Le survivant.

 

 

LE SURVIVANT (du COVID-19) — 2021. 

Eux, ils disent …

que c’est maintenant le moment

de s’accepter, et d’accepter les autres

tels qu’ils sont.

Les rides du visage

me réconfortent

à l’ère de la nouvelle peste.

Je suis vieux,

mais je suis toujours un survivant.

C’est si bon.

Mais je veux vraiment savoir: 

Quelle est la valeur de cela?

Par exemple,

sur le marché boursier

de l’amour

et de l’attraction?

 

 



LE SURVIVANT (du VIH/SIDA) — 1993. 

Oh oui, c’est un survivant …

sa mère alcoolique a le cancer du sein ;

et son ‘père’ l’a quitté bien avant

sa naissance.

Vivre dans un parking à caravanes

a ses avantages : les gens

s’en fichent que vous découchiez ou non …

ou que vous restiez absents des jours entiers.

Oh oui, c’est un survivant …

sa soeur était une prostituée ;

elle ne touche plus à la came

afain de conserver son emploi

comme caissière chez Wal-Mart.

Son petit ami, un vaurien,

vit à ses crochets …

il n’est même pas foutu de recycler

les bouteilles jetées à la poubelle

ni les canettes ou les récipients.

Oh oui c’est un survivant …

il se fait tabasser un jour sur deux

a l’école ; et giflé une fois par semaine.

a la maison. Il y est habitué et

a présent il s’en fiche,

depuis peu il porte sur lui

un couteau à cran d’arrêt

pour voir s’il peut se défendre …

comme à la guerre en Iraq.

Il rêve de posséder un revolver et espère

qu’un jour un mac connu de la pègre

croisera son chemin

et retapera sa vieille gimbarde

pour en faire un vrai bijou.

Oh oui, c’est un survivant …

Il prend ses médicaments contre le sida

uniquement lorsqu’il s’en souvient.

La vie est un doux mélange :

parfois ‘paradis’

et souvent ‘enfer’ …

cela dépend s’il est camé,

s’il a baisé ou s’il n’a rien fait du tout,

ou les deux à la fois.

Un voisin punk l’a traité une fois de pédé

Il a souri simplement … l’enfoiré a eu peur

et a pris la poudre d’escampette.

Ni chaud ni froid !

Tout cela est d’ailleurs aussi aléatoire que futile ;

comparé au réchauffement climatique,

à la menace nucléaire,

aux tueurs en série, au terrorisme …

et que dire de ces satanées galeries marchandes !

Les posters qui ornent sa chambre

sont des photos de victimes :

de la Seconde Guerre Mondiale,

de catastrophes naturelles,

d’attaques terroristes …

ceux qui lui rappellent

qu’il a de la chance

peuvent aller se faire pendre !

Sa mère joue à plein volume

ce vieux tube disco “I will survive !” …

la rare fois qu’il décide

de faire ses devoirs.

Oh oui, c’est un survivant …

 

Painting: Oil on Canvas. “X, Y and Z Generations … in Troubled Times”, is a series of three self-portraits, challenging the ways I see myself vs. the ways I wish others to see/experience me. Today’s challenges are many, and the successive generations barely have time for needed self-reflection in the face of the daily, fast-changing technological, climate and other challenges. In this painting I invite the viewer to face himself/herself in this world where faces and Art are often just another image. I personally experience this painting as scary and uncomfortable. What I mean by saying that the painting is “scary” is that it confirms the dilemma that I face in today’s crazy World — an “unfinished symphony” that is essentially never to be totally understood. There were never to be any figures totally painted because the pictures represent people/humanity/me in development and unraveling. The pic of me all dressed up in a fur coat is the “show guy” presenting himself to The World … (x-generation). The y-generation me with the green face is the creative and thinking me — absorbed in my own thoughts and ideas, but battling against those imposed upon me by living in The World. And the z-generation is me blocking out and hiding from The World, the mental bombardments of images, coined phrases, propaganda, advertisements, and the glaring and oppressive heatwaves and sunlight etc. That image is in the largest state of disintegration, the skin coloring depicting a body that is almost lifeless and the head partially covered by a veil of mourning. Of course, all of the images are (as is the Internet, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, mainstream media and alternative media) manipulations — leaving out ears (i.e. really hearing and listening) and other details in order “to guide” the viewer into focusing upon the sunglasses, clothing and accessories (headlines) instead of seeing the person (content) inside … and we are consequently in a continuous struggle for self-marketing and esteem vs. incompletion and dissatisfaction with systems of ethics and values that both constrain and embrace us. The painting is “The Scream” that was never really expressed outwardly. And the minimalistic pastel-colored background is the general environment of denial — “everything is normal” — that acts as a sedative, more than inspiration. NB. See Urban Dictionary for definitions of Generations X, Y and Z.

 

 

THE SURVIVOR (of COVID-19) – 2021.

They say …

that now is the time

to accept yourself, and to accept others

as they are.

Facial wrinkles comfort me

in the era of the new plague.

I am old, but I am still a survivor.

It is so good.

But I really want to know:

What’s the value of that?

For example, on the stock market

of love and attraction?

 

 

THE SURVIVOR (of HIV/AIDS) — 1993.

Yeah, he’s a survivor …

His alcoholic mother has breast cancer;

and his ‘dad’ left long before he was born.

Living in a trailer park has its perks:

no one really cares if you stay out all night …

or for days on end, for that matter.

Yeah, he’s a survivor …

His sister is an ex-whore;

struggling to stay ‘clean’

so she can keep her job as a cashier at Wal-Mart.

Her loser live-in boyfriend is a ‘good-for-nothing’ …

a fucking bum who won’t even bother to recycle bottles

discarded in garbage receptacles or containers.

Yeah, he’s a survivor …

He gets beaten every other day at school;

and slapped once-a-week at home.

He’s used to it: doesn’t care anymore really,

but he has recently begun carrying a switchblade

to see if it can be a deterrent …

like going to war in Iraq.

He dreams of getting a handgun,

and is hoping that someone famous

will one day pimp his ride.

Yeah, he’s a survivor …

He takes his HIV-meds when he remembers.

Life is a sweet mixture:

sometimes ‘heaven’, and oftentimes ‘hell’ …

depending on the ‘high’,

the sex or the lack of either (or both).

A neighbor-punk called him ‘faggot’ once …

He just smiled …

causing the asshole to run in haste and fear.

Who cares?!! It’s all temporary anyway;

what with global warming, nuclear threats,

serial killers and terrorism …

and those fucking ‘super malls’.

His favorite posters in his room are pictures of victims:

from the second world war, from natural catastrophes,

from terrorist attacks …

anyone who reminds him

that he is one of the lucky ones.

Doesn’t matter.

For the moment anyway.

At least that’s what he thinks

when his mom blasts the old disco hit “I will survive!” …

the one time in a blue moon

when he sets himself down to do his homework.

Yeah, he’s a survivor …

 

 

 

 

 

mumbles and whispers. 
 
mumble and whisper; 
a buzz, just out of hearing range. 
i shout: “what are you saying?
… i cannot hear you!” 
but i don’t really want to know 
unless you are telling me
that you love me, 
that you miss me, and that 
you cannot live without me.
i don’t want to hear about 
COVID-19 and other frustrations 
that devour all of us … 
all the time. 
your quick glance arrests your words, 
and you save the moment —  
already gently touching my face and 
planting a kiss on my lips.
and suddenly 
we are one … 
once more.
 
 
 
murmura y susurra. 
 
murmura y susurra; 
un zumbido, fuera del alcance auditivo. 
yo grito: “que estas diciendo
… no puedo oírte!” 
pero realmente no quiero saber
a menos que me digas
que me amas,
que me extrañas y 
que no puedes vivir sin mi.
no quiero escuchar sobre
COVID-19 y otras frustraciones
que nos devoran a todos …
todo el tiempo.
tu mirada rápida detiene tus palabras,
y tu ahorras el momento — 
ya tocando suavemente a mi cara y
plantando un beso en mis labios.
y de repente
somos uno …
una vez más.
 
 
Enjoy “Somos Uno” by Axel HERE
 
 
 
Poems, painting and photography by Adam Donaldson Powell.)
 
 
 
 
 
 
The embrace.
The embrace.

Photo: Adam Donaldson Powell

 

WHISPERS…

I

Differentiate dream from vision: I heard a voice

telling me it was

so softly

in whispers become fingers insistent each

a separate story in whispers become

a hand coming to rest assurance

on my brow smudging wrinkle away from shadow

Shadows become whispers

sliding into sleep, dreams descending

to a new crescendo to vision turning

on its heel and reminding

in whispers as indifferent as relentless

as ocean waves

going about the business of being ocean waves.

 

II

SPLASHING whispers gone amok;

red paint SPLATTERED on white sailcloth …

one green eye and one brown

talking with one another

but without seeing;

leaving me DISJOINTED but not perplexed.

My dream-catching whispers are now

quite rambunctious and I’m feeling rather

PURPOSELESS while

GASPING for words on the edge of an eternal

moment for moment

flirting with smothering cobwebs …

TURN ME LOOSE!

You’ve shown me more than my whisper can digest.

You’re falling far … far past the point of

being in love with yourself and

I want to cry more but

my tears have given way to

HOARSE, LICORICE WHISPERS.

Turn me loose … turn me loose …

A pale oyster-moon has just slithered past

the sweet nothings and penetrated my inner ear

STOP … PLEASE

 

III

Don’t speak.

SHHhhhhhhhhhh……………

“Speak softly,” my conscience says.

There is no room for doubt in such proximity and

waking hours spent running and arranging

and defending and

composing and planning and

(GRUNT)

Sometimes I think that our sounds don’t

really match anymore … a mad woman running from place to place in

sensible shoes falling

asleep on buses and subways snarling

at old ladies coming too close with their

dripping …

If only men

could bleed for love

as only women can … perhaps

then I could surrender to your whispering.

You do still hear me, don’t you?

Umbrellas. THEIR

LARGE BIRDS’ MOUTHS open and shut, open and shut in silence.

You stalk my emotions, steal my words …

(Openings rest there near rapture.)

SHHhhhhhhhhhhh…….”Don’t speak,” you say.

Fuck off …

Meanwhile an honest feast takes place

unperturbed

in the moonlight.

Just because you’re not actually being

followed doesn’t necessarily mean that you

don’t have a right to be PARANOID.

Hey! Are we talking about your experience

of my words … or mine of yours?

I

CRASHED but nobody noticed my shadow mingled

swiftly yet another meek

whistle

among their own; they went right on eating.

I just want to SCREAM In silence.

SHHhhhhhhhhhh…………… WHAT?!!!

 

IV

All I do is salvage the remains and begin

again A Broken Child

teeters with epileptic balance

down along the sidewalk. Paranoia reduced to one

crystal fragment fractured and reeling in

umpteen patterns,

each collecting and then returning

whispers

in its own fashion. I can’t

catch up with it: it shifts

quicker than I can move quicker than

the frenzy of my thoughts. Shiny white minnows fly

into sight like mirrors, now gone

missing.

TIT FOR TAT this for that Heads

Nodding in implied

Consent PUPPETS not the thing like

the thing itself. We accept this deception

and ravenously A broken room and all the while

the heart beats a dogged rhythm.

 

V

I get spooked when you corner me inside myself;

especially when you whisper those seductive,

unspeakable psychological assessments

against my ear-drum …

tango-like rhythms bouncing

in a stilted, jerking fashion

I follow your lead

’round and ’round, closer and closer until …

Our precarious showdown brings us

face-to-face with insecurity and dream.

An orchid unfolds an insistent

vermillion informs

pink petals distended …

endings mute into beginnings …

Screeching, flamebreathing dragons soar low over

violated plains of brainmatter.

As silk upon iron.

Vibrato persists

confused but undaunted as wings span

a trembling distance

Fires of fear incite waves of internal uproar to sear the

ulcerated lining of delicate abdominal tissue, while

glowing corpuscles ferry hysteria into distended veins

and scorch alarmed nerve endings

… crops fail, dams break, control centers malfunction …

eyelids clamp shut in retreat from the horrors

of imminent disaster but optic darkness is cruelly

marred by vermillion blotches — proclaiming realization

of all that was dreaded yet intuited

as inevitable.

Unprescribed; an estimate of

mute yet yearning finger

tips trembling search. Desist (as)

and as the war-drum heartbeats of

a million Amazons prepare to vanquish

my masculinity with insecurity at its

first indiscretion, I load my tongue with

silver arrows …

Darts soaring swerve and distort

Falling short to collapse

mid-flight. One lone note

And mercilessly catapult the words ‘I love you’

against your brazen shield and prepare to fall —

breathlessly —

into the fiery ashes of countless charred impulses

raining heavily upon furrows of creativity;

cultivating retrospect with expectation.

Tests timbre tone tenacity. Yawns

and swallows seeds of hope.

One lone orchid

unfolds out of my throat

an insistent vermillion.

 

VI

Our whispering draws to a close …

the stillness of space around us

empty of airflow and sound;

all confirmed by the syncopated

racing rhythms of my own heart …

unaffected by the rotation of the Earth

while breakdancing clouds laughingly roar

with all the grace of

SHATTERING glass.

And there our whisperings remain,

rather indistinguishable from the multitudes

and dulled by disclosure and dessication.

 

VII

Je m’accuse … je suis tombé(e)

(IMPLICATED ..AND FALLING)

Openings rest there near rapture: A pale oyster-moon

has just slithered past the sweet nothings

and penetrated

my inner ear: je suis tombé amoureux. (

Implicated and falling in love …)

BIRDS’ MOUTHS open and shut open and shut in silence;

one lone orchid unfolds silver arrows

loading for flight.

Je suis tombé amoureux de ton chuchotement

A hoarse licorice whisper on the edge of an eternal

moment for moment shiny

white minnows

fly into sight

like mirrors, now gone missing.

 

Copyright Adam Donaldson Powell and Diane Oatley, 2005 “Whispers” (a dialogue for two voices) had its world premiere in Kathmandu, Nepal (at Gurukul Theatre) in 2006. Diane Oatley is a poet, writer and dancer. She is also the author of “Swoon”, published by Cyberwit.net in 2005.

 

 

“WHISPERS” IS PART OF MY BOOK ENTITLED “THREE-LEGGED WALTZ”. ORDER “THREE-LEGGED WALTZ” AND SEVERAL OF MY OTHER BOOKS FROM CYBERWIT.NET OR AMAZON.COM  

 

 

 

 

COVID-19: The Hope (The Vaccine).

THE HOPE (The Vaccine).


This is the final painting in my COVID-19 painting series chronicle. While all «endings» of pandemics are qualified — due to the ever-present possibility of re-occurrence or new viruses/new mutations, the survival and future of Humanity is dependent upon science, technology, perserverance … and, of course, abstractions such as Hope. Hope is a universal conceptual archetype — not necessarily directly connected to any known entity or individual … and it is therefore represented here as a visual abstraction in the intellectual and sense-oriented «feel good» category — expansive, yet ordered; spiritual, yet not confined to religion; and inspirational, yet mysterious. 

Hope, oil on canvas/mixed media, 50×50 cm.

 

 

COVID-19 through the eyes of the Christian zealot — « After the Rapture ».

(PAINTING AND PHOTOGRAPHY BY ADAM DONALDSON POWELL)

AFTER THE RAPTURE.

Ascension, oil on canvas, 30 x 30 cm.
Ascension, oil on canvas, 30 x 30 cm.

ASCENSION.

In an instant,

the orgasmic tingling

of the Great Compassion

transmutes physicality

into crystalline Light,

thus releasing the

new-found frequency

to find completion in

the vortex of

universal vibration.

And meanwhile,

a gentle rain

falls upon the Earth;

cultivating awe and

aspiration in those

left behind.

keys

THE FUTURE IS NOW.

Just for a moment

I surreptitiously

Slip through the

Portals of your

Watery eyes and

Catch a glimpse of

The celestial encoding

Of the Matrix.

I wander

Into the light of

Eternal memory

Reverberating

The sacred mantra

Deafening my disillusionment

With the illusion of the

Labyrinth’s dead ends

And in my stupor I

Recall the last words

Of a forgotten incarnation,

Wilting as a black rose

Under a peach-coloured

Sky – cloudless and still –

A mere heartbeat

Beyond time;

Echoing its low-grade pulse

As I frantically

Run up and down the

Alleys of La Recoleta

Trying to dodge the raindrops.

And just as you speak

I find myself on my hands and

Knees facing my epitaph:

“Posterus est iam”,

And quite uncontrollably, a single

Teardrop overflows the

Pocket of my left eye as I

Recapture our own

Generic moment in

Shared space and time.

Ascension.
Ascension.

PAVANE: un poème pour la fin des temps.

There is nothing more beautiful

And yet so sorrowful as

A man’s tears over humiliation

And loss, cradled in the bosom

Of a woman.

Uncontrollable sobbing —

A torrential rainfall

Recalling a wilderness

Landscape unashamedly seeking

Refuge from gushing winds

And rapids, thunder and lightning

Against a purple, grey and orange

Sky – in betrayal of a lifetime of

Emotional constipation and

Affections of masculinity.

A once-graceful sylph –

Now stumbling and gasping

For breath – beckons and

Invites him to join her in

A clumsy pavane, until

The quintessential mother

Archetype manages to

Rock the fallen one back

From the crevice of

Momentary indiscretion

At the end of time,

And whimpers accede to

Retrieval of pride and

Passion in the guise of

Poetic procreation.

Graffiti at train station in Oslo.
Graffiti at train station in Oslo.

AFTER THE RAPTURE.

Spent, sweaty and out-of-breath

We lie back and

Light a single cigarette

To be shared in symbolic

Celebration after an intergalactic

Battle between brazen faith and

Foolish adventure.

My tattered wings clumsily

Tucked in between my back

And the thin Styrofoam mattress;

Your head buried in my chest

And your matted hair still wet from

Our midnight dip in the Styx.

Who would have guessed that

The heaven of our making

Would be like this? … so

Characterized by the mundane,

With intermittent interruptions

Of surrealistic struggles for

Survival: win or lose … all

Or nothing .. one day at a time.

As the moon eclipses, the last

Sight I see before I drift off

Is the withered bonsai in the

Opening of our pre-war dwelling.

A reminder of a time when

We still dared to sleep soundly;

Carefully wrapped in unencumbered

Dreams in the style of our ancestors.

foggyday

THE FOURTH HORSEMAN.

I have come to accept

the threat of the first horseman,

on his mighty white steed –

causing in me a seemingly

everlasting sense of suspicion,

caution and readiness, and

I have sadly learned to expect

the relentless ravages of

war and emotional famine

brought on by the

rider on the red horse,

and the pestilence in the

saddlebags of the black steed.

Ironically, I mostly dread

the thieving fourth horseman

who arrives each dawn

on his pale mare and

reclaims from my broken dreams

the yet unlived memories of our love.

Stop the genocide!
Stop the genocide!

THE TRIBULATION.

The globalisation of

indiscriminate violence

is multiplied to

the power of the sixes,

and the Antichrist

smiles broadly at

the cancerous spreading

of fear and perdition –

rationalized by armies of

self-proclaimed truth.

But the greatest

threat from these

soldiers of hatred

is perhaps echoed in

the pestilent apathy

which is rampant

amongst those

elements of world populace

not directly affected by

the ravages of persecution,

and whose messengers

of love and compassion

no longer dare to

speak out – for

fear of getting caught

in the crossfire.

ARMAGEDDON.

Barking dogs

have long since

gone hoarse;

the incessant

b-flat octaves

tolling from

cathedrals,

cemeteries and

city halls are the

only musical

accompaniment to

the wailing

and mutterings

of the insane and

the shell-shocked.

Black-robed and

barefoot Nazarenos

trudge aimlessly

up and down

the flooding boulevards,

streets and alleyways

in this year-long

Semana Santa;

a macabre procession

matched in passion

only by the

mega tsunamis and

super volcanic

eruptions cataclysmically

creating myriads of

Devil’s Throats

as the reddish-brown

water whirlpools

about the rubble of

once looming

skyscrapers.

Resolutely ..

I rock myself

to inner drunkenness,

quietly humming

Ravel’s Pavane pour

une Infante Défunte.

going to hell

REQUIEM.

Once fresh air is

Now pungent

With the odor of

Desiccated seashells

Picked nearly clean

By eloquent predators

And the opportunists

Who are never

Far behind them.

Perched swallows

Look on with fear

And disbelief at

Seagulls gliding, then

Careening too far

Inland, their hysterical

Laughter a parody of

A sonata appassionata

Against a now-barren

Landscape devoid of

Romanticism and

Common decency.

If one listens closely

One can hear a requiem

For a milder Age that ended

All-too-abruptly – it is

A solemn dirge describing

The endless journey of

Displaced souls desperately

Trying not to see or hear

While carefully guarding

Their most prized possession:

Hope that there is more

Meaning to be grasped

For he who holds out

Beyond the bitter end.

REDEEMING SAVIOUR.

Mesmerized by the

Anointing smile of

Christ the Redeemer

I see a muse

Slow-dancing

With an angel

To the chanting

Of a monk’s choir;

A solemn moment’s

Reprieve from a

Raging sea of cynicism.

And I cling tightly to my

Dream-state while

Tears of joy and recognition

Rock me lovingly back to

True consciousness;

Reminiscent of

Life between lives –

A moment of bliss

Recaptured.

Arbor.
Arbor.

GLORIA IN EXCÉLSIS DEO.

Gloria in excélsis Deo!

Alleluia .. Alleluia ..

Although our backs are broken,

And our wings are tattered;

Our hearts and souls

Will forever sing your praises.

There is only one God,

But the ways to You are many.

Alleluia .. Alleluia ..

Alleluia .. Alleluia ..

“AFTER THE RAPTURE” IS PART OF MY BOOK ENTITLED “RAPTURE: ENDINGS OF SPACE AND TIME”. ORDER “RAPTURE: ENDINGS OF SPACE AND TIME” AND SEVERAL OF MY OTHER BOOKS FROM CYBERWIT.NET OR AMAZON.COM