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skeletal ghosts of Sao Paolo
The skeletal ghosts
of Sao Paolo
whistle in the hollows
of Cracolandia
Like the skeletal ghosts
of Auschwitz
that whisper across the winds.
Yet we are not ashamed
of a single note,
though time or tune
is never altered
Only pitch and width and depth
adjust,
but the notes remain unchanged.
It is the hallowed reverie
of
human suffering.
I am human – I am human
beats
the drum that whispers
between the willows.
The clumps of moist earth
still tight in hand,
as the still of night thuds
and takes flight
before our squinty eyes
To beat our soul with bleak
and brief relief
that it is only a distant suffering
a world away
Incarcerated and electrified
by indifference
Where death is easier to mobilize
One kilo at a time.
~/~
I am behind on my reading, so
I am behind on my reading, so I am just now beginning to catch up. Having read this powerful poem, I find that my response to it is already summarized in Patricia's comment; so I will only commend the effect this poem has upon its readers, and the truth of her comment in describing that,
J-Called
Keep on keeping on
That’s perfectly alright Starward. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate. And it’s easy to fall behind in doing anything, let alone reading – when there’s so much going on. That said, I hope everything is going well for you and that you’re feeling better. That’s the most important thing… for you to get well and get your full strength back. Life is never an easy road for most of us, myself included. And sometimes all we can do, is keep on keeping on, the very best we can. Whenever I find myself in that place, I often think of Kipling’s words in this verse…
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
With astonishing sensitivity
With astonishing sensitivity and mastery, you captured the Stygian existence of the half-alive denizens of Cracolandia, literally "Crackland". The images are ruthlessly melancholic, unshakable. Only a word artist of the highest order could crush us under the weight of such artistic realism:
"I am human – I am human
beats
the drum that whispers
between the willows."
Brutal. And breathtaking.
And just when I thought I couldn't be more submerged in your expertly etched images, I felt it should be impossible for anyone with half a heart to feel nothing when reading:
"To beat our soul with bleak
and brief relief
that it is only a distant suffering
a world away"
What a potent poetic weapon against apathy. In a world of deep isolation and divisiveness, this brave and compassionate work of art is essential.
True greatness.
Many gracious moons of thanks
The soul is a strange instrument – something akin to a tuning fork, that it can feel melancholy from a world away.
That we can dance or sing or cry, and actually resonate with far off vibrations from other souls, is one of the soul’s greatest miracles.
And it’s always a pleasure, someone of your talent still reading my stuff. Especially when this place becomes, what seems to be at times, a quiet desert.
And most especially, when I have doubts and begin to wonder, if anyone even reads poetry any more. Poetry is a place of contemplation and reflection, and sometimes I think the world is moving too fast to appreciate poetry.
But the fact that you and a few others are still around, is what keeps me going. Many gracious moons of thanks.
~/~