Poemas de Adam Donaldson Powell

Treat yourself or someone you love to two great reads …

Why wait until Christmas or Chanukah to treat yourself or someone you love to an unforgettable read?

“Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo” modernizes the concept of the biography away from Boswellian “every ladder rung is vital” structure, and straight to “the good and meaningful stuff — that defines who a person is … and why.”

BOOK DESCRIPTION:

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With laser-like precision, Adam Donaldson Powell bores into Albert Russo’s psyche, while in parallel he analyzes the work of a lifetime. But more often than not, there is a process of cross-fertilization, whether it is clearly identified or on the sidelines. He interviews his subject, not always in a linear fashion, scanning the latter’s important stages of life: there is first Central, Eastern – the former Belgian Congo (now, DRCongo), Ruanda-Urundi (now, the two countries of Rwanda and Burundi) and Southern Africa – Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) and South Africa, where the author was raised, completing high school at the Interracial Athénée of Usumbura (now Bujumbura), studying with European, Congolese, Hutu, Tutsi, Asian and American classmates, both in French and in English (he also went to an all-boys’ school in Salisbury, now called Harare). We then find him in the Big Apple at the age of seventeen, attending New York University, after which, he pursues his studies in German at the Collegium Platinum in Heidelberg. The subject is asked very intimate questions about his private life, with which he is faced for the first time. And he reveals facts he never thought could one day be thrust into the open. But still, he complies, candidly. Mr. Powell illustrates with excerpts of the author’s novels, poems and short stories, which are all either clearly or subconsciously related to Albert Russo’s life, as well as photos, letters and book reviews from Albert Russo’s personal archives. Mentioned are his AFRICAN QUATUOR, the collected poems in the CROWDED WORLD OF SOLITUDE, volume two, his collected stories and essays in the CROWDED WORLD OF SOLITUDE, volume one, and finally, his GOSH ZAPINETTE! series, of which David Alexander writes: “… Be warned, Zapinette’s gems of insouciant wit tend to become infectious. This wise-child’s deceptively worldly innocence takes the entire gamut of human endeavor in its compass. Hardly anyone or anything escapes unscathed. Michael Jackson,Vittorio de Sica, Freddy Mercury, Mao Zedong, Bill and Hill, the Pope, Fidel Castro, and even Jesus of Nazareth all come under Zapinette’s delightfully zany fire as she “zaps” from topic to topic in an irrepressible flux. As the century of the double zeros is with us, we have seen the future and the future is sham. As a healthy dose of counter-sham, Zapinette should be on every brain-functional person’s reading list.” After America, the subject moves to Northern Italy where he will reside nine years, then to Brussels. He spends half of his life in Paris, France, before finally settling in Tel Aviv Israel. When asked what his roots are, he replies that he is a humanist born in Africa, with his virtual roots being the languages which he speaks: English, French, Italian, Spanish, German, vernacular Swahili, as well as those he can only read: Portuguese and Dutch. He will soon add Hebrew. Those cherished languages are much more than forms of speech, they are his planet, from which he extracts much of the sap of his writing. So, don’t be shy. Get Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo. See order details HERE!

originals of letters + journals re AR 1

DO WATCH ‪”The Age of the Pearl”, extracted from my new biography “Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo”

READER COMMENTS … regarding UNDER THE SHIRTTAILS of ALBERT RUSSO:

UNDER THE SHIRTTAILS of ALBERT RUSSO ‘can perhaps be likened to skipping a small rock across a pond – creating ripples and reverberations which both reflect the greater omnipotence of the water and temporarily alter its periphery and identity.’ Such is Adam Donaldson Powell the master weaver behind the literary tapestry that is the life & times with a view into poems, novels and picture gallery of one brilliant international award-winning multilingual poet, novelist, essayist, historian and photographer – Albert Russo – a man with a claim to no country yet a citizen of many soils – in his sensitively scripted yet profoundly penetrating work unveiled as ‘an alternative biography’.

— Jeanette Skirvin

This biography crowns five decades of my father’s very prolific writing. Both my brother Alex and myself are immensely proud of our father’s literary achievement. From his very deep insights on the history of Africa, to the birth and struggles of the Israeli state, his poems and immensely entertaining short stories, humorous novels for teenagers, short stories covering the complexities of human nature, there isn’t one topic that my father hasn’t masterfully addressed in his writings.

— Tatiana Russo

We have the pleasure to see all the beauties of literature, poetry and photography of Albert Russo in Adam Donaldson Powell’s brilliant and memorable book “Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo”. Russo’s profound and well-ordered imagination helps him to create great works of literature. Russo never writes his great poems and novels according to any mechanic rule. He has perfected his writings due to “the existential qualm for which my heritage is responsible: Africa, Judaism and Italy. They exist and coexist in cycles, in a fashion so inchoate that I am never quite sure which will take the upper hand.” Powell, the immortal poet famous for his classic “Three-legged Waltz”, points out that Russo “began life as an outsider; the offspring of refugees to Africa from Nazi and fascist persecution then became an outcast via his self-proclaimed ‘gaytude’.” No doubt, this fact has provided the perfection of tone in all his creative endeavors, and this will certainly entice all readers. The true essence of Russo’s writings and photography is revealed by Powell in this unique book. Adam Donaldson Powell’s latest powerful book “Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo” is a tour de force in biography and literary criticism.

— Dr. Santosh Kumar, Editor, Cyberwit.net

​To avoid any doubts or confusion, this book by Adam Donaldson Powell is NOT just a biography of the life of Albert Russo, nor is it a synoptic overview of his massive and prolific collection of works of prose, poetry, and photography. This book is something far more than either of these literary vehicles could ever be. Through literally decades of conversations, correspondence, and collaboration between these two very talented authors/artists, Adam Powell gives us a glimpse into not only the very diverse heritage and globe-trotting life and experiences of Albert Russo, but also a glimpse into his very psyche and incredible intellect. In other words, this book lays bare for the world to see what makes Albert Russo one of the few true renaissance men of our times. Russo’s collection of works bridges gulfs of heritage, culture, philosophy, and more – often with more than a hint of his sometimes quirky and off-beat sense of humor. For anyone who has ever read and enjoyed ANY of Russo’s works, this book is a must-read to fully understand the man behind the true art of his words, ideas, and imagery.

​– J. Richard Davis, B.A., J.D.

 

Adam Donaldson Powell, author

 

 

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Review of Adam Donaldson Powell’s book “Entre Nous et Eux”, by C. Richard Mathews, USA.

Adam Donaldson Powell’s new collection of works, Entre Nous et Eux, displays his multiple talents and concerns in a series of brilliant and engaging pieces. Powell is an activist, essayist, fiction writer, visual artist, poet, who writes in four languages, though English is the predominant one in this volume and an inability to read French, Norwegian or Spanish will not detract from a reader’s understanding and appreciation of any of the pieces.

The book is divided into four sections: poetry, a novella titled “Entre Nous”, a short story titled “Death Poem” and another, longer novella called “The Stalker”. While the works deal with many themes, the overriding one for this reader was the issue of how societal and political forces affect — often adversely — an individual’s development, sometimes to the point that she or he does not or cannot understand or accept who she/he is. A major factor in this, it is suggested, is the inability of others in her/his family and in greater society to respect and accept a person’s differences (the “other”).

The book begins with Powell’s great strength: his poetry. Interestingly, in the three works of fiction poems appear as well. In both the stand-alone poetry and the fiction, poems allow Powell to focus the reader’s attention immediately on his themes and concerns. The first group of poems involves children in a presumably Western European (Parisian?) context and their shock at how the world interacts with their innocence: a child playing hopscotch confronting a pedophile, a young girl taunted because she has “two mothers”, a young hijab-wearing Muslim girl also subject to jibes, problems for a child of “color”, a presumably Muslim boy’s trauma at the hands of police after talking of ISIS, the treatment of gypsies and their plight and ostracism, the shock of exploding bombs in an unnamed war zone.

Although much of the poetry deals with “social issues” in one sense or the other, there are purely lyrical moments as well, such as the poem “Jeux d’Eau”.

At a number of points the issue of suicide is introduced: the inability of the characters to accept themselves or others’ perceptions of them. Thus, in the first novella, “Entre Nous.”, a friend of one of the main characters dies of an overdose (deliberate?) days after they’ve had sex with each other. And the beautiful short story “Death Poem”, concerning two young Japanese men, involves the presumed suicide of a father over his son’s homosexuality, and the son’s own subsequent suicide himself. As noted above, the use of poetry, and references to poetry, permeate Powell’s fiction writing and in this moving story he introduces us to a specific Japanese form of poetry relevant to the taking of one’s life.

Both novellas involve casts of characters that are followed through some years of their lives. “Entre Nous.” is presented partially in an epistolary form. The story involves the interaction of several gay friends and various sexual escapades in a number of Western cities — Paris, London, New York — that the author is obviously familiar with. As in some of the poetry, especially the collection of interlocking erotic poems “tu sais je vais….t’enculer (love letters)”, the writing about sex is explicitly detailed, a means for the author to “épater la bourgeoisie” in the mode of Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Genet and other French writers. Their cumulative effect is, ultimately, powerful and meaningful. These passages are part of his subtle analysis throughout of various types of love and physical and emotional attraction.

The second, longer novella, “The Stalker”, concerns a young woman and her lover, a transgender man who, at one point discovers that he may be “a lesbian in a man’s body” (294). The overriding theme is one of identity — despite society’s pressures, finding it or creating it and then having the flexibility to change it or allow it to modulate as circumstances and feelings may urge or dictate.

The reader should not miss the great amount of humor and wit, and pure literary pleasure, in Powell’s writing which, as in Proust, may be overlooked if one focuses merely on “the story line” or themes. Be ready for a wonderful turn-of-phrase, or the startling juxtaposition of images. For example, in “Une Lettre d’Une Prostitue…” the letter writer states, “J’aimerais parfois me mettre dans le peau de quelqun d’autre…” Or, “mots doux et traitres a la fois…” (37). Or: “lips part revealing your lizard tongue” (63). Or: “blood-red sugary tension of domestic rape” (55). Or: “the relentless fantasy is more than the sum of reality’s individual parts”. (78)

Especially delightful are the “echoes” one finds between different parts of the works through the use of literary devices similar to Wagner’s leitmotifs. Thus, there is a reference early in “Entre Nous.” to Donald O’Connor and Marilyn Monroe singing “a man chases a girl (until she catches him)” and then much later the reader comes upon a scene of Karol/Mariusz showing his poetry to a closeted priest in which he has written “I delight in chasing straight boys until they catch me” (172).

It should be noted that in both his poetry and fiction Powell’s writing style is clear and precise without being pedestrian or boring. It is a style that is able to draw in and engage the reader quietly and without showiness, leaving one with a sense of pleasure, even when the subjects at hand are very serious ones.

Powell’s book is highly recommended for its many pure literary pleasures but also for its profound insights into aspects of modern life that are often obfuscated or ignored by other writers and media in our contemporary world oversaturated with often meaningless written and visual distractions.

C. Richard Mathews
New York-based art historian, writer and attorney

Recension du recueil ‘Entre Nous et Eux’ de Adam Donaldson Powell,

Le nouveau recueil de Adam Donaldson Powell intitulé Entre Nous et Eux reflète les talents multiples de l’auteur et comprend une série de textes aussi brillants que jubilatoires. Powell, l’activiste, est à la fois écrivain, poète, essayiste, peintre et photographe.  En outre, il écrit en anglais, sa langue maternelle, mais également en français, en norvégien et en espagnol.  Le lecteur découvrira dans ce volume des textes dans ces quatre langues, ce qui, dans notre monde hyper-connecté est encore une rareté, mais en même temps une grande richesse.

Ce volume est divisé en quatre parties: Poésie, une nouvelle intitulée “Death Poem”, et deux courts romans portant les titres suivants: “Entre Nous” et “The Stalker”.

Alors que ces textes évoquent de nombreux thèmes, le fil conducteur est celui des effets de la société et de la politique sur le développement de l’individu, au point où celui-ci ne comprend plus ou n’accepte tout simplement pas qui il est ou ce qu’il risque de devenir.  L’auteur suggère que les autres, c’est-à-dire, sa famille ou la société dans laquelle il évolue, est inapte à respecter, voire à accepter sa différence.

Le livre a pour prémices la poésie de Powell, poésie dans laquelle il excelle. Ses textes de fiction sont eux aussi parsemés de poèmes, plus ou moins longs. Les premiers poèmes traitent de l’enfance ayant pour cadre une capitale européenne, qui pourrait être Paris.  Et des conséquences, insidieuses ou cruelles, que le monde alentour peut avoir sur eux. Voyez cette gosse jouant à la marelle et qui s’éloigne précautionneusement d’un pédophile, cette autre que l’on moque parce qu’elle a ‘deux mères’, ou cette jeune musulmane malmenée à cause du hijab qu’elle porte. Que dire aussi de ce garçon basané que la police menotte dès qu’il prononce le mot Daesch, du traitement odieux que subissent les gitans, de leur ostracisme. L’auteur évoque également le choc que produisent les bombes explosant dans des zones de guerre.

Tandis que nombreux sont les poèmes traitant de problèmes de société, ils possèdent tous cette touche lyrique si propre à Powell. ‘Jeux d’Eau’ en est un parfait exemple.

La problématique du suicide apparaît ci et là: certains personnages ont du mal à s’accepter, d’autant plus lorsque leur entourage les rejette.

Ainsi, dans le premier roman, ‘Entre Nous’, l’ami de l’un des protagonistes meurt à la suite d’une overdose (peut-être délibérément), quelques jours après que les deux ont fait l’amour ensemble.

Dans la magnifique nouvelle ‘Death Poem’, qui met en scène deux jeunes hommes japonais, le père de l’un d’eux se suicide, apparemment à cause de l’homosexualité de son fils, lequel à son tour met fin à ses jours. Que ce soit dans ses textes de fiction ou dans sa poésie, Powell évoque le suicide en utilisant des éléments particuliers de la poésie japonaise. Y percevrait-on l’ombre de Mishima ?

Les deux romans mettent en scène des protagonistes sur des tranches de vie. ‘Entre Nous’ est raconté en partie sous forme épistolaire. On y parle d’amis gays, de leur interaction, de leurs expériences sexuelles vécues dans certaines grandes villes occidentales, telles que Paris, Londres ou New York, villes que l’auteur connaît bien. Powell, n’ayant pas froid aux yeux, n’hésite pas à écrire des ‘lettres d’amour’ contenant des mots crus, comme par exemple: “tu sais je vais….t’enculer”. Et cela pour ‘épater la galerie’, à l’instar de Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Verlaine – qui, à l’époque écrivaient sous des pseudonymes -, Genet, ainsi que d’autres écrivains français. Mais là, il ne s’agit pas uniquement de subterfuges, ces vers érotiques, voire pornographiques, participent de l’analyse subtile de ce qui constitue l’amour pluriel, qu’il s’agisse de la simple attraction physique et/ou des émotions qui peuvent en découler.

Le second roman, ‘The Stalker’, qui est plus long que l’autre, est l’histoire d’une jeune femme et de son amant, un homme trans-genre, qui se demande s’il peut être “une lesbienne dans le corps d’un homme”. Le thème principal ici est celui de l’identité qui, envers et contre tout, tente de s’affirmer et de trouver un équilibre.

Malgré la gravité des sujets abordés, le lecteur pourra apprécier, tout au long du volume, la veine humoristique et spirituelle de l’auteur, à l’instar d’un Proust qui se ‘moque’ gentiment de certains de ses personnages. Powell joue avec les mots et s’amuse à juxtaposer des images, comme dans ‘La lettre d’une prostituée’, où l’auteur écrit: “J’aimerais parfois me mettre dans la peau de quelqu’un d’autre…”, ou encore, “mots doux et traitres à la fois…”. D’autres  exemples me viennent à l’esprit, tels que “lips part revealing your lizard tongue” , ”blood-red sugary tension of domestic rape”, ou encore, ”the relentless fantasy is more than the sum of reality’s individual parts”.

L’on trouve des passages particulièrement jouissifs tout au long de cette oeuvre si singulière, rappelant les leitmotifs de Wagner. L’un des personnages écoute un ancien vinyle de Donald O’Connor et de Marilyn Monroe chantant “a man chases a girl (until she catches him)”. Plus loin, il y a une scène dans laquelle Karol/Mariusz montre l’un de ses poèmes à un prêtre, où il écrit: “I delight in chasing straight boys until they catch me”.

Dans ce livre, qu’il s’agisse de poésie ou de prose, le style est clair, précis, et à la fois engageant, sans jamais être pompeux, même lorsque l’auteur traite de sujets graves.

Cette oeuvre mérite d’être lue pour diverses raisons. D’abord pour la belle phrase, un plaisir purement littéraire, ensuite parce que Powell aborde ici des thèmes de notre société contemporaine qui souvent sont, soit ignorés par d’autres écrivains et les média, soit négligés en raison de la quantité phénoménale de distractions vaines, aussi bien pseudo-littéraires que visuelles, que l’on nous bombarde quotidiennement.

C. Richard Mathews, historien de l’art, écrivain et avocat new yorkais

ORDER “ENTRE NOUS ET EUX” (PAPERBACK & EBOOK) HERE!


ebookcover

 

Banalities.

sm2

 

la vida no vale nada

sin un poco dolor,

y muchos actividades.

 

 

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sunsetoveroslo

 

 

 

nordic-sun

Sea lines.

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

Påske-11

glow2

“A Wrist Cutter’s Glow”, oil on canvas, 50 x 50 cm.

tell-tale grimaces …
still trying to hide behind
forced smiles; a pained face.

adamindecember-1

The embrace.

Votos privados de la boda.

En cada momento
elijo confiar en mí mismo:
en mis intenciones y
en mis pensamientos,
en mis palabras y
en mi comportamiento.

En cada momento
elijo confiar en ti:
en tus pensamientos y
en tus intenciones,
en tus palabras y
en tu comportamiento.

En cada momento
elijo confiar en vos y en mí juntos:
en nuestros sueños,
en nuestros planes y
en nuestra capacidad de hacer
todo lo que queremos hacer.

En cada momento,
empieza el renacimiento.

image

lookingouttosea

Una reunión agradable
toma fuego
en viento venenoso.
Chisme.

terrace3

Gossip

Gossip, oil on canvas, 40 x 40 cm., 2017

The Scream, No. 2

Still photo from Marina Abramovic’s film “The Scream”, republished with permission from Ekebergparken’s Scream Prosjekt / Marina Abramovic

image

a naked canvas
on a painting easel
waits together with me
in anticipation of
the new year.

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rodo y adam, 50x50 cm., oil on canvas, 2017.

rodo y adam, 50×50 cm., oil on canvas, 2017.

Sólamente este momento …

Tenemos sólamente este momento.
Una pausa sola, sin aliento.
Un momento sin comienzo o final.
Una eternidad.
Un beso que quema nuestros labios.
Una pasión ilimitada.
Un momento que nunca puede ser olvidado.
Mis sueños son siempre iluminados cuando
me duermo … pensando en tí.
Un caballero; un hombre …
somos perfectos.
Pero no siempre perfectamente juntos.
Vivo para aquellos momentos de perfección.
Vivo para morir de amor por tí.
Tenemos sólamente este momento.
Una pausa sola, sin aliento.
Un momento sin comienzo o final.
Una eternidad.
Mi cuerpo tiembla …
cuando tus pestañas cepillan
contra mis mejillas.
Una pasión ilimitada.
Un momento que
nunca puede ser olvidado.
Abrázame, y nunca me déjes ir.
Este es nuestro momento.
Un hombre … un caballero;
somos perfectos.
Perfectamente ahora …
somos perfectos.

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vigeland statue

vi er …
to rastløse sjeler; to ildfluer.
sammen skal vi kunne
sveve over himmelen — som ørner.
sammen er vi poesi, rockemusikk og
abstrakt kunst — på vårt aller vakreste,
og mest provoserende.
sammen er vi rettferdighetens sverd
med rose duft.

rose

image

self-discipline is
a fantastic sport and a
great meditation.

Boxing gloves, sports photography by Adam Donaldson Powell.

Boxing gloves, sports photography by Adam Donaldson Powell.

badebasseng på kampen

jeux d’eau.

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

badebasseng på kampen6

 

Es prudente tratar de evitar el cáncer, pero para muchos de nosotros es en última instancia inevitable. Personalmente, me preocupa más morir de mis propias neurosis.

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saturn’s blues.

when the moon is in Fresno

and the sun sets a purplish

haze over early-autumn skies,

the cold winds of Hell

breathe heavily against

the hopes of local heroes

and the women who made them.

farmers stare off into the fields

without realizing, and housewives

pull their young close to their

bosoms – suddenly and

without explanation.

intuitively they sense the onset

of a long and severe influence;

a time of hardship and hindrance

when the faith and courage of

more than a few good men

and women are put to test.

the carousel is out-of-control,

and in the whirlwind confusion

crops will fail, loved ones will

pass away, jobs will be lost

and the simplest of dreams will

be stifled by saturn’s blues:

a mocking nursery rhyme telling

of horror and despair, and sung

over and over again with endless

variations on the same cruel theme.

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Collected poems and stories”, 2005.)

sm8

don’t ask.

(original English version, from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Collected poems and stories”, 2005.)

please don’t ask me how I am;

you can’t really expect

me to be any different

than I was yesterday.

we’re all really quite normal —

me, myself and I, and in

spite of our narcotic state can

be up and down simultaneously.

and don’t look at me too long;

I despise those “I know

how you must be feeling

eyes” and concerned tone.

why must you always misconstrue

the way my gaze avoids yours?

my anti-social disposition is

intended to protect you from us.

no — it doesn’t help to

speak slowly, pronouncing

each word with the sweetened

diction of a nun or nurse.

I honestly can’t tell you how to

act, for I have trouble enough

getting us to agree about

how we’ll shield you from me.

it’s really best to let me volunteer,

lest my unbridled demons unleash

their flame-throwing dragons to singe

the delicate threads of your own ego.

and you, so footloose, must avoid looking

back into the darkness whose glittering

maze of mirrors encaptures those who poke

their noses where they don’t belong.

go ahead — ask me how I am …

(Spanish version)

Por favor, no me pregunte cómo estoy;
usted no puede esperar
que yo esté muy diferente
de lo que estaba hasta ayer.
Todos estamos bien, normal –
yo, mí y yo mismo, y debido
además, a nuestro estado
narcotizado
podemos estar simultáneamente bien o mal.
No me mire fijo, le recomiendo;
yo detesto esos ojos de “Yo sé
como se siente … ”
y el tonito preocupado.
¿Por qué todos siempre malinterpretan
el modo en que mi mirada evita la suya?
Mi disposición antisocial es
para proteger a todos de nosotros.
No – no ayuda
hablarme despacio, pronunciando
cada palabra con el dulce tono
de una enfermera o niñera.
Honestamente no puedo decir
cómo actuar,
ya tengo bastantes problemas
tratando de ponernos de acuerdo
entre nosotros.
Sobre cómo protegerlo de nosotros.
Realmente lo mejor es dejarme ser un voluntario,
y permitir que mis demonios salvajes se suelten
y a sus dragones de lenguas llameantes hacer arder
los hilos delicados de su propio ego.
Y usted, tan descuidado, evite mirarme
cuando me vaya de nuevo a la oscuridad
cuya brillante masa de espejos captura
a los que meten su nariz en lo que no les importa.

Déle, déle, pregúnteme cómo estoy …

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Three-legged Waltz”, 2006, trad. de Maria Cristina Azcona, Buenos Aires)

Adamfebruary2015

Un día lo entenderás …

Trato de ignorar el zumbido del teléfono —
tan incesante … y desesperado.

Ya conozco tus palabras:
“Me preguntaba si aún estabas muerto …
¿Hay algo que pueda hacer para ayudarte?
!Ay Caramba! … Perdona mi torpeza.
(Quiero decir: ¿hay algún cambio
desde hace una hora?)”

Tú sabes: no puedo contestar el teléfono
porque no puedo cuidarte nunca más.
Ahora no.

Un día lo entenderás.

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Jisei”, 2013.)

Tainted dreams, oil on canvas, by Adam Donaldson Powell.

Tainted dreams, oil on canvas, by Adam Donaldson Powell.

Tightrope.

I swear they make this tightrope

thinner each time I attempt to cross.

I remember how my psyche could once

dance endless sommersaults back and forth.

and how every now and then I would

laugh mercilessly to myself at how I

astonished and sometimes even

infuriated others with my devilish

dexterity of mind and wit.

but now, having fallen all too often,

I quiver at the sight of both

challengers and supporters; and

look upon success in reaching the

rope’s end as another day’s survival

rather than a demonstration of prowess.

I know a good sport never complains but,

I swear they make this tightrope

thinner each time I attempt to cross.

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Collected poems and stories”, 2005.)

Trinity

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.

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Three-legged Waltz”, 2006.)

The Sun.

The Sun.

Letter to a blogger … from an incarnated Angel.

¡Buenos días!

Hello my friend! In my mind and heart the “fall from Grace” is really about separation of Consciousness. When we no longer understand and experience the interconnectedness of all things and entities then we begin to refer to God in the third person, as an image of a man, and as a force that is outside of our minds, bodies and souls — and thus foreign, controlling, sometimes uncaring and mean, and responsible for everything “bad” that happens. When “the gods are not on our side” then we profess that God is non-existent or irrelevant. In Truth, God is consciousness supreme – and exists everywhere, all the time, and in all of us. When will we finally embrace God Consciousness and speak to God within ourselves and all things, ideas and occurrences around us? When will we understand that Free Will really means that we may even deny that we are a part of God Consciousness and create illusion of separation, and that God’s forgiveness and love is by definition inescapable? I am God, and so are you! Some may say that I am blasphemous, but I still acknowledge God Consciousness in that thought – even though it is based on separation of Consciousness.

Regarding angels: In my opinion Angels are inter-dimensional beings that may assume different forms appropriate to that which they wish to do and whom they wish to interact with. Like other interdimensional beings and energy forms they can shape shift into humanoid form and also fully interact with humans – even sexually. Sex with angels is not emotional on their part. They do what they need to do in order to fulfill their functional duties, so to speak. To humans, experiences with inter-dimensional beings often seem like a dream, but all such interactions impregnate our Consciousness and tweak us back to remembrance of aspects of our own soul contracts. Marriage – as humans  think of it – is foreign in the afterlife (or in life between lives, however you believe it is after bodily transformation). We are all “married” to everyone … as a community of souls within God Consciousness. And when we embrace “enlightenment” at those moments we remember that we are also interdimensional entities – Angels, if you will – and that our only job is to help perpetuate the constant expansion of God Consciousness in ourselves, each other and our Universes.

Adonai.

Ascension.

Ascension.

Blogs are literature; and art and literature are but one more expression of “truth” within a greater context … a context that is so ubiquitous that it is unfathomable.

DOG DAYS.

On dog days,
when nothing goes right,
impatient young men grumble
that the gods are
not on their side.
Their pursed lips
may boast indifference
but tell-tale scars
of self-abuse underscore
the misery of defeat.

PEER GROUP HEROES.

To inner-city true believers,
average is the ugly consequence
of weakness and error —
their idols being tv immortals,
and greatest foe time.
Suitably, peer group heroes
inspire the less visible
with eloquently-layered lies —
and not once disassociate
mask from morality.

(from “Collected poems and stories”)

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.

(from “Three-legged Waltz)

Ascension, oil on canvas, 30 x 30 cm.

Ascension, oil on canvas, 30 x 30 cm.

 

Onda Latina: Lectura de dos poemas del escritor Adam Donaldson Powell

 

 

 

 

WHILE WE WAIT …

Patiently — we endure,
desperate to believe in God, justice and humanity.
Repeatedly — we suffer
from our own ignorance and immobility.
Admirably — we martyr ourselves,
tranquilizing pain with saintliness and esteem.
Inevitably — we avenge,
using the very tactics of our aggressors.
Ultimately — we are shunned
by all who thought we were extraordinary.
Typically — we wait
for the world to discover its misjudgment.
Ironically — we learn nothing,
and neither forgive nor forget.

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.

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.

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”)

# # # # # # # #

THE DEVIL.

Beware.
The dark one
Lurks not in
The shadows,
And not amongst
Your friends
Or enemies.
Beware, for
His evil lies
Within you,
And eagerly
Awaits release
By descendents
Of Pandora.
Beware of
The road to
Inertia and ruin,
So carelessly
Littered with
Temptation and
Obsession.
Beware.
The self-centered
And worshippers
Of false splendor
Can expect
Little more than
Disappointment.
Yes. Beware
Of darkness ..
And beware
Of mirrors …
But most of all
Beware
Of the devil
That you are.

(Copyright Adam Donaldson Powell, excerpted from “The Magical Tarot”, “Collected poems and stories”, 2005.)

EL DIABLO.

Ojo.
El Oscuro
no reside en las sombras,
ni entre tus amigos
o enemigos.
Ojo.
Sus mentiras malvadas
cerca de ti,
ansiosas
esperan a ser liberadas
por los descendientes de
Pandora.
Ojo.
Con no caer en el
camino hacia la inercia
y la ruindad,
O a ser atacado brutalmente
por la tentación y la
obsesión.
Ojo.
Los egoístas
y los adoradores
de falsos esplendores
pueden esperar
poco más que
decepciones.
Sí, hay que tener ojo
ante la oscuridad …
Y ojo con los
espejos …
Pero más que nada
Ojo
Con el demonio
que eres tú.

(Copyright Adam Donaldson Powell, “Three-legged Waltz”, 2006, trad. de María Cristina Azcona, Argentina)

(painting – “We the People: Democracy by gun”, oil on canvas, 100 x 80 cm., 2016 – ) and photography by Adam Donaldson Powell)

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breathe

Como un ladrón en la noche …


(more…)

SPIDERWOMAN.

Spring Snow
Spring snow, oil on canvas, 50 x 50 cm., Adam Donaldson Powell, 2014.

BREATHLESS.

In the guises of feminism and masculinity,
we paced and stalked definition
with the cunning of a mother lion:
’round and ’round, closer and closer,
until our precarious showdown brought us
face-to-face with insecurity and dream.
As the war-drum heartbeats of a
million Amazons prepared to vanquish
my masculinity at its first indiscretion,
I loaded my tongue with silver arrows
and mercilessly catapulted the words
‘I love you’ against your brazen shield.
And simultaneously we fell — breathless.


by Adam Donaldson Powell, from “Collected poems and stories”, 2005, Cyberwit publishing.

Gone primal, oil on canvas, 30 x 30 cm., Adam Donaldson Powell, 2014.

Gone primal, oil on canvas, 30 x 30 cm., Adam Donaldson Powell, 2014.

A real sucker.

I am a real sucker for beautiful women …
helpless goddesses, manipulating and
man-eating amazons, man-hating
nymphomaniacs with a bone to pick …
all flirtatious, and moody — “spiderwomen”
with love that gets turned on and off,
like a faucet; and vaginas that require
so much work to gain entry to that it is
almost not worth the effort. I fall for the same types of men, too. It’s complicated.

 

 

Beetlemania / Bugging out! (Oil on canvas, 30x30 cm x two paintings).

Beetlemania / Bugging out! (Oil on canvas, 30×30 cm x two paintings).

SPIDERWOMAN.

Hey you, spiderwoman.
You who are always one of the
best-dressed in the city,
but who never uses money
when you are out on the town.
Hey you, spiderwoman.
So shy and alluring that
guys chase after you until
you capture them.
Hey you, spiderwoman.
So lonely. So sad.
So afraid for yourself.
Hey you, spiderwoman.
Is that so strange, really …?

EDDERKOPPKVINNE.
(My original Norwegian version.)

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 …?

MUJER ARAÑA.
(Spanish adaptation by Fernando Rodríguez)

Eh tú,
Mujer araña.
Que siempre
estás entre
las mejores vestidas
de la ciudad,
pero que nunca
gasta un peso
cuando sales
de noche.

Eh tú,
Mujer araña.
Tan timida
que los chicos
te buscan
hasta que tú
los atrapas.

Eh tú,
Mujer araña.
Tan sola.
Tan triste.
Tan temerosa
de ti misma.

Eh tú,
Mujer araña.

¿Es raro, o qué …?

 

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Jisei”, 2013.)

"Avalanche", oil on canvas, 80 x 80 cm.

“Avalanche”, oil on canvas, 80 x 80 cm.

"RAW", oil on canvas, 40 x 40 cm.

“RAW”, oil on canvas, 40 x 40 cm.

Snapshot_20130111_2

When the moon is in Fresno.

A Wrist-cutter's Glow, oil on canvas, 50x50 cm., Adam Donaldson Powell.

A Wrist-cutter’s Glow, oil on canvas, 50×50 cm., Adam Donaldson Powell.

saturn’s blues.

when the moon is in Fresno

and the sun sets a purplish

haze over early-autumn skies,

the cold winds of Hell

breathe heavily against

the hopes of local heroes

and the women who made them.

farmers stare off into the fields

without realizing, and housewives

pull their young close to their

bosoms – suddenly and

without explanation.

intuitively they sense the onset

of a long and severe influence;

a time of hardship and hindrance

when the faith and courage of

more than a few good men

and women are put to test.

the carousel is out-of-control,

and in the whirlwind confusion

crops will fail, loved ones will

pass away, jobs will be lost

and the simplest of dreams will

be stifled by saturn’s blues:

a mocking nursery rhyme telling

of horror and despair, and sung

over and over again with endless

variations on the same cruel theme.

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Collected poems and stories”, 2005.)

don’t ask.

(original English version, from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Collected poems and stories”, 2005.)

please don’t ask me how I am;

you can’t really expect

me to be any different

than I was yesterday.

we’re all really quite normal —

me, myself and I, and in

spite of our narcotic state can

be up and down simultaneously.

and don’t look at me too long;

I despise those “I know

how you must be feeling

eyes” and concerned tone.

why must you always misconstrue

the way my gaze avoids yours?

my anti-social disposition is

intended to protect you from us.

no — it doesn’t help to

speak slowly, pronouncing

each word with the sweetened

diction of a nun or nurse.

I honestly can’t tell you how to

act, for I have trouble enough

getting us to agree about

how we’ll shield you from me.

it’s really best to let me volunteer,

lest my unbridled demons unleash

their flame-throwing dragons to singe

the delicate threads of your own ego.

and you, so footloose, must avoid looking

back into the darkness whose glittering

maze of mirrors encaptures those who poke

their noses where they don’t belong.

go ahead — ask me how I am …

(Spanish version)

Por favor, no me pregunte cómo estoy;
usted no puede esperar
que yo esté muy diferente
de lo que estaba hasta ayer.
Todos estamos bien, normal –
yo, mí y yo mismo, y debido
además, a nuestro estado
narcotizado
podemos estar simultáneamente bien o mal.
No me mire fijo, le recomiendo;
yo detesto esos ojos de “Yo sé
como se siente … ”
y el tonito preocupado.
¿Por qué todos siempre malinterpretan
el modo en que mi mirada evita la suya?
Mi disposición antisocial es
para proteger a todos de nosotros.
No – no ayuda
hablarme despacio, pronunciando
cada palabra con el dulce tono
de una enfermera o niñera.
Honestamente no puedo decir
cómo actuar,
ya tengo bastantes problemas
tratando de ponernos de acuerdo
entre nosotros.
Sobre cómo protegerlo de nosotros.
Realmente lo mejor es dejarme ser un voluntario,
y permitir que mis demonios salvajes se suelten
y a sus dragones de lenguas llameantes hacer arder
los hilos delicados de su propio ego.
Y usted, tan descuidado, evite mirarme
cuando me vaya de nuevo a la oscuridad
cuya brillante masa de espejos captura
a los que meten su nariz en lo que no les importa.

Déle, déle, pregúnteme cómo estoy …


(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Three-legged Waltz”, 2006, trad. de Maria Cristina Azcona, Buenos Aires)

Un día lo entenderás …

Trato de ignorar el zumbido del teléfono —
tan incesante … y desesperado.

Ya conozco tus palabras:
“Me preguntaba si aún estabas muerto …
¿Hay algo que pueda hacer para ayudarte?
!Ay Caramba! … Perdona mi torpeza.
(Quiero decir: ¿hay algún cambio
desde hace una hora?)”

Tú sabes: no puedo contestar el teléfono
porque no puedo cuidarte nunca más.
Ahora no.

Un día lo entenderás.

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Jisei”, 2013.)

Tightrope.

I swear they make this tightrope

thinner each time I attempt to cross.

I remember how my psyche could once

dance endless sommersaults back and forth.

and how every now and then I would

laugh mercilessly to myself at how I

astonished and sometimes even

infuriated others with my devilish

dexterity of mind and wit.

but now, having fallen all too often,

I quiver at the sight of both

challengers and supporters; and

look upon success in reaching the

rope’s end as another day’s survival

rather than a demonstration of prowess.

I know a good sport never complains but,

I swear they make this tightrope

thinner each time I attempt to cross.

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Collected poems and stories”, 2005.)

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.

(from Adam Donaldson Powell’s “Three-legged Waltz”, 2006.)

PsychedelicAdam

A VAMPIRE’S LAMENT.

AIDS … ALSO A VAMPIRE’S LAMENT.

in the spring of our rapture,
you assuaged my hunger
with gallant love-bites and
wept rubescent teardrops
as my own offering
cascaded willingly into the
vessel of your thirst.
thereafter,
enchanting midnight promenades,
serenaded by love-sick werewolves,
inevitably climaxed with
splendiferous candlelit repasts
of aristocratic blood plasma
and the finest port wines.
magically abducted by the ecstasy
of transfusion and reminiscence,
we who are forever young
renewed our vows of
never-ending devotion with
all the certainty and bliss
intrinsic to incipient passion.
so golden were our halcyon days —
yet unblemished by the ravages
of overfamiliarity and diseased blood,
now yielding insomnious forenoons
in separate coffins and
solitary meals under would-be
romantic moonlight.
since our greatest promise
has become your heaviest burden,
I look upon eternity as
the merciless side-effect
of myopic infatuation …
and dream, perhaps,
of growing old.

 

(from “JISEI”, by Adam Donaldson Powell, 2013)

 

 

nordic-sun