Extreme poetry (English + Russian): Adam Donaldson Powell & azSacra zaRathustra

Presenting the introduction to “The tunnel at the end of time” (the sci-fi novel which takes conspiracy theory and religious propaganda to their extreme … and beyond). Introduction written by Adam Donaldson Powell and azSacra zaRathustra.

(photo courtesy of azSacra zaRathustra)



Это возникало из – за щитов …
из – за ракет, которых “там” не было сначала,
но которые будут “здесь” в конечном счёте.

Yes, the shields … humans are born with them,
much as angels are born with wings.
It is propaganda, of course …
the truth has always been an existential relativity.

Funny …
They say I am balding … getting old and senile.
But the truth is that I have always been bald.
I am “Transforma” … the symbol of the old
empire now fallen.

I am … the bearer of vision and conscience.
I am … the judge and the predator.
I am … the eagle.

We saw it coming, didn’t we “Vrebatima”?

I kept silent … and no one believed you.
But who is laughing now?
Yes, only us …

The Armageddon was inevitable …
We needed it, and so we created it.
But it is only illusion …

Только иллюзия.


No illusions!
No delusions!

We knew only the Truth of Destruction!
We – Über! … and my one-legged
father taught me only how to kill:

kill Buddha!
kill Hitler!
kill yourself!

my mother – Nothing, but older
and more sorrowful …

my father – Nobody, but more merciless
and sadder …

Look: my daughter goes from Emptiness
to Emptiness in order to kill every tear
before her birth:

And now Absence doesn’t cry anymore,
Emptiness doesn’t spend any more money
on funerals –

that’s the Truth of Non-existence!

“Nothing” is my mother –
“Nobody” is my father –
and there are no tears between



левая рука Бога?

Ahh, the left hand of God!
yes, I saw it once: floating
over the Sahara.
Little did I then know that
it was the rosebud of Intervention.
Who could have guessed?
It danced so gracefully, like
Salome’s dance of the veils –
stirring up a frenzy of sand
against the windless sky

I miss the slithering creepy-crawlers
which once tattled the mysteries
of the night. They are long gone;
as are the polar bears, the whales,
the crocodiles, the bees and the sharks.
What have you done, Terrans?
What were you thinking?

Lost in meditations upon finances
and power, you lost sight of the
greatest wealth you owned.
And you crowded only a few
humanoids onto your hastily-built
arks when the floods and dis-ease
ravaged so mercilessly.

Some called it the work of
the antichrist, but the antichrist
was humanity itself: which
had been too long on the rampage
of greed and apathy and imbalance.

You raped and you raped;
and defiled both humanity and
A barren Terra wails but we
are not comforters Vrebatima.
We are merely the scribes
who observe and note the
crimes for future reflection.

Tell me a story Vrebatima,
but allow me to keep my Buddha.
I have nothing else.

Tell me again about the
fires and the tsunamis and
the screaming; and
the fallen Buddha statues.
Поведайте мне Vrebatima …

сообщите мне!

Break with your emptiness
and violate the nothingness,

Tell me about the dried-out
moss on the floors of the
naked forests, and of the
sad Russian lullabies sung
by the dying hummingbirds.
Remind me of the carcasses –
long since picked clean by
crows that had become vultures
out of necessity of survival.
Jog my memory, O Vrebatima:

сообщите мне!


Believe: in the Sacred Rats.
The Execution of the world is –
the execution of a Ritual.

An angel, rushing down,
made a heart-rending cry:
Let rats fuck their daughters;
coin dolls born from the
Dollar –

On the gold of their fathers
fucked in manure …

Let rats fuck their daughters!

Power of prices alone –
ascending from the worthless world
to Zero:


After zeros
(instead of bullets)
only holes are left –


There are no more
Great Chinese Walls!

The decay!

The Empire died like
a pitiful trembling

In cash-machines there is
a “share” for each –
the Universe will no more be
rammed through by the hawk.

It’s clear now:

God didn’t die –
the Will died …

Der Wille zur Macht?

Nein! –

Das Nichts zur Macht!
Das Leere zur Herrschaft!



I am fucked … we are all fucked.
The Great Bear is howling in
the Siberian woods …
and Vrebatima has hunger
in her soul – as do I.
Our forefathers were perhaps
foolish to give up the Cold Wars,
to kill Saddam Hussein and
to invade Afghanistan.

I followed the Sacred Rat,
and he deceived me
time and time again …
fucked me up real good.

As the leading superpowers
we had control – and we
agreed to disagree, making secret
strategies together, for viewing
and consumption by the world.
The people of the world were stupid.
They never understood the farce …
that every argument and action
was contracted and choreographed.

We provided both excitement and
the security of balance.
But now we have lost our rhythm,
and our equilibrium is shaky at best.

I miss the rat …

Do you still remember how to
dance Vrebatima?
You used to be so elegant …
a true Russian princess.

Let me rest my beak on your
womb my beautiful predator;
and please caress the feathered
nape of my neck with your
claw – two unlikely lovers
bearing resemblance visible
only to the initiated:
of beak and claw, both royalty and
scavengers of the spoils
of imbalance.

Where is Buddha? He has
disappeared from the mountaintop.
And where is Christ? He has
descended from the cross.
(It was cold here on Terra,
and we needed the wood.)
They are both having tea
with Nietzsche, who is
dressed up like a ballet dancer.

Where am I, Vrebatima?
I am lost in my own transformation …
in the winter of my own samadhi.
Wake me up from my dreams …
but let me hold onto my illusions
and my delusions.

I need the escape … I crave the drug.

Maya is heroin for the tired soul.
I am fucked …
I am …
I …


Ich –
Ich bin –
Ich bin tot –

Ich tot bin!

I – Vrebatima! Я – Mahakala!
I – Yama! I – Shiva, dancing
only on corpses …

I – Destroyer of this
too (super-too!) human

I – Bhairava, but not rapturous
God Eros –

to hell with sex, Transforma:
Cut off the balls of each

Shoot off the head of each
beautiful doll!

I – des Todes Tod –
I – Clear Death –
I – Clear Death –


For: all “people” are riffraff!

For: Transcendence Itself
and He who transcends wants to drink
their blood and shoot them down!

What, Transforma, didn’t you
know that?

Didn’t you feel the Clearest
Unevitable Essence of Death?

I – DESTRUCTION!!!!!!!!!!!!!



In the ass are fucked
only yelping sluts …

… all soft ottomans
have been shat on by young
pussycats …

But Nietzsche ordered
to bomb Las Vegas!


Funny about the military missile
platforms in space.
Only one-third of them are pointed
to Terra; the rest are pointing
to outer space.
Man is a predator out-of-control;
a soul-virus and a threat
to the whole universe.

I mourn for the aliens who were
tortured and killed by us, in
order to steal their intelligence.
Information we were not ready
to use properly, and which led
to our own demise as a world.

And the Intervention (says the
voice in Transforma’s head).


And the damned garbage floating
around in the Terra orbit system …
as below – so above.

What? Shhhh! (says Transforma
to the voice in his head)

The old USA was a “whore-goddess” …
a giant golden vagina with penis-like
hairs, hoarding and fucking and
standardizing all in its path.
“In God We Trust, and his name is

Blah, blah, blah …
and all that blaehhhh …
(Transforma laughs hysterically,
then sobs, and hiccups and farts.)

You know, you tell me to
forget about sex … but
did you know that
I was once fucked by the
finger of the God?
It is true; by the middle finger
of his right hand.

Impaled, like the Spaniards who
were forced by the Incas to sit on
sharpened tree stumps until
their guts exploded … as
punishment for their greed for gold.

Yeah … (thoughtfully). Impaled.

At my moment of death I saw the
Sky of the Last Days; the Destruction
was a magnificent show:
beautiful pink, orange and purple
skies, with mushroom clouds as far
as the eye could see – and beyond.
And all was so quiet, too;
except for the gentle lullaby that
hummed in my head.

Сладкая колыбельная.
Сон – это спасение… отсрочка.

Sweet lullaby.
Sleep is salvation … reprieve.

To my left there is a child in
tattered clothing, half-starved and
too resigned to beg anymore …
and to my right there is
a whirling dervish, spinning
’round and ’round – lost in
his own private ecstasy.
Both are barefoot.

Alas, there is no death …
only sleep.


Are you listening, Transforma?

Ich ist das Nichts zur Macht!
Ich ist das Leere zur Herrschaft!

Between us there can’t be
Any Harmony.

Between you there can’t be
any Germany.

The Fair Eagle of Severe Spirituality
has died forever.

The Chinese “I Ching” hexagrams
didn’t turn into Ravenous Beasts.

Confucius is not inspired by
the voids of “Mein Kampf”.

But, Transforma … Tao killed the
dragons in vain –

Now bullets won’t
find the revolver!

Nobody will shoot
The Yellow Emperor!

People forgot:

God’s Dick – is the Ram of the Sky! –

The Аmerican Saturating Revolution
is not worth even a single dick of the
japanese kamikazes!

Europeans …

pleasant Takheshi Khitano
will never repeat the hara-kiri of
Yukio Mishima.

Look –

exponent of piffling lives
“life of spirit” after suicide by



Bald … barren … bare
as the mountaintop on
which we stand.

Our new vision shall
rise from the ashes,
as the Phoenix.

And I shall learn
to love you Vrebatima.

If not, then we shall
ride the missile of Hell
together – bareback …


a crazy cossack
and a psycho cowboy

Azrael is my witness …

we will never die …
only our bodies will wither
and disintegrate to dust

and we shall be remembered
in the annals of history …
perhaps as mere footnotes
remembered only by trivia fanatics
in decades to come.

But I will always dream of
our voyage, Vrebatima –
over and over again,
like a merry-go-round that
never stops, changing simple
joy to horror.
A bittersweet nightmare …

If only the dreamer would
never wake up.

Can you promise me that …


yes, I love my bald dreams …
and Russian caviar.


worms …

only worms …

now only worms are – Holy! –

always continuing, creeping through

dead God …

Snakes slide away …

Rats run away …

The Mystery of Creatures wakes even God up …

But when Jesus hears the word “culture” –
He doesn’t take out a revolver:

John Lennon can masturbate,
jump, masturbate, jump,
masturbate, and jump
on and on …

Do you see, Transforma –

even Lord Krishna left the Battlefield
and took Arjuna with him.

What for, O Lord?

To fuck Saint Silvia
in two holes.

Do you understand?

Gods and people – are only the Spirit’s Porno!

Ja! Ja! Ja! –

Buddha’s ejaculation into His own


Nobody wants to eat
corpses of sybaritic
natives …


Where are the marching

… there are no Wild
Holy Exotics …

… no one exercises
in Breaching of the Spirit …

… there’s no one to be fed to
the rats …

… the blood stopped to look for
Light …

…a dick doesn’t thirst for twats
of the Sun …


ex nihilo nihil fit.




(photo courtesy of azSacra zaRathustra)



ego cogito, ergo sum?

Auf! Nicht röcheln!
Nicht röcheln!

cogito Todt Ist,
sum ist Summa Summarum
Nichts =

Nein ist Nichts!
Nein ist Nichts!
Nein ist Nichts!

Auf –
Auf –


Here is the Key to it all:

Nichts Nichts Nichts
Nichts Nichts Nichts
Nichts Nichts Nichts
Nichts Nichts Nichts
Nichts Nichts Nichts
Nichts Nichts Nichts
Nichts Nichts Nichts
Nichts Nichts Nichts
Nichts Nichts Nichts
Nichts Nichts Nichts
Nichts Nichts Nichts
Nichts Nichts Nichts

das Nichts zur Macht!
das Leere zur Herrschaft!


You undress my gods shamelessly,
I huddle and shiver in the shadows
of my own spirituality.
There is no god but God …
and I am God – naked
and exposed in the face of
my own and collective
illusions and indiscretions.

What is the use?

Billions upon billions of gods
running around, making their
own realities in confusion.

Let us cut out the spiritual pork!
Bring back the Age of the Guru …
and bring back the Prophets.
It is too much responsibility to
be my own god.

Tell me what to believe …
show me how to act.
Lead me back into the

The Darkness of the Eternal Womb …
the elixir of Nothingness.


I am not a Dark Tao. I’m not Nirvana.
I am not Om ……………………..

I am – Isana. I am – Nataraja.
I am – the Clear Transcendent of Death.

I am – The Left Hand of God –
and I can only Kill.

I Kill all the Truths.
And first of all – Myself
as a Truth …


That’s why – Killing myself! –
I know for sure:

Western gods – shit!

Eastern gods – huge
manure heap!

I know! – the old Will to Power
should be replaced with Nothing to Reign:

das Nichts zur Macht!

I see! – The Great Noon should
turn Emptiness into Domination:

das Leere zur Herrschaft!

The existing formulas are not enough:
“Be strong”, “Werdet hart” …

Now you should Kill
“yourself” – within Yourself …

and even –

the Omnipotent within you!

Exactly so! It is only by killing the Omnipotent,
that you can understand the last
Truth of Horrors’ Horrors:

“The Devil is Dead” – it is truly more
horrifying, than “God is dead”.

O Great Gods! You are – Stinkers! –
too many of you … but You are all still
alive. What a Lie …

only one Devil is the Spirit of Honour! –
because he is always dead.

Deus est mortuus?

Diabolos mortuus est!


I stand naked before you, Vrebatima …
yeah – even naked before myself
and the god within me.

I have faced Death,
but Death was only mortality:
an experience that I longed for
only because it was faceless.
Hiding a secret that no one
really cared about anyway.

I am not proud, Vrebatima.
I weep for Amerika …
and the “dream” …
long since exposed as illusion.

Yea, I am naked and dirty, Vrebatima

… and blinded by the sunshine
reflected on the snowcaps.

I hear you … but you must
court me if I am to believe you.
I only know Détente …
I have never known Love.

Silence is greater than
the absence of Noise.


Bald … barren … bare.
It is in the Nothingness
that I find meaning, and there
that my Existence has value.


Bald … barren … bare …
stripped of all intent;
an existence devoid of fear
and purpose.


Bald … barren … bare
as the Now … the moment,
of Silence …
without expectation or


Bald … barren … bare …
as the word “no” –
whispered in orgasmic


Bald … barren … bare …
stripped of all humanity
and self-respect
by the airport scanners.


Also sprach Zarathustra:
Gelobt sei, was hart macht!

Naked? … But that’s not enough –
you need more,
you need to strip your skin off
while still alive:

reveal your bones –
reveal your intestines –
reveal your Emptiness!

Aha! … Transforma demanded
“to cut the spiritual pork out of gods” –
and suddenly … immediately surrendered
without a battle.

Spiritual rebellion but for a moment?

Do you only wish to “suck off” the Gods? –
in this case Hölderlin will question you with severity.

It’s better to be like Lord Krishna –
to fuck the 100 000 beautiful gopis
immediately and all at once.

But it is – the same decadence, Transforma!

Better yet, let me quote
“The Dhammapada” for You:

He killed his mother and father, and two kings from

Kshatriya’s caste, destroyed the kingdom together
with its population, the brahmin became imperturbable –

Does it mean anything to you?

Here are the words regarding Spiritual Luxury from the regal

I have become Death,
I have become the shatterer of worlds!

Kill the Gods, Transforma!
Kill this eternal whining, crying, quaggy,
tear-dropping god Eros!

Kill your own dick!

Exterminate all the stupid lovers,
poets, readers, spectators of Your
Exhibitionist mania –

shoot them all down!

As earlier in old, good Germany,
we will talk in the language
of the Clear Transcendent –



WITHOUT dicks!
WITHOUT twats!

Only – “das Ding an sich”!

Do you know that Kant was good at shooting
with his “Shmaiser”?

hitting: 10 out of 10!

And can you do that?

I remember, that in “The Tibetan Book of the Dead”

the following was written:

There will be a time –

Hitler constantly shooting himself
might miss sometime
and make a hole in somebody’s head –

it will be Your head, Transforma!

It is so mulish
that even Buddha could break
a stick against it …

Bang! …

Bang! …

Bang! …

How many sticks are necessary to break
against your bald head?

The Right hand of God should do
more than just masturbate.

Stop wasting seed
and tears …

Buddha said: no more Existence!





Schreibe mit Blut:
und du wirst erfahren,
dass Blut Geist ist.


Vrebatima, surely I will never
reconcile with you in this world.
The old rules worked just fine
until recently; money, power,
greed and the threat of missiles
and sex have always been
our personal gods.
Do not fool yourself.

I will send you some beautiful
black orchids, dripping with
the blood of one thousand
national anthems … and then
you will understand and
once again cry tears of joy
for our lost Cold War.

It was our only hope for peace.
Our only real expression of Love.
The only proof of Existence.

What is the use of Divine Intervention?
What was the point of the crucifixion
or the Holy Wars?

If we achieve peace then we must
find new enemies in outer space …
it is the way of humans, Vrebatima.
It is the way of the Warrior God.

Meet me at nightfall – in the barren courtyard.
And bring your Sword of Silence!


… this and then there is Victory?

I will quickly draw a Sword of Silence,
strike a blow –

and Silence has already approached …
… ……………………


… and so it ends, Vrebatima.
In cold silence – détente.
Once again we agree not to
communicate, not to seek
resolution or understanding.

Is it really human nature and
the way of the gods, or is it us?
If it is truly destruction that we
both really want, then surely it is
Silence that is the Great Destroyer.
It is an uncomfortable silence, hostile and
fraught with projections and scheming.
It is a “noisy” silence … quite different
from the Oneness of Unity and
the Absence of Separation.
It is a silence that makes angels and
the soldiers of Divine Intervention
cry with sadness.
But it is a silence that we know
all too well, Vrebatima …

and so far, the only silence
we truly trust – deep down
inside ourselves.
(snickers nervously)
Es triste … pero es cierto.


Be afraid of the Absence of

not the dark,
not the beast,
not the blade,
not the poison –

but the Tear Itself will kill
the child!

The Grass Itself will kill
the lamb!

Not the shadow,
not the tiger –
but the Aroma and the Rose will kill


I saw the terror of the first flower
on a Spring Field:

alone – it didn’t want
to bloom for the Sky …

didn’t expose
itself to a Kindred Sun

and the first dew
trickled down it

and the first moth
was startled by it

and the first bee
flew away

show Your Nothingness on
the petals!

expose Yourself
without any blooming!

You are – the Void
without name
and shape …

Come from
Nothing …

And Again
Vanish …


Expose yourself – and wake up.

Yes … wake up.
Wake up and
destroy the dream.
Embrace the nightmare
of Nothingness.

Caress the baldness.
Lick the Sword of Silence.
Stop waiting for Divine Intervention.
Become the Divine Intervention.
Let it be your zazen.

Sing me a lullaby without words,
and without sound.
I no longer believe in the messiah …
or in the antichrist.
I see both in my own reflection
in the mirror of darkness.

The only tears that I have left
are tears of blood …
it is only blood that I can offer you,

Tear down the cross and
send the virgins home.

I, Transforma, will sit on my mountaintop
and you, Vrebatima, will sit on yours.
We will bridge our differences by
watching over the goings on and
when necessary – cooperating on
keeping the populace in blindness.

Together, we will maintain the smokescreen,
with the help of religion and the media.
Always a sideshow on the stage of consciousness …
distracting the masses from the real danger:
the sweet-sounding lies that soothe and abet.

I believe in the worms, Vrebatima …
and the unspeakable names of
the gods within all who both embrace
and cower in Darkness.

Tear down the cross and
send the virgins home.


Photo: azSacra zaRathustra (courtesy azSacra zaRathustra)

Photo: Adam Donaldson Powell (courtesy Adam Donaldson Powell)


Multilingual poetry.

A few poems from my book entitled “Three-legged Waltz”:


Well hidden behind the portals
Of passionless and watery eyes
The incessant carousel of an insomnious
Three-legged waltz is revealed with
Childlike vision; hypnotically in
Syncopation with the murmur
Of the inviolate ticking clock.
In this surface-like existence, well
Beyond resistance and emotion,
Every attempt to break through is
As futile as punching a pillow
Or screaming in a dream.
And in the absence of promise we
Eventually find solace in our perpetual
State of existentialism and blues –
And pretend not to recognize the
Everpresent and bittersweet
Scent of lemons exuding from
Each and every passerby.


Pienso en tí ..
Y muero
En mis sueños.

Pienso en tí ..
Y ahora
Lo único que queda
Es la música,
Unas palabras perdidas
Y .. quizás
Una que otra lágrima
Errante ..

Pienso en tí ..
La lluvia oculta
La arrogante apatía,
El retórico insoportable.
La apología
Sin rostro
De los que piden perdón.

Despierto y descubro
Que baten
Ventanas con grietas
Y sueños quebrados ..

De súbito ..
No puedo llorar más;
La lluvia ha parado.
Bajo el cielo desnudo
La vieja pintura se descolora.

Y yo pienso aún en tí ..
Hasta olvidar
El silencio que ya existía

Antes de la muerte de mi amor.


¡ Fuerza !
El amor.

¡ Fuerza !

El sexo.

¡ Fuerza !

Las mentiras.

Y tal vez te encuentre
En mis sueños errantes.


Las reglas más importantes

Con respecto a la vida
Nos fueron reveladas unos momentos
Antes del amanecer en
Una de las grandes avenidas
Que siempre están en discordia
Con la logica de las cosas útiles:
El vino joven ..
El sexo promiscuo ..
Las compras compulsivas
Y quizás .. el ir a la iglesia
En un día de trabajo.
Nos reconocemos en los
Sueños vivos capturados en
Las pinturas de Goya y El Bosco.

Y allí, bailamos nuestro último tango;
Lenta ..
Y religiosamente ….
Y huimos de la memoria exacta
A la sombra de nuestras


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.


You and he and they
In opposition to
My circle of One.
The moon is in Fresno —

Long gone retrograde
And void of course.


Peripheral lines
in my psyche
and yours
dance and intersect

with agreement
and understanding.
But crossed
lead both
dogs and nations
to quarrel.


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.


Du, edderkoppkvinne.
Som bestandig er iblant
De best kledde i byen,
Men som aldri bruker
Penger når du er ute.
Du, edderkoppkvinne.
Så sjenert at gutter
Leter etter deg inntil
Du fanger dem.
Du, edderkoppkvinne.
Så ensom. Så lei.
Så redd for deg selv.
Du edderkoppkvinne.
Er det rart, eller ..?


Barbeint tripper jeg gjennom skogens kongerike
Uten antydning til verken forståelse eller fare.
Jeg er på oppdagelsesreise, og jakter etter soppens
Gjemte hemmeligheter som et naivt barn i spøkelsesalder.
Nå og da blir min skjønnhetssøvn forstyrret av naturens
Stillhet, som fremkaller ubevissthetens ristende og
Fortryllende bilder fra steder uten tidsrom eller navn.
Bak en dinosaurusalders bregne, og ut fra under en
Mosedekket stein, titter den vakreste sopp jeg
Noen gang har sett, med en svær rød flate spekket med gul.
Jeg strekker armen min mot det skattete funn og
Stopper opp akkurat når jeg er i ferd med å ta på den.
Steinen har begynt å stråle smaragd lys, først med
Den rolige anspennelse til rødglødende kull, og siden
Som den overveldende illuminasjon av Guds evig kjærlighet
Og barmhjertighet, gjenspeilet i trillionvis av smil.
I det øyeblikket reiser jeg ut av kroppen, og chakraene mine
Stiller opp i en perfekt linje mens jeg ser på meg selv
Og summen av menneskelig eksistens fra langt ovenfra.
Og i den fullkomne harmonium gjenopplever jeg livet som
I de himmelske periodene mellom jordiske inkarnasjoner,
Og alle mine daglige bekymringer og hemninger virker like
Drømaktige og ubetydelige som en midtsommers dagdrøm.
Jeg returnerer aldri helt tilbake til bevisstheten som kjent
Fra før, men beholder en liten del av den utstrålingen som
Har nylig preget mitt hjerte på en så vidunderlig måte.
I ryggsekken bærer jeg hjem ingen sopp, men trolig den
Mest ettertraktete skatt fra skogens kongerike: javisst,
En alminnelig stein — som souvenir fra livets drømmereise.


Skue din Gud,
Og vit at det er alt som finnes.
Skue din Gud,
For det finnes ikke noe annet.
Skue din Gud,
Som stammer fra dypt inne i deg.
Skue din Gud,
Som er selve skapelsens kjerne.
Skue din Gud,
Og la deg drukne i Kjærlighet og Lys.
Skue din Gud,
For det finnes ikke noe annet.
Se inn i speilet,
Og skue din Gud.
Skue din Gud,
Og vit at det er alt som finnes.
Iaktta dine venner, naboer and fiender,
Og skue din Gud.
Skue din Gud,
For det finnes ikke noe annet.
Bryt ned illusjonen om et skille,
Og skue din Gud.
Skue din Gud og vit at
Alt er ett og ingenting er tilfeldig.
Skue din Gud .. og
Skue din Gud .. og
Skue din Gud.

All works copyright Adam Donaldson Powell, 2006


Palabras de María Cristina Azcona
sobre el libro “Three-legged Waltz ” de Adam Donaldson Powell.

Este libro se inscribe en la línea de las grandes aventuras literarias, aquellas que convocan a los escritores que ven siempre un poco más allá de lo que corresponde a su determinada época. Esto asegura no tan sólo su éxito sino también, y lo que es mucho más importante, su vigencia con el paso de los años.

Cuando José Hernández presentó su “Martín Fierro” generó polémica y tuvo innumerables problemas para poder ponerlo en la calle y lograr que el público masivo lo conociera. Esto se debió al hecho de estar escrito en “gauchesca”. Hoy en día nadie discute el genio de quien lo escribiera, en la forma en que fue escrito, ni su magnífico y aleccionador contenido, testimonio de una sociedad injusta. Había un motivo para estar expresado de ese modo: en ese particularísimo estilo. Un motivo a ser descubierto e intuido por el lector avezado: Simbolizar en ese lenguaje, toda una estructura cultural sumergida que yacía debajo de una supracultura dominante. La cultura popular perteneciente al criollo y que incluye esa expresividad que lo caracterizaba.

Hoy, frente a esta joya literaria, nos preguntamos el porqué de esta presentación trilingüe. La respuesta la tendrá el estimado lector cuando reflexione sobre lo que dice este libro. En los mensajes implícitos y explícitos. ¿No es el ser humano siempre un ser humano, viva donde viva o hable en el idioma en que hable?

La poesía multilingüe es decisiva en nuestros días, como puente de comunicación intercultural, desde la diversidad en raza, cultura e idiosincrasia hasta llegar a la integración de valores que son aceptables por tan diferentes grupos humanos. Este es el camino de la paz mundial y debemos transitar todos juntos estos puentes transculturales que se construyen y se van desarrollando en los foros internacionales de literatura multilingüe. El respeto por la diversidad es la condición sine qua non de la paz. El bilingüismo y más aún, el multilingüismo literario son la ruta más directa y eficaz hacia el logro de un entendimiento armónico y durable entre todos los grupos humanos que pueblan la Aldea Global. Más allá de hegemonías hemisféricas, culturales o raciales.

Los poetas, que, como Adam Donaldson Powell, son capaces de expresarse en prosa o en verso, en forma igualmente exquisita y clara, tanto en una lengua como en la otra, y que nos acercan, mediante una intención elevadísima del espíritu, una enseñanza, un sentimiento, una emoción, una denuncia o a veces simplemente una idea, son merecedores de nuestro interés, de nuestra admiración y respeto ya que representan el patrimonio pacífico de una humanidad en declinación moral alarmante.

Es imperativo ayudarlos a levantar la bandera de la fraternidad internacional a través de la herramienta armónica de su voz entendible por todos.

Este ha sido el espíritu de mi movimiento internacional “Bilingual MCA poetas y escritores bilingües por la Paz “ el que he fundado en 2001 y que reúne a poetas con las mismas preocupaciones que desvelan a Adam D. Powell.

El principio fundacional de IFLAC, el Forum Internacional de Literatura y Cultura de la Paz, (auspiciado por UNESCO, creado y dirigido por Ada Aharoni y cuyo Vice-presidente es el Dr. Ernesto Kahan, Premio Nóbel de la Paz 1985 compartido por su fundación “Médicos por el desarme Nuclear”) y que hoy tiene presencia en tantos países, entre ellos Argentina, rama de la cual soy directora desde 2004, ha sido desde siempre alcanzar la paz por medio de la literatura. Los escritores de todas partes del mundo hermanados en un mismo sueño de armonía, intercambian sus escritos y sus reflexiones, por medio de una comunicación maravillosamente estética y fluida que posibilita el alcance de su mutua comprensión.

Adhiero con toda mi energía a este nuevo libro que hermana autores, culturas y lenguas con un múltiple universo verbal pero un similar universo de contenido en valores expresados en la única lengua que, parafraseando a Chéjov, jamás miente: la poesía.

María Cristina Azcona es argentina. Psicopedagoga, por la USAL de Buenos Aires y Orientadora Familiar por la U. de Navarra, España. Reconocida como investigadora de la paz por el Instituto Biográfico Americano. Colaboradora y Asesora Editorial para Cyberwit de la India. Directora y Fundadora de Bilingual MCA, Organización Internacional de Poetas Bilingües por la paz y Directora – Embajadora en Argentina para IFLAC, Forum Internacional de Literatura y Cultura de la Paz. Es además Ensayista y Poeta bilingüe cuyos poemas, artículos y comentarios literarios han sido publicados en Estados Unidos, India, Jordania, España, Israel y Reino Unido. Es autora de cuatro libros en español publicados por editorial Caddan: “Dos Talles menos de Cerebro”, “Mundo Postmoderno”, (ambos de poesía social) “La Voz del Ángel” (novela) y “Estar de Novios Hoy” (ensayo escrito junto a Ernesto Castellano, su esposo).

Photo by Adam Donaldson Powell