spoken poetry from sea to shore

Another War?

The young prime minister is declaring war he looks righteous and
proud, his historical moment. ...We fight for the Libyan people,
but something disturbs me, the braying for one man’s blood.
The excitement of going to war, this lust for action sits deep in our
mind, jingoism brings its own political reward.
A just war? The man Kaddafi is an odious bully and oil supply must
be secured. But is it not also a selective war? People are being killed
in Yemen, an oil poor country; why not declaring war against their
repellent autocrat?
For now the Israeli are busy building settlements on occupied land,
they know a democratic Middle East will shift the balance of power,
a united Arab world will demand it. So let the war commence, but
I regret our leaders look of, almost, sexual excitement when issuing
orders kill the enemy.

Another War. - "Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2011-03-18T10:47:00.000-07:00

Another War. - "Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

credit card - "Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2011-03-18T05:36:00.000-07:00

credit card - "Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

continuation - "Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2011-03-18T04:27:00.000-07:00

continuation - "Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

yes, I was there - "Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2011-03-17T14:12:00.000-07:00

yes, I was there - "Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

a nazi mystery - "Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2011-03-17T10:38:00.000-07:00

a nazi mystery - "Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

India Talking Social Network for Indians - oskar's blog

2011-03-01T03:29:00.000-08:00

India Talking Social Network for Indians - oskar's blog

लव अत फर्स्ट sight

2011-02-16T11:16:00.000-08:00

Love at first sight

I joined the merchant navy at fifteen and women I met in faraway ports
lived in shady bars and pink bedrooms, had raspy voices eyes as cold
diamonds and laughter that sounded like broken glass; they only had
time for crude words. By the docks in Livorno, Italy, a girl in a cake shop
smiled to me, said I was a pretty boy. Pink I bought more cakes than
I could eat. I had met a girl who liked to hold my hand, laugh and talk.
We went to the movie, saw “La Strada” but the nearness of this girl was
so overwhelming I could not focus on the movie. Happy day, yes I ate
a lot of cakes. My ship had to sail for other ports, I was in love promised
to come back soon. Sadly my ship never returned. My boyish love
affair was forgotten in the carrousel of ventures and bitter love affairs.
I don’t know why I remember her, guess she’s grandmother now.

लव letter

2011-02-15T11:25:00.001-08:00

Love Letter Not Posted.

I got a sweet email, yes romantic as well,
something about holding hands
and things that tend to follow a passionate kiss.
She had read my poems and thought I was
a darling! I thought of sending her a love poem
but desisted as my poems tend to be cynical;
beside there is a question of grooming.
Dear heart, thank you for the email, I shall not
answer you, but quietly dream of what could
have been if I had been seventeen, and
not a grumpy old man who wears a winter coat
for comfort even in June.

it is a wonder - "Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2011-02-09T04:49:00.000-08:00

it is a wonder - "Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

highlife

2011-02-07T10:50:00.000-08:00

highlife

window

2011-02-06T07:40:00.001-08:00

A Window into the Past.

Visiting time over, mother was ill in hospital she had been so tired lately.
Nearby a small stream, an empty box of matches was my raft, rudderless
it rushed down rapids and disappeared under ground, under the town
and I wondered if it reached the docks. I had bought mother a chocolate,
in the same shop that sold oranges and but they were too expensive,
but ate most of the chocolate while listening to her instructions, to peel
spuds, buy milk and yesterday loaf (half the price), open a tin of sardines.
But first I had to go down to the docks see what ships were in and also try
to find my raft. When I came home mother stood smoking in the kitchen,
she had peeled the spuds. They had let her out only so she could pack her
suitcase; she had to go up the mountains, where the air was pure, and be
cured… and I knew why I hadn’t found my raft.

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-09-20T15:03:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-09-20T03:00:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-09-16T07:33:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

डेमोक्रेसी today

2010-09-16T07:20:00.001-07:00

Democracy today

Is democracy
Right for the Afghans or Iraqis
Unthinkable thought
Countries torn by tribalism
Certainly need a strongman
A one party state
Until institutions are in place
and people value
the principle of statehood
and take pride in their nation.

हैकु न्यू haiku

2010-09-16T00:41:00.001-07:00

Haiku
A lost dog
Sees itself in a rain pool
Overcast sky

Haiku
By the pier
Cats wait for the fishing boats
Sunny morning

Haiku
Under a tree
A white sleepy donkey
Summer heat

Haiku
Hare spoors in snow
Suddenly turns ruby
Silent sky

Haiku
Corrugated flurry
Glitter as transient pearls
Memories.

Blogger Buzz: Blogger integrates with Amazon Associates

2010-08-11T04:51:00.000-07:00

Blogger Buzz: Blogger integrates with Amazon Associates

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-08-10T14:38:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-08-10T07:53:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

फस्स ऑफ़ love

2010-08-09T08:01:00.000-07:00

Faces of Love

Two faces become one face and I cannot tell the difference.
And from a distance hear a murmour, Anne Margret. But it
can’t be possible her name goes back 40 years, why should
I think of her now? In my wife’s face I see Anne’s, her smile
and warm brown eyes. Perhaps I have been sleep walking
all those years, just woke up and realize that my Anne never
left me. No, it can’t be like this, I look at my wife’s picture,
she is now different from Anne’s, but she has brown eyes too
and a secret smile in her eyes. Could it be I have transferred
my love for Anne to all the women I have loved? There is but
one love and her name is Anne? I look at my wife’s picture
and say:” Darling I will never leave you.”

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-08-08T03:39:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-08-07T11:14:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

इ'म सलिंग

2010-08-07T11:05:00.003-07:00

I’m Sailing….

The sea is dark, chunky and calm today it only undulates slowly, turns white where
the bow ploughs a long furrow that stretches for miles, few gulls still follow us,
shrikes and wait for the cook to throw left over into the sea. Tomorrow they will
be gone; they like to keep near the coast. I fiddle with the radio in the galley I get
in a good station and hear “What A wonderful worlds” sung by Luis Armstrong.”
Yes, it is on a day like this. The tune also saddens me it was my brother’s favourite
song together with“ I’m sailing” by Rod Stewart. My brother found life very difficult.
We left Antwerp 24 hours ago, long nights, bars and blaring music. In the drunken
haze there was a nucleus of sobriety longing for something else. We are bound for
New Orleans, I like that place, so much real music and I know of places where few
sailors go. I have a long day ahead of me. Dinner to cook, bread to bake and pans
to clean but I feel secure in my little domain, where even the captain fears to enter.
“I’m sailing across the seas.” Yes I’m, it is good to be alive caressed and safe in
the old ladies bosom.

इ'म सलिंग

2010-08-07T11:05:00.001-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-08-03T07:09:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-08-01T10:08:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-08-01T05:36:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-31T16:26:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-30T03:09:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

फर्स्ट poem

2010-07-29T02:39:00.001-07:00

First Poem

This is the first page of poems that have yet to be written, but I will
not think about it. It is like crossing the plateau of Alentejo I can see
the tarmac road miles ahead of me stretching into infinity and I know
will not get there alive I must stop before falling off a cliff of oblivion.
Writing is like arithmetic instead of digits it is about putting words
together hoping they add up, harmonize. And two and two is not
four. I’m a composer of silent instruments and I try to tell you what
I hear, but how can I do that without a blaring trumpets to catch your
attention? I can only grasp what is near to me, I know what Is near
to me is universal. Life is not complicated, it is about being loved.

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-28T17:50:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-28T08:54:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

the photo album.wmv

2010-07-28T08:49:00.000-07:00

air travel in a Dakota plane (1956).wmv

2010-07-28T04:38:00.000-07:00

एयर त्रवेल इन अ डकोटा (१९५६)

2010-07-28T03:54:00.001-07:00

Air Travel in a Dakota (1956)

White as sheet, the virtual page in front of me, I want to compose a gentle
whisper of a memory. Thought of my first flight, an old Dakota plane, that
looked like a diesel stinking bus inside. I looked under the seat to find
the parachute, but the steward said there weren’t any. Disappointing I had
seen myself jumping out off the burning plane land safely and be in
the newspapers. The steward handed out sweets I pretended to eat one,
thought it might be a drug to keep us quiet, this made sense since many of
the passengers were drunk. Turbulence, like driving on a bad country lane,
I threw up in a paper bag. The plane landed in Sweden, the flight had only
lasted an hour. Walked tall across the grey tarmac, nonchalant presented
my passport to an immigration officer. Here comes a seasoned traveler.

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-26T13:33:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-24T08:56:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-23T14:08:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-23T04:53:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

fado

2010-07-22T03:29:00.001-07:00

The Fado Singer

Our visitor was ninety two and could see far into the past
and into a future that held no trepidation.

Unaided she got up and sang us a Fado about love that
never lasts and the sorrow of defeat...

Melancholy, that’s Fado for you, but it’s also about how
sweet love is, and the art of acceptance

She lives in the shadow land of an impending ending
and what is new and timeless.

When she left she beckoned for me to kiss her, I bent down
to touch her cheek, but she kissed my loveless lips.

I was enamoured, and her eyes was clear as heaven;
a woman is forever a woman even at ninety two.

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-16T04:21:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-15T02:59:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-14T16:20:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

वेयर थे नोर्थ्वेस्तेर्ली blows

2010-07-14T16:09:00.001-07:00

Where the Northwesterly Blows (memory of a town)

In the small park with gloomy trees, near where the factories used to be,
was a bust of a man’s image on a plinth. I think it was made of bronze,
the head was brown when not striped white by seagull droppings.
Mother said he had been a Mesèn; she liked using odd words, desperately
trying to keep afloat in a world of tinned sardines in oil and mackerel in
tomato sauce. I took it to mean a rich man kind to working people and had
donated this sad little park surrounded by damp factory walls; a place where
the workers could sit and enjoy the sun. The park was only open Saturday
Afternoons and Sundays, one couldn’t have people sitting there during work
week. A child climbed over its fence and drowned in a tarn of green algae.
The park was eradicated, just as the grim factories were thirty years later.
Life was bleak in my town, one neon lit advert, on the night sky “Jesus Saves.”
Competing with the stars, and a persistent rumour that the man in the suit
shop wore ladies underwear.

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-14T08:45:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-13T15:48:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-13T10:23:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-13T01:55:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

सतुरदय night

2010-07-13T01:42:00.001-07:00

Saturday Night in Blue.

The house key was on the same ring as my car key, couldn’t find
them I had locked myself out. Car neatly parked I never drink drive,
the bar is nearby. I broke a window in the back, got in. Blinking light
outside: police telling me to open the door, I did, was wrestled to
the ground. At the station they came to their senses, let me go,
but refused to drive me back, since I smelled of booze and only had
myself to blame. Long walk home, bars had shut. Climbed through,
the same broken window, the keys, on the kitchen table. I uncorked
a bottle of wine, opened the front door, just in case, no one came,
I went to bed at dawn.

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-07T11:34:00.001-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-07T11:34:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-07T08:42:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

थे past

2010-07-07T07:07:00.001-07:00

The Past

I live in a cottage that is 350 years old, wish I could have seen a ghost,
because I believe they exist. When I moved in here part of it had been
a stable and on warm nights I can still smell hey and the mule that lived
in what is now my living room . When I first came here ancient voices
emitted from the walls, people who had lived her before had toiled
the soil and lived in poverty. One cannot erase the history of past
generations where people had lived, even if their physical bodies are
no longer here but their souls remain and speak to us if we care to listen.
The cottage seemed content that someone had moved in, no house likes
to be abandoned. New roof, plastered wall voices subsided and waned
altogether, yet on this hot night I do hear sighs, smell the mules sweat.
Is it my imagination only if I see the contour of the animal and see a man
stroking its head? And talking softly.

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-06T04:25:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-06T01:41:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-05T11:19:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-07-05T04:52:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

वेयर थे वेस्तेर्ली बलोवस

2010-07-05T04:04:00.001-07:00

Where the Northwesterly Blows

In the small park with gloomy trees, near where the factories used to be,
was a bust of a man’s image on a plinth. I think it was made of bronze,
the head was brown when not striped white by seagull droppings.
Mother said he had been a Mesèn; she liked using odd words, desperately
trying to keep afloat in a world of tinned sardines in oil and mackerel in
tomato sauce. I took it to mean a rich man kind to working people and had
donated this sad little park surrounded by damp factory walls, a place where
the workers could sit and enjoy the sun. The park was only open Saturday
Afternoons and Sundays, one couldn’t have people sitting there during work
week. A child climbed over its fence and drowned in a tarn of green algae.
The park was eradicated, just as the grim factories where thirty years later.
Life was bleak in my town, one neon lit adds, on the night sky “Jesus Saves.”
Competing with the stars, and a persistent rumour that the man in the suit
shop wore ladies underwear.

काचैस portugal

2010-06-25T03:51:00.001-07:00

Cascais, Portugal.

First day of summer both winter and spring, full of rain; we are visiting her mother’s
resting place, a hole in a wall with a glass door that has a flimsy lock; easy to break in to
but who would want too? Her mother, born in Kinshasa, Congo, but upheaval forced
her to leave; now she rests in Cascais, Portugal far from her native land. The bible on
top of the coffin is full of tiny holes soon the book will be a pile of dust

While my wife pray I go for a walk, beautiful day and Cascais has a lovely bay. There are
sailboats and a few yachts in the bay one of them belongs to Prince Albert of Monaco,
he likes Portugal, the local paper enthuses. Indeed, aren’t we lucky? She joins me, says
“I don’t like boats and I don’t like the sea, my first husband took me on a sailing trip in
lake Lugarno, I was so sick they had to set me ashore.” We turn our back to the bay,
her mother and walk back to the car.

I remember a winter night in the North Atlantic Ocean, giant waves came crashing on
deck taking the railing and lifeboats away. Three ships sank that night with irrelevant
cargo onboard. No survivors. “Yes dear, the sea is a monster if it doesn’t takes your
body it takes your soul.”

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-06-24T04:18:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-06-23T14:26:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

seas

2010-06-23T01:28:00.001-07:00

A Poem from the Seas

I once saw, where the horizon ends, a ship plough the sky.
White tears on pale blue, and I saw the waiting darkness;
I knew, before any others, it would be a starlit night.
Look, I said, but it was too late, the ship had cast anchor
behind a cloud loading mist for Dogger Banks, and take
onboard discarded dreams to plug the dikes of Amsterdam.
Sunflowers on mythical sea and red flying fish, my ship is
bound for the Saragossa Sea with a hold full of old sailors,
it’s here they come to stalk in the fog of the forgotten.

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-06-19T06:08:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

थे इंग्लिश Rose

2010-06-18T07:09:00.001-07:00

The English Rose (end of a dream)

I once met an English rose, slightly frizzled at the edges.
Her eyes was as green as the Atlantic sea, this alone
should have been a warning, ‘cause I know how untrue
the sea can be. Her voice sounded like tinkling bells and
her artistic hands could to wonders. Embraced we slept in
the good tiredness of exhausted lovers. But in heaves of
love she often whispered another man’s name, it filled me
with foreboding. I rang and rang, no answer, went to her
house, she wasn’t there, her neighbor said she had gone
to Spain and she mentioned a name I had so often heard.
The good woman saw my tears, hugged me and whispered.
“She is not worthy of your love.” Years went by I saw her at
a supermarket’s check out. Her bloom had gone, no longer
a rose, just a woman with a bitter lined face carrying a bag
of grocery.

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-06-18T05:32:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-06-16T06:12:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-06-15T13:49:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

drumsticks

2010-06-15T08:17:00.001-07:00

Drumsticks

On the food chain chicken score badly, millions of them are eaten every
year, I used like chicken wings; well they are not going to fly anywhere.
Soon chickens will lose their wings, not like sergeant loses his stripes, but
they have no need for them in a factory farm. All soldiers are brave- until
they are arrested for depravity- the bravest ones fight in Afghanistan, in
an army that has been mostly privatized. Soldiers kill people for us, even
If we protest, it is about duty and honour for them to do so. No one beats
the British in doing military funerals, they have such a long practice.
The Brits have a long warrior tradition, working class people are especially
proud of that. Like the chicken feed the masses, they feed the cannons.
I like chickens they put their heads on a block for us, chop, chop, chop.
The west fights war everywhere now, wants to make their presence felt,
but there is a quiet desperation in all this they are no longer in charge,
the Far East is the future and that is ok, when Europe is a byline, and US,
merits two lines, because its biggest industry is Wild West movies, Europe
can become a theme park, where Thailand’s single, or not or not so lone
men can come for a sex holiday

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-06-15T06:20:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-06-14T05:15:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-06-14T03:13:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-06-13T09:00:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-06-13T04:54:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

2010-06-09T10:07:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography

ग्लूमी sunda

2010-06-09T08:11:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vPp1GeJ2yDo

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography - A Rabbit's Tale

2010-06-07T05:48:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography - A Rabbit's Tale

overwhelemed

2010-06-07T01:43:00.000-07:00

Overwhelmed

Today I saw the world’s biggest butterfly
when it flew overhead the day darkened.
the colour of it was of intense rainbow so
brilliant I helpless fell to the ground.

Slowly I woke up, trees were ashen and
the dell, so green had turned xanthous.
Too much beauty kills lesser loveliness,
It took days to find our natural stability.

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography - they are coming to take me away aha

2010-06-06T06:16:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography - they are coming to take me away aha

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography - an everlasting moment

2010-06-05T07:54:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography - an everlasting moment

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography - Calameo

2010-06-04T16:02:00.000-07:00

"Cracks in the Mirror" Poetry & photography - Calameo

अटलांटिक sea

2010-06-04T04:34:00.000-07:00

The Atlantic

Thought I was over it now, the call that is my destiny;
twice I have tried to be a part of the sea,
but I failed swam to the surface inhaling life giving air.
I have moved inland, far from the sea,
where there is a puny lake and it dries up in June.
I have no son or daughter that will visit me
at the old people’s home.
No one to fuzz over me tell me not to smoke or waiting for me to go.
The sea is my friend.
My youth was spent there, alone at night standing on the deck,
of a ship, talking to the ocean, listening to its warm hum;
I resisted wanted more of life I think.
I have been wrong now that I’m old and have lost my dignity,
holding on to life when every
stab of pain tells me I’m there.
The sea has retreated I know it waits for me to know when it
is time to go home.