Tag Archives: contemporary

Night Listener

Listening to faltering surreal broadcasts

serenading another Summer equinox,

the composition’s title eludes him,

Miles;haunting contemplative succinct

flags down thoughts mimicking melancholy,

Gil Goggins’ circumspect piano

embedded in the spent day’s residue

receding like the listener’s reverie

broken by random sniper-shots of glass,

endemic tension flowing,

burst-veined onto midnight alleys

of this midnight City,

frantic frazzled red ‘n’ blue

taking some more cold meat

away to the coroner’s slab,

away from midnight streets

haunted by ” Yesterdays”,

that title hunted down and

captured by a desire to

have words for that spell

cast on a night long ago

in a faraway City where

another night-listener

heard the night

with its surreal,faltering..

The Last Cicada

The sadness scattered
over the walls resonating
with what was
in the heart
of the mountain.
No sound could be heard.
A myriad of eyes belonging to cicadas
were shrouded in mist.

A somewhat long-winded
like a speech
surrounded the sky.
Maybe it was an echo,
a sesquipedalian one.
It wasn’t breathless at all.

Nothing could have saved
nature around.
Neither of the forests,
neither of the birds,
and neither of the bears
could survive…..
Nothing more
could have been done.

All the moving peaks became
small stones, as solitary
as the moon,
at the fugitive horizon.
The last cicada
disappeared.

Everything became motionless.
There were only the shadows
of the trees
to follow the sunbeams.
The nature game
turned detrimentally
into a disaster.

In an illuminated city,
a man bought
a lovely bouquet of red roses
wanting to bestow
what it is considered to be
a symbol of romance.
This man needed
to express his love
and to let his woman know
how he feels about her.
This man disappeared.
He was the last one.
Nothing could have saved him.
Nothing more
could have been done.

Poem by Marieta Maglas

The name of the painter is Adam Sturch.

Love

I am a wraith

Fanning away at your bedewed forehead

A gentle breeze in a window less room

 

Sometimes

I am a fluttering heart beat

A flitting thought

A joyous song

 

I am a mist

Rising and falling

With each breath
Living in utterances
losing myself in silences
I am a shadow

Melting happily into contours
I fall as tears from adoring eyes

And dart back quickly

To snuggle between supple lips

Ancient Voices

Sublime

exquisite,

their expression,

their emotion,

their surreal evocation

of an Age

long since past,

beyond memory:

Revived,

to seduce

transfix

in the Here,

the for Now

everlasting Here,

Connecting

nigh on five centuries

how vibrant,

mysterious,transparent

cogent

the notation

the phrasing

the passion

the exultation;

erasing all

of the dull quotidian

and its stifling mediocrity,

ancient voices,

singing.

 

Author’s footnote :-

On July 12, 2016 BBC Radio 3 broadcast live from York Minster’s Early Music Festival.

And I found myself beginning to scribble furiously whilst listening to the performance from the private songbook collection of Ann Boleyn.

 

 

Frederick and Geraldine (Part 9)

”It’s a fuel crisis, because of the lack of supply, ”
Said Athan, ”many mines exploit lead, copper, and iron.”
”They are smelted with charcoal, which only some people may buy, ”
Said Karsten, ” some people have the powers of the lions.”
” There’re heavy demands for the forests to build castles,
Cathedrals, houses, ships, mills, and machinery, ” said Cruz.
”The fuel for glass and brewing industries is on hassles, ”
Said Pedro, ” this drill of the coal deposits has an excuse.
I’ve heard the steam engine has a low efficiency.”
Tia said, ”overland, the costs of the transport are very high.
The English iron industries still lose their proficiency.”
Megan said, ” this revolution adds up to one big lie.”

”I’ve heard that, in Selanik, the Jews control the commerce, ”
Said Marco.”Greeks, Turks, Armenians, or Jews, ” said Athan,
”They can equally thrive the economy of Selanik,
Whether they read the Bible, the Torah or the Quran.”
Tia wore a fine golden silk brocade jacket having
A metallic gold floral lattice design and shape,
A petticoat of ribbed silk embroidered with silk yarn forming
Loops; its front fastened with clasps, tightened in back with cotton tape.
Karsten’s navy blue, collar, cuffs, and skirts were embroidered
With cream silk ‘point Beauvais’ garlands of pearls and flowers.
Athan’s vest of silk moiré and coat were pumpkin colored.
‘Twas embroidered with silver thread and silver sequins.

Tia and Athan were in need of loans for short terms
While intending to bridge the time gap between the pay
Of the taxes and the take of the sums from the owners of some firms.
They traveled to find those wealthy Muslims that loaned money.

”People can’t pay heavy taxes and accrue deficits.”
”They must pay these sums even their finances are low.”
”All these payments are done for the Empire’s benefits.”
”In this condition, Selanik is a place left to go.”

‘’To prevent people from leaving, the Empire minimized
Their losses while enacting a kaskamot that obligated them
To pay and to leave behind them a guarantor.” ”It’s civilized! ”
”If the women and the orphans can’t pay, the Muslims don’t condemn

Them, ” ”There’re allowances for the persons donating or loaning sums
And for the philanthropic acts like the payment for the abject poor.”
”They take from any owner or any visitor that comes,
From birth, from death and from the sacrifice passing their temple door.”

”Gabella is a tax levied on the purchase of a basic test
Kosher for foodstuffs like wine, meat, and cheese.”
”The rich men pay instead of the poor people to prevent their arrest.”
”There’re some taxes for those goods that are brought over the seas.”

”Here, the new public buildings are built using an eclectic style
To project the European face of this Empire.
”Our monasteries are the centers of learning for a while.”
”The head of the Orthodox Christians is like a Vizier.”

(Tia, Athan, Megan, and Karsten disembarked at Selanik while Frederick and some sail men went to buy fuel.)

(To be continued…)

Poem by Marieta Maglas

Frederick and Geraldine (Part 7)

Chiara, Arturo’s wife, approached them together with
Lucca and Francesca, the other Italian pair
Saying, ”Is Quare’s invention real? I think it is a myth.”
” His barometer measures the pressure of the air.”

Chiara wore a red big gown, with lace trimming the low,
A green velvet mantel, which was lined with some ermine,
Square neckline and sleeves, which were gathered at the elbow.
She spoke well Italian, Spanish, and German.

Italians wanted to disembark at Syracuse.
Bella and Miguel traveled to Barcelona home.
To find a new home, Naimah and his son had an excuse.
Out of their Turkey’s limit, through the storms, they would roam.

Tia, Athan, Megan, and Karsten would disembark
At Selanik, an Ottoman province, where Ahmed
The Third was reigning while his war was a fire in the dark.
They were Greeks being born during the reign of Mehmed.

Marco and Rosa, Cruz and Pedra, Pedro and Carla
Were Portuguese pairs coming home from America.
They had bought from the Pueblo Indians some ollas.
They gave one to the Russian pair, Ivan and Erica.

Ivan said, ”Tell me something about these Indians.”
Carla said, ”Their belief means dualism; they eat corn.
Some of them became Catholic due to the Spanish civilians.
They think they emerged from the underwater space to be born.”

Carla wore a black cap, having a veil, and a green gown
Patterned with acorns and flowers, and her sleeves were caught
With jeweled clasps on the lace at the elbow; her eyes were brown.
”The water is fresh in the ollas; I like their color a lot.”

She asked Ivan’’ Now, where do you go? ’’ ‘’We left the war.’’
”Ahmed and Peter the First! ” replied Cruz, ” tell me something,
How could you reach Constantinople after coming from a far ”
Zone? ””I do trade with them, but this war destroyed everything.”

”Did you lose everything you had? ” Marco asked Ivan.
”To make business in Turkey, I sold all my Russian goods.”
Erica tried this conversation to enliven,
”In Portugal, we’ll search for a job in cities and hoods.”

Marco wore a banyan with a patterned lining; his cuffs
Were embroidered in gold; his justacorps and stockings
Over his breeches were red like Rosa’s shoes and muffs.
All of them wore periwigs and talked a lot while walking.

(to be continued)

Poem by Marieta Maglas

The Canary

Many a soul flown

Disappearing into lands unknown

The canary all lone

Sings of his beloved gone

 

Day after day

Night after night

Waiting to play

With the gleaming light

The Canary-

Basking in the warmth of May

Reminisces the Spring night!

 

Love!

Where have you hidden?

In darkish coves

Or places forbidden..!

 

Warm embraces cold

Not heard is the flap

Memories turn old

Forgotten is the cheerful clap

The Canary ponders

If only death could fill the gap…..

 

The Sun sets..

It takes a nap

The Sun rises..

 

What’s next…………………………………?

Unserved

Is it logical

if I exhale lustrous fumes

when the new harvests have

already been adding gold.

 

The salt added in small

proportions will be a dish better sold!

 

Is it logical

if I dance in heavenly pours

when the plumules eager have

already been sprouting praise.

 

The salt added in small

proportions will be a dish better sold!

 

Is it logical

if I sprinkle colours to painted glades

when the moths in Spring have

already been conducting plays.

 

The salt added in small

proportions will be a dish better sold!

 

Is it?

Or…

Is it not?

My dish lies unserved

The awaiting dot…

The Gypsy

O’ mystical mystery!

In your asymmetrical symmetry, many a clue derives shape

The strings of Apollo play in gasps

The gypsy watches, rims agape.

 

Those founts teased by pecks silvery

Desires he too a drop to pen

Desires he too a drop to quench

You, an innocent verse turned ballad juvenile

The gypsy waits to drench.

 

Shivers in noon, shivers in moon

O’ mystical mystery!

To your shanty mellow, do invite soon

Beneath the ray laden gem in the night half crescent,

The gypsy begins to croon.

 

Amidst the penman’s bliss; a few letters amiss

Where lost are you?

What marks the pain?

Is it the cycle with patterns mobile?

Or is it the equilibrium-

The stagnant call ‘Rain’.

 

O’ mystical mystery!

In your asymmetrical symmetry, many a clue derives shape

The gypsy figures the canvas

Emotion, none but a conjuror’s trick

The show, its staged

The gypsy watches, rims agape.

Phase

Fail did he

in scripting the wild

Though promises seemed

like candyfloss to a child

Fail did he

in breathing for a while

That was the time

he parted with his quill

He couldn’t be with her.

 

Realise did he later

what he had lost

The rain in its flowing beauty

just before the frost

Realise did he

the eternal knot

That was the time

he again cuddled his quill

He again breathed her.