in the slender volume of verse, and he read the book over and over again. Some months after the reading I again called the gallery to say “hello” and another young man answered the phone, saying in a somber voice: “Didn’t you know? He passed away shortly after your reading.” He had died of AIDS.
That beautiful young man hung onto my verse in a time of deep personal transformation. I have never forgotten the awe and sense of responsibility I felt after that telephone conversation. Since then, I have always written and painted with the intent of inspiring creativity and transformation in humanity. And now that I have — myself — lived with the AIDS virus for twenty years it feels appropriate to inspire once again through writing about one of the greatest transformations Mankind can ever know. It does not matter what we die of … every Soul and Life Expression is precious, and to be celebrated.
I die (and I am reborn) just a little bit each day of my life. Should any given moment be my last, then my epitaph will surely be the sum of all my thoughts, poems and tears of joy and sorrow … from day to day, over the course of eternity. Perhaps just one of these short daily poems will touch upon a few readers and lend a bit of realization of the magic that each of us creates in our personal and collective transformations.
The Tunnel at the End of Time is a masterful symphony of languages, religions, cultures, and literary techniques, all journeying to one inevitable destination: the individual wrestling with self. Covering our most human to our most divine urges and activities, the poetic, science fictional, experimental, even cinematic book leads us through words to what is beyond or behind words: the inscrutable mystery of our own being or, more precisely since the book revels in Emptiness, our non-being. In the process of stripping away the several skins that we use to protect our inner selves and to keep us from exercising our freedom to live a full life, the book also comments on writing itself, turning itself inside out, so to speak, so that we are forced as readers to become the writers themselves, merging our selves with theirs without meaning to and without remembering the meaning that we wanted to find, finding ourselves apparently in the future but actually in the present, or even more precisely, in the past, as time stops for us. In the end, the future humans, aliens, and angels turn out to be really us today, as we find ourselves aliens within ourselves, alienated not from the world as lesser writers would have put it, but from ourselves, as only the truly alive realize, perhaps as only angels really know. For those less inclined towards philosophy, the book offers gripping suspense, continuous action, and provocative scenes; the narrative scaffolding, however, is there only to lead readers to deeper levels of reading. I recommend this book to everyone honest enough to admit that we do not know ourselves or that we are not just nothing, but perhaps even Nothingness itself. Have fun, but be warned!
Gaytude is a collection of poetry that appears in English in the first half and then translated into French for the second half of the book. There is also a collection of pictures depicting homoerotic images throughout history as well as personal images of Albert Russo. The timelessness of these pictures is repeated as a theme within the elegant and often poignant poetry collected. The authors are two very accomplished writers who tackle a wide variety of subjects and themes that affect gay men with surprising depth and meaning. These topics will hit home especially for like-minded individuals but anyone with compassion will understand the beauty and heartache these issues bring to mind.
The poetry is divided by region of the globe, from Africa to Americas to Europe and Asia. The variety of styles changes from short and simple to longer, and even haiku. The tone runs from sweet, sexy, and often humorous to intense and moving. Frequently the language of Russo’s poetry is simple and direct, taking away nothing from the intensity of the message and meaning, yet easy for even the most novice reader to connect and appreciate. Russo’s creativity is unquestionable as he spans numerous taboo subjects and makes no apologies for his desires or sensuality. These themes range from open sexuality to disease, hypocrisy and violence; including one nightstands to long-term relationships, breakups, makeups and admiration of the male form.
An example of Russo’s poignant writing is from Prayer:
“let him love that boy
without shame;
let him love him
in broad daylight
for his sentiments are
stronger than
your malicious gossip,
more generous than
your shrunken hearts”
Blending well is Powell’s poetry, which has elegance to the words and gives weight to each one, seeming as if nothing is wasted. Not a thought, an idea or a desire is anything more than necessary as he speaks of a love he yearns for. Yet Powell also delivers strongly worded poems regarding the hypocrisy of governments, penis enlargement spam emails, prostitutes, and casual violence. A great example is this excerpt from Let’s Get Something Straight:
And for God’s sake don’t you ever
Tell anyone about this…
(if you know what is best for you)
Agreed ? Good ! Now ‘manhandle’ me bitch…
There are few topics these authors feared to invite in for speculation ~ transsexuals, persecution, random sex, AIDS, family pressure, lies, promiscuity, marriage, children, oppression, prejudice, orgies. Taken together this is a look into the lives of any and every gay men and the issues they deal with that create an aura of “different” around them. This celebration of gay life spans globally and encompasses all aspects proudly and openly.
Gaytude is a wonderful collection by two powerful authors that have offered thoughts on timeless themes. Although I can’t claim to be an authority on poetry and perhaps the authors themselves will cringe at my amateur review, I hope to have captured the spirit of this collection.
DR. SANTOSH KUMAR’S CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF GAYTUDE:
A review of GAYTUDE: a poetic journey around the world / Tour du monde poetique, bilingual poetry by Albert Russo and Adam Donaldson Powell – Xlibris 2009, 335 pages.
Albert Russo and Adam Donaldson Powells Gaytude, a poetic journey around the world, makes it evident that the gay poems always have a distinctive voice, because a gay poet suffers from a sense of ostracism, of being excluded by others due to difference. The tradition of celebrating Platonic friendship with a boy has always been there in world poetry. Gay poetry from Sappho to Michelangelo has always idealized the homoerotic world. Catullus (ca. 84-54) loved sex with young men.
Shakespeare’s sonnets have been described as gay sonnets by several critics. It is well known that Derek Jarmans film The Angelic Conversation (1985) shows gay elements in Shakespeares sonnets. Lord Alfred Douglass gay poems appeared in 1896 in English and French translations. In the twentieth century two great poets: W..H. Auden and Ginsberg wrote gay poems. The publication of The Penguin Book of Homosexual Verse (1983) reveals its popularity and marketing needs. It is difficult to agree with the critics who condemn Whitmans gay poetry. The Boston Intelligencer declared that Whitman deserved no better reward than the lash for vulgarity and violation of decency. Both Whitmans Leaves and Emersons laudation had a common origin in temporary insanity (Bucke 201). Walt Whitman is as unacquainted with art as a hog with mathematics (Canby 327). One should never forget that according to several biographers Whitman did not engage in sexual relations with men.
It is true that a poets gay identity does not quite fit into the traditional morality of the world. This is the main reason behind vituperative hostility towards homoeroticism and gay-themed poems. But one may remember Nietzsches assertion that sexuality extends up to the very pinnacle of the soul. The queerness of Russo and Powell both to stand at a different angle to the universe, their desire for an outsider image, and a subversive quality enticing them to overthrow conventions makes Gaytude a classic. Taboo creates its own power and energy in a creative work like Gaytude. This is also true about other gay writers such as Walt Whitman, Elizabeth Bishop and James Merrill. Russo is a great poet with a passionate impulse, and he expresses it with a natural intensity devoid of any kind of laborious artistry:
I shall spoil you as no lover
Ever has or will
(SURPRISE PARTY, 35).
As we made love
Our bodies were on fire
You were insatiable
I was submissive
(ONE-NIGHT STAND, 102)
Russo does not hanker after limited joy but rather for the illimitable in the loveliness of the human body. Due to his ardor, he bursts with joy:
Our bodies commingle
In a Pacific splash of ecstasy
(UNDERCURRENTS, 42).
Russo tries to forget the stern realities of life, and his idealized love seems to be the only permanent reality for him on the altar of passion, he has chosen to fall off the cliff although there are several obstructions:
Theres his age, you see
And theres my career, too
Then theres that awesome responsibility
Towards my class
Towards society
And I am highly respected by my peers
Yet, my attraction to him is gravitational
One of these days,
I shall fall off the cliff
NO TRESPASSING, 51
The above lines are a testimony to the fact that Russo arrives at the complexity by accumulating a number of concrete images interfering with his fantasy, and this fantasy is intensified in the last line revealing the utmost limits of passion, not obliterated by the terrestrial impediments. Russos poems in Gaytude are marked by a tremendous burst of creativity.
Adam Donaldson Powells poems reveal that the poets mind and imagination are fused with the white heat of ardor. He is obsessed with two moths / Playing with fire (BLADE, 24). In his poem IDENTITY, Powell expresses his desire to be loved, and looked up to. He seems to be in the quest for the sumum bonum of life, that immortal instant and great moment which will unravel his identity. With quiet determination, Powell declares:
I want a real lover
Like Arthur Rimbaud or Jean Genet
And I want him now
PUNK, 61
Powell shows such a deep and lofty feeling as to be in love with love (STILL HORNY, 153). This is the state of the lover as Powell depicts it. Apart from love, nothing else in life is significant. Such is the consecrated passion of the poet that he is able to write with such ecstatic outbursts:
Creamy overcast skies,
Thick as yoghurt,
Remind me of
Youand me
CREAMY OVERCAST SKIES 154
Setting the real world at nought, Powell decides to thrive on the diet of surrealism by
the technique of transference:
Real briefly becomes surreal,
Through transference
INSTANT RECALL 88
In another poem, Powell expresses his inner heart in reacting against monstrous mechanization. The present climate is not in favour of rich heritage. Individual isolation in an / Out-of-control jungle (149) is the sordid gift of modern heritage marked by Wars, / Lies, /Plastic reality-show idols, Virus, / Global warming, /Uncertainty, /And all too easy access to drugs (HERITAGE? RIGHT! 149).
The poems by Russo and Powell are marked by outsiderhood, the sense of being different from a fashionable or straight mode of writing. Walter Pater aptly comments that in the poetry of Dante Gabriel Rossetti the dream-land with its phantoms of the body, deftly coming and going on loves service, is to him, in no mere fancy or figure of speech, a real country, a veritable expansion or addition to our waking life (Pater 223). This comment is fully applicable to the poems in Gaytude by Russo and Powell. Gaytude, bilingual poetry at its best, written, translated and adapted by Russo and Powell, also includes wonderful photographs by Russo. Several poems of Russo included in Gaytude were first published in the poets own French version in the collection Tour du monde de la poesie gay (2005). The poems in English, Italian and Spanish have been translated and adapted into French by Russo. The poems in French have been translated and adapted by both Russo and Powell.
Works Cited
Russo, Albert & Adam Donaldson Powell, Gaytude. Xlibris Corporation, 2009.
Pater, Walter. Appreciations. London: Macmillan, 1931.
Bucke, R. M. Walt Whitman, Philadelphia, McRay,1883.
Canby, H. S. Walt Whitman, N. Y. Literary Classics, 1943.
Santosh Kumar (b. 1946) is a poet, short-story writer and an editor from UP India; DPhil in English; Editor of Taj Mahal Review and Harvests of New Millennium Journals; several awards; member of World Poets Society (W.P.S.); member of World Haiku Association, Japan; presented papers in the seminar, interviews as special guest at international literary festival WORDS – one path to peace and understanding Oslo, Norway in September 2008; published poetry in Indian Verse by Young Poets (1980), World Poetry (1995 & 1996), The Fabric of A Vision (2001), The Still Horizon (2002), The Golden Wings (2002), Voyages (2003), Symphonies (2003), New Pegasus (2004), Explorers (2004), Dwan (USA), Promise (Purple Rose Publications, USA), Taj Mahal Review (2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007 & 2008). He has also edited sixteen World Poetry Anthologies, and four books of World’s Great Short Stories. He is also the author of a collection of poems entitled Helicon (Cyberwit , India , ISBN 81-901366-8-2), Haiku collection New Utopia (Rochak Publishing , India ISBN 978-81-903812-0-8), and Critical Essays in collaboration with Adam Donaldson Powell (Cyberwit , India , 978-81-8253-110-9).
PREVIOUS BOOK PUBLICATIONS – continued: GAYTUDE WAS THE 2009 NATIONAL INDIE EXCELLENCE AWARD WINNER FOR THE CATEGORY GAY/LESBIAN NONFICTION!
Essays, literary criticism and photobook criticism by Adam Donaldson Powell have appeared in many literary magazines, literary websites, newspapers etc., including but not limited to: Small Press Review, Ginyu, Los Muestros, Inyathi, Lynx Online Literary Magazine, Skyline Review, Taj Mahal Review, Samora Magazine, Kritya: a journal of poetry, Writer’s Cramp, Portugal News, Skyline Magazine’s and Hudson View Poetry Digest’s literary criticism website etc. Adam has reviewed many talented authors and art photography book artists, including: Albert Russo, Pradip Choudhuri, Jan Oskar Hansen, Shirley Bolstok, Robert P. Craig, Mary Barnet, Literary House Review 2007, Orania Hamilton, AZsacra Zarathustra and Jgor Pyatinin, Geert Verbeke, Barbara Elizabeth Mercer, Alan D. Busch, Fernando Rodríguez, Victoria Valentine, Vijaiganga, Marie Mappley, Robert M. Wilson, Linda A. Peters, Ban’ya Natsuishi, Sayumi Kamakura, Moshé Liba, T. Wignesan etc.
Adam has written prefaces for books, and edited novels and books of poetry, as well as individual poems and short stories, written by several other authors.
Adam’s own literary works and artworks have appeared in several literary reviews and journals, anthologies, online magazines, literary websites etc. on several continents.
Distinctions and memberships:
GAYTUDE WAS THE 2009 NATIONAL INDIE EXCELLENCE AWARD WINNER FOR THE CATEGORY GAY/LESBIAN NONFICTION!
Recipient of Norwegian Foreign Ministry’s travel stipend for authors, 2005.
QUOTE:
“There is no doubt that Powell, Robert Lowell, Elizabeth Bishop, Sylvia Plath, John Berryman, Randall Jarrell, and Delmore Schwartz are the most talented American poets of the modern age.” — Dr. Santosh Kumar, Allahabad University, 2010, from his book entitled: Adam Donaldson Powell: the making of a poet.
ABOVE QUOTE FROM A BOOK BY DR. SANTOSH KUMAR, INDIA:
“Adam Donaldson Powell: The Making of a Poet”, a critical analysis of the published works of Adam Donaldson Powell. Order the book from Cyberwit.net: NOW!
MEMBER OF:
BONO
World Poets Society
Poetas del Mundo
Norwegian P.E.N.
Bilingual MCA
IFLAC-Argentina
DEGREES AND EDUCATION:
New York University, Master of Public Administration, 1985.
Goddard College, Bachelor of Arts, 1974.
Language studies in Norwegian, Spanish and French in the USA and Norway.
Post-graduate studies in international business administration (BI School of Management).
Private piano studies with several renowned concert pianists, including: Jacob Lateiner, Arminda Canteros, Berenice Lipsen-Grüzen and John Ranck.
(Violin-Piano duo: Catherine Craig and Adam Donaldson Powell, NYC; photo courtesy of Catherine Craig.)
POETRY PERFORMANCE:
Adam has performed his poetry in English, French, Spanish and Norwegian, and at various venues from New York City to Oslo to Buenos Aires to Kathmandu.
Notes of a Madman
Winston-Derek Publishers, USA
ISBN 1-55523-054-7
1987
Arcana and other archetypes
AiM Chapbooks, Norway
2001
MY LIFE AS AN ACTIVIST.
My own activist career began when I was a teenager, and – in spite of both my parents being careerists in the United States Air Force – I became an anti-war activist (Vietnam War) and conscientious objector. That activism had many expressions: from silent Quaker vigils to anti-war marches and rallies to getting thrown out of the courtroom of Judge Julius Hoffman (famous from the «Chicago Seven» trials) for civil disobedience while supporting a draft dodger. My activism has including working as an employee of organizations such as the American Friends Service Committee (a Quaker social service and peace education organization), the Partnership for the Homeless, Amnesty International Norway etc., working for the Norwegian government in support of the unemployed, immigrants, the disabled etc., establishing my own activist organizations in Norway in support of immigrants, artists/authors/dancers/actors/filmmakers, and also representing organizations that lobby for the rights of persons with HIV/AIDS. Being an activist has required me to constantly weigh whether my own convictions and interests are best served by working for or representing an existing organization, political parties, agency or institution OR working alone so that I may set my own specific agenda and choose my own methods of working. The latter has given me special satisfaction. In that regard I have used my talents as a speechwriter and public speaker, as a book author, as a musician, as a linguist, and as a visual artist to promote my ideas and my support for those who do not themselves have the possibility of getting their voices heard publicly. In 1994 I arranged Norway’s first World AIDS Day art exhibition (a tradition which I kept going until 2009), I have promoted the rights of immigrants and of performing, literary and visual artists, and debated with top politicians in Norway on television, radio and in the tabloids, I have represented persons with HIV/AIDS on behalf of the Norwegian government and otherwise at UNGASS (United Nations General Assembly Special Session – Declaration of Commitment on HIV/AIDS) as well as at international conferences in Norway and in other countries, I have initiated one-man protest demonstrations against individuals and government agencies that I felt abused the dignity or rights of the disabled and persons with HIV/AIDS, etc.; and I have been critical of other individual activists, government institutions, politicians, and also of activist organizations in the media. At times I have also worked within the «system», and as an advisor and cooperative partner to the system, and publicly defended specific government policies, and I have held office in a major political party. All this after personal analysis of the best ways to bring my activist ideas into government and organizational policy frameworks.
All my formal education and life experience comes into play in my activism: including my master degree in international and developmental public administration, my years of working for the government in Norway and as a university administrator and corporate writer/editor in the United States, and even my college bachelor of arts thesis (on the legal rights of minors {young persons} to consent to acquisition of contraceptives and to psychological counseling) which resulted in my own draft legislation eventually becoming state law in Vermont, and then later in Ohio.
I have also served on the board of directors of several organizations in Norway and in the USA which work in the areas of LGBT rights, the rights and needs of persons living with HIV/AIDS, the arts, and religious expression. And finally, I have organized international conferences for persons working in support of persons living with HIV/AIDS, as well as international and bilingual authors. I have held many speeches and been a high-profile spokesperson at conferences and in the media, and my visual art exhibitions and my authored books often address themes related to my areas of activism.
My most current expression of activism involves supporting and informing others through social media and the internet, as well as in my visual art and in my work as an author and editor – herein encouraging the voices of contemporary activists through literature.
One day – in the not so very distant future – even my vision will seem “normal” in the eyes of the world.
Le Paradis is a 100% fictional work, touching on many issues in today’s French Polynesia: poverty, wealth, ecology, mythology and the conservation of culture and tradition (au sujet de la pauvreté, de la richesse, de l’écologie, des légendes, et de la conservation du patrimoine culturel).
It is my hope that this work will evoke interest regarding both the threats and consequences of modernisation, ecological disasters and materialism for delicate small societies outside the mainstream political, economic and cultural structures propagated by the large and powerful countries of the world. Many of these “peripheral” societies are struggling to maintain their traditions and cultural specificities. I would further venture to suggest that we who live in the large agenda-setting centres of modernisation, military and economic power and globalised culture have much to learn from these small societies in the far corners of the world, and that the survival of the Earth itself may be contingent upon a willingness to learn simpler and more holistic and interpersonal approaches to life, culture and spirituality.
This time I have chosen French Polynesia as the geographical/cultural entity that serves as a background for the abovementioned message; however, it could just as well have been another set of islands, or another remote society.
Photos by Adam Donaldson Powell
An excerpt from “Le Paradis”:
TAHITI
Part two / 2ème Partie -Tales and poetic homage about / Contes et hommage poétique concernant Tahiti
Part two / 2ème Partie – chapter one: thoughts of Moruroa (“the place of the big secret”)
It had been two years since Erita’s husband (Mana) had died of cancer. He had been working on the atoll of Moruroa during the last round of French nuclear tests in the region. He was but one of many Polynesians who had suffered the effects of the testing; many of whom still die today – the worst part perhaps being the shroud of government silence and secrecy that had surrounded the tragedy for so many years. And now, the once idyllic paradise of Tahiti – after several decades of being thrust into so-called modernity – was more or less a parody of much larger urban cities, complete with dependency upon tourism, loss of age-old cultural traditions and identity, social problems, slums etc.
Erita was now a 45-year-old single mother of a 17-year old son named Ponui (“the big night”). Erita supports both herself, her son and occasionally sends money to her relatives living on a more remote island. She works as a domestic at one of the luxury hotels on the island of Tahiti, both cleaning rooms and helping to prepare food in the hotel kitchen. She was lost in her thoughts about her family, preoccupied especially about her son who was left on his own much too often since she had to work every extra shift she was offered in order to manage financially. The main tourist season was – after all – the most important time of the year in terms of making money. She stood in the kitchen alone, waiting for the second shift to arrive … she was already exhausted after having worked since the early morning hours, but she was used to labouring extra hours and felt fortunate that she was generally accommodated by the management when she asked for more work.
She was doing the prep-work for “poisson cru” (a traditional Tahitian fish dish), which would be served to the tourists later that evening (together with several other local dishes: pork, taro, chicken, plantains, sweet potatoes and dessert (some French pastries and fresh tropical fruits)). The entertainment was to be a performance of Polynesian dances featuring local girls.
Erita was angry with her son, who had gotten into trouble with the local police the night before. It was nothing serious, but she felt guilty that she was so absent – especially when he was at that age, and with the many temptations of modern urban life brought on by commercialisation and tourism in Pape’ete. She was not aware that she was almost using the fish knife like a butcher knife; making hard chopping motions and sounds that were more suitable for cutting pork or red meat than fish.
“Hare Maru! (Take it easy!),” said Jeannette. Jeannette and three other women on the afternoon shift had just walked into the hotel kitchen.
Ia ora na outou” (“Hello”), replied Erita (smiling, while looking over her shoulder and wiping sweat from her brow).
“E aha to oe huru? … Comment vas-tu ? (How are you?)” asked Jeannette.
“E mea maitai au. E o oe? (I am well. And you?)” replied Erita.
“E mea maitai au. Mauruuru! (I am well. Thanks!)” replied Jeannette, smiling. The other three women nodded ‘hello’ to Erita, who smiled and greeted them in return.
“Comment allez-vous, Mesdames ?” shouted Alain, the assistant hotel manager through the doorway of the kitchen.
“Bien, monsieur. Et vous même?”
“Très bien, merci. Je rentre chez moi, et j’irai à Moorea demain,” said Alain, as he hurried past the doorway.
“Au revoir !” the women sang out in chorus.
“Au revoir! ” shouted Alain, already several footsteps down the corridor.
Jeannette walked up behind Erita and said, “Here … let me help you with that.” She took a knife and stood next to Erita, saying: “You have done a lot already! Are you a little tired today? You don’t seem your normal happy self.”
Erita forced a smile and mumbled: “I am okay. Just a little preoccupied. My son got into some minor trouble with the police last night, and today is my wedding anniversary. My husband and I would have been together twenty-one years today.”
“I understand … ” replied Jeannette. “It is not an easy life for you, my dear Erita. You are very brave to go it all alone … without a man or your relatives close by you. Have you considered getting remarried? You are still quite stunning to look at. I would love to come over one day and do your hair and make-up. And perhaps we could go out on the town afterwards?”
“Me? You must be joking,” said Erita, laughing nervously.
“I do not joke about such things, ma chère !” retorted Jeannette. “Look! We finish here in three hours. Come home with me. I can even lend you an outfit. I have something that would suit you perfectly. Our kids will be fine tonight. We could even send them to the cinema, and let them invite a few friends over to my house for snacks and soft drinks afterwards. We will certainly be back home before things get too much out of control. Besides, my son Teiki knows better than to try anything outside of the house rules – even when he is alone by himself.”
Both women laughed, attracting the attention of the other women at work in the kitchen. Erita smiled and said: “Okay. Why not? But I am not interested in meeting anyone … so don’t try any matchmaking!”
“Who, me?” replied Jeannette, with her hands on her hips. “Every woman for herself … that is my motto.”
Erita just rolled her eyes and shook her head, smiling. Both women hugged and kissed each other on the cheek. Immediately, they simultaneously broke out into a traditional Polynesian love song, and continued working.
Part two / 2ème Partie – chapter two: out on the town
They had been sitting at the bar at the dancing hall for about an hour-and-a-half when Erita got a migraine headache. She told her friend Jeannette that she has been getting them often. Jeannette asked her if she thought it may be an effect of radiation – perhaps she was suffering from radiation sickness. She mentioned that she has a cousin who was recently tested for radiation contamination after developing some strange symptoms. Erita said “no”, she usually gets them in the evenings only, and they are often accompanied by flashes of geometrical shapes that appear before her eyes, or in the distance. She added that she has often felt as if she knows things just as they are happening somewhere else.
“You mean like Déjà Vu ?” her friend asked.
“No,” replied Erita. “More like telepathy … or a kind of communication that something is happening to someone I know in some way, or is about to.”
Jeannette asked her where these migraine headaches are centred in her skull. Erita pointed to the areas corresponding to her pineal gland and hypothalamus. It was then that her friend told her her mother’s story about their Lemurian ancestors who mastered crystal-energy and telepathy and the art of flying, and that when Lemuria met its destruction many Lemurians escaped to Atlantis where they took with them their knowledge of telepathy, crystalenergy, flying and the secret keys and codes of symbols called the language of light. She continued to say: “Unfortunately, the Atlanteans went too far with their scientific investigations into crystal-energy and technology and met their own doom. However, the knowledge they possessed was not totally forgotten, and bits and pieces still survive in the many remaining and now scattered modern-day remnants of Lemuria – in the South Pacific and Australasia, South America, parts of North America and parts of India, Nepal and Tibet, as well as in cultures heavily influenced by the Atlantis civilisation. Some even draw strong parallels between ancient Egypt and Lemuria, based on use of symbols and geometry in architecture, but also because of the widespread use of telepathy and communication with the ‘other world’ – perhaps this was because both ancient Egypt and Lemuria are said to have been populated originally by beings from other star systems.”
“Typical”, said Erita, “that we again experiment with atomic energy and weapons of mass destruction. Won’t we ever learn? What is wrong with the more positive, life-asserting traditional values and culture?”
“Some say we have now come full circle, and that Lemuria will re-emerge as a continent soon. But I personally feel that the new continent of Lemuria will not be in the third or fourth dimension … but rather one place where we will ascend to when the so-called Quantum Leap has taken place,” said her friend.
“You mean after Armageddon?” asked Erita.
“Armageddon is one possibility we can create; but there are alternative options. We have free will, both individually and collectively. I would ask you Erita: do you suppose that those symbols you see are created by you and others on Earth, or do you think they are meant to be taken down through channelling for use by humans?”
“What do you mean by ‘use by humans’?” asked Erita nervously.
“I don’t know; perhaps personal development, or important communications for humanity … or even as a kind of feng shui advice,” said her friend while sipping her cocktail through a straw.
“Feng shui advice?” asked Erita, surprised and amused.
“Sure,” said Jeannette. “Geometric shapes have been used since the earliest civilisations recorded in history to influence human moods, intelligence, communication with other worlds, and comfort. This ancient science is now used widely in modern architecture.”
“I don’t know the answer to your question; I haven’t really thought about it. I guess I think that what I see are individual and collective thought patterns broken down into their basic sound and light geometrical structures, but I am uncertain as to why I see them or what I am supposed to do with them … if anything at all.”
“Have you tried using them to play the lottery?” joked Jeannette.
“No … that doesn’t sound right at all. They are very personal and spiritual for me in a way.”
“Well,” said Jeannette. “I have heard stories about the ancient Lemurians purposely developing their pineal glands to open their third eye and develop telepathic abilities. Perhaps that is what is happening to you. My mother always told me to eat a lot of fruit because she believed that vitamin C increases one’s memory and intuition. Your favourite foodstuff is fruit. Perhaps those huge doses of vitamin C are putting your brain glands in shock, which is in turn giving you headaches and hallucinations in form of these geometric images you keep seeing. I’m no doctor, but maybe you should consider …”
“Stop already, Jeannette!” interrupted Erita. “I am fine. I just work too many extra hours. I will try to cut back a bit.”
“Do you want to go home?” asked Jeannette. “It is okay if you are not feeling well.”
“Home? You must be joking! It is just a little headache … and it will go over. What I really need is to dance.” Erita glanced over at the upper-middle class man with carefully groomed white hair and imported French shoes approaching the bar, and smiled broadly.
“Excusez moi madame,” he said after noticing that their eyes had locked for a few seconds. “Do I know you from …”
“No, I am quite certain,” replied Erita. The gentleman looked perplexed by her answer … was it meant as a brush-off or was she trying to tell him that she liked the way he looked?
“My friend Erita never goes out … so she cannot possibly have met you here before. But perhaps somewhere else.”
“Chuut !” whispered Erita to Jeannette. “You are embarrassing me.”
“Nonsense,” retorted Jeannette. “Erita was just telling me that she wants to dance, but I have my eye on someone else, and do not want to seem unavailable by dancing with Erita. Perhaps you would do her the honour of inviting her for a swing around the dance floor?”
“Jeannette! Really!” exclaimed Erita. “You must not impose on this gentleman.”
“Believe me Erita, that would be no imposition … au contraire it would be a big pleasure,” said the gentleman. “And by the way, my name is Paul. My parents are both French Polynesian but my grandfather came to Tahiti from France. I am named after him.”
And with that, Erita and Paul disappeared onto the dance floor … not to join Jeannette again for another twenty minutes.
“How was the dance?” asked Jeannette. “And how was the dancer?”
“It was great to dance again … it has been years since I last danced with a man. He gave me so many compliments … on my face, my hair, my dress, my eyes. I felt like I was in my early twenties again when I was with him. He asked me out for dinner next Friday. I told him I would think about it, and that he could call me on Wednesday. And how was your beau mec ?” asked Erita finally.
“Married … just my luck. But I have had a great time sitting here, flirting with the bartender and watching your moves on the dance floor. Perhaps we should get home to the boys soon? What does your telepathy say?” joked Jeannette.
“My ‘telepathy’ is shut down for the evening,” replied Erita with slight but friendly sarcasm. “But I am tired … and curious to see what the two teenagers have been up to. So let’s go.”
They slowly walked to Jeannette’s house. It was warm outside, but there was a pleasant light breeze blowing and the streets were quiet and empty of youth looking for thrills. Both women looked marvelous in their colourful tropical flower print dresses and high-heels, but mostly because they had the most beautiful and contented looks on their faces as they walked under coconut trees and the luminescent full moon. They didn’t speak much on the way home to Jeannette, but both thought more about their conversation at the bar regarding the Language of Light and telepathy, than the dancing and flirting.
Erita’s son decided to stay over at Jeannette’s house, and Erita walked home alone. Once there, Erita felt slightly dizzy and nauseated. Had she had too much to drink? “No,” she thought to herself. “I only had two drinks the entire evening.” And then she felt the migraine at the back of her head coming on.
“Oh, dear,” she mumbled. “I had better go to bed.”
The room seemed to shift dimensional perspective. A strange beating sound – not unlike a helicopter or the beating of huge wings – drowned out all other sounds and overtook her consciousness. Everything looked and felt like it was slightly crooked and four-dimensional. Suddenly, a ball of light appeared before her forehead at the spot in between and just over her eyes; it felt as though it had burned its way through from the back of her skull. Instantly the entire dark bedroom filled up with intense white-ultraviolet light, and Erita felt herself flying through tunnels … the walls of which were lined with various geometric symbols, which opened one by one almost as lotus blossoms … into a new world which seemed vaguely familiar. It was then that Erita heard a voice that seemed to be both half-inside her head and also a direct communication that resounded: ‘Relax and let this happen. It is part of your spiritual agreement and growth. Do not be afraid. You are the keeper of these sacred symbols, and you shall hold them until the planet is again ready to understand them and take them into use. You are the new incarnation of Vaite’. Erita marveled at the experience and did not fall asleep before the early morning hours. She busied herself during the day with household chores and making food for herself and her son. As the late afternoon gave way to dusk Erita stepped outside and was amazed to see blue-white rays of light in the sky, which slowly began forming geometric symbols – much like the ones she had seen in her bedroom the night before, while in a half-asleep and half-awake state. The laser-blue symbols were vibrant against the contrasting skies, and were not pulsating but appeared one after another as flashes – not unlike a kaleidoscope. They each appeared briefly, for under a second, and they varied in size although they were quite large. She thought to herself: “It is actually impossible to say how large they really are or how far away they are, but they seem to be much closer than the stars or the Moon.”
After watching the heavenly show for about fifteen minutes, Erita went into the apartment and found some paper and a blue pencil with which to record her visions. Erita had half-expected that the symbols would have disappeared once she had returned inside, but when she returned they were in full force. She barely had time to draw one symbol before another appeared. Erita felt quite a reverence for these symbols, and felt strongly that they were both universal for all mankind and at the same time somehow personal for her – both symbols of the collective human consciousness and also cosmic information that all humans could download, use and learn from. She smiled, thinking: “This is actually a two-way dialogue. I can almost understand and communicate through my thoughts on some level – not on a regular third dimensional level, but on a higher dimensional frequency. Erita tried to turn the light show off, and then on again and quickly realised that she was in full control of this experience and could decide when she wished to see the symbols and when she did not. This reassured her: “I am not crazy; this is not a hallucination.” She discovered that it only took a few seconds to regain her focus once she had turned the light show on again.
Erita noticed that her migraine was now gone, and that she felt immense happiness and recognition in response to the symbols … almost the same feeling that she had when she met up with someone she loved very much after an absence. It was a ‘safe place’ – a place and an experience that no one and nothing could take away from her. Erita noticed after some time that certain symbols appeared more often than others, and some seemed to vibrate sound energy that she could almost hear with her ears … but not quite make out the tonalities. She began to wonder if these symbols were a ‘language’ with concrete messages to her and to mankind.
Many of the symbols were recognisable from ancient statues and from some tattoos worn by descendants of the islands (as recorded in drawings in old history books from the early stages of European colonization); others felt instinctively like they came from ancient civilizations and cultures on Earth (such as Egypt, Abyssinia, Sumer etc.) or perhaps other stars and planets.
Erita continued to record the images as best as she could – striving for accuracy, which was often difficult as there were often very small nuances and variations between some symbols. After two and-a-half hours of writing down geometric symbols, Erita returned to her bedroom and fell asleep – soon to be lost in the most extraordinary dream she ever could remember having had.
Part two / 2ème Partie – chapter three: a past life memory, and Erita’s channelled message
«You are the incarnation of Vaite» a voice in her dream repeated, «but we wish to show you another life incarnation which will explain many of your still-unanswered questions.» In an instant, Erita felt herself transported to a small rural community in another part of the world. She recognised herself as a native woman of some twenty-four years of age – in those days a fully matured woman in every respect. Erita saw how she toiled all day long, working in the hut at the edge of the jungle, harvesting crops and looking after her many children … and she also saw how saddened she was by the state of her situation. While she had no aspirations other than to be the best mother and provider and ‘wife’ she could be, she often struggled with her ‘curse’ – the misfortune of being born as a woman. She looked at the reflection of her image in the waters of the small inland pond as she bathed, cupping her breasts and shaking the water from her long dark hair. «I am a goddess», she thought.
«Why am I born into this life of servitude to men – always available at their discretion, regardless of whether I want to … or not? And why do I sense that I am more than a mere woman … and concubine» (for she was despised by the women from the upper echelon of local society who called her a ‘whore’ since she was officially a concubine and not a ‘wife’). She suffered rape and beatings, verbal and psychological abuse just as the ‘wives’ did, but the treatment she endured by the ‘fine women’ of the village was more devastating than anything else she experienced.
She suddenly remembered how sick she had become when delivering her last child (the sixth). Burning up with fever, she had begun hallucinating and speaking in tongues. The pain of conceiving had put her over the edge, allowing sacred messages known only to the highest priests to become revealed and entrusted to her. She screamed in agony and exhilaration, scaring the midwives with her incantations and descriptions of sacred symbols … and her «sacrilegious» proclamations regarding her spiritual status and the future of humanity. She was never again quite the same woman after that, and was doomed to endure the given status of whore and heretic – resulting in her being shunned by all women in the village, and abused sexually by any man who had a need to satisfy his own carnal needs and/or to punish his surroundings for whatever reason … and whenever.
Suddenly Erita saw herself at her moment of death. She saw herself clawing her way through the low jungle, crawling on her hands and knees, crying out to the Universe for salvation from a lifetime of Hell. Erita re-experienced her moment of transition – moving toward the Light and seeing several globes of light awaiting her arrival. She felt like a true goddess at that moment – she had truly come ‘home’ to her own kind, to those who knew her and who recognised her soul and her divine status.
And ‘the voice’ within and without her said: «Welcome home, Vaite. Your journey is not yet complete, but your destiny is predetermined. Just now you shall rest and become rejuvenated and rejoice with old friends – there is more work to be done, but you shall soon understand the significance of this particular lifetime and the need to learn the strength and importance of survival against seemingly insurmountable odds.»
And with that, Erita slipped out of her unusual state of consciousness to more mundane dreams … and she slept late that morning – not awakening before her son arrived home around nine-thirty a.m. They chatted quietly through breakfast, and suddenly her son looked at her intensely and asked: “You are glowing … have you met a man?”
Erita smiled and replied: “A man? I have met myself … and yes, I am glowing with happiness!”
Her son then proudly showed her his new tattoo, exclaiming that he too had recently had an experience of self-revelation: “Look here mamá. My first tattoo – I am officially embarking upon manhood!”
Erita studied the tattoo on her son’s left shoulder, while he silently awaited her reaction. Erita recognised the symbol from her seance with the ‘universal language of light’ the evening before, and smiled and then kissed her son on his forehead, saying: “You bear the hope and the Star of the future, my son.”
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