I found you, Valeriu DG Barbu in pressing words and digging post holes. Liked what you wrote. Romanian, Roman poet, play write, artist, host. And soon, in six months found something of my own in vice, in voice, in box, in stories, the least and most of which was poetry from within me. As for your poem… “Gotcha…”
You write as if you know me. You speak as if you’d hold me. No? If not so, why do you tongue my heart and soul? Then pone me. If not love, why would you own me and control me at your will with words? Absurd? Why so? This is the perfect job of poet. Tell me. If not? What would I know?or No?
So then what is my name? Ostrich? I burry this my head, because I am a dumb American? ha ha… Because I am a presumptious woman? These pages remain silver, smooth and empty. Silver and in siege. Ungiven. As such will speak no ill for any other. Without a stylus for the etching. A foamless ocean speechless, still. The wakes all gone to frozen. All gone to hell. A glassy, oily ice flow edifice on which I’m skating well to nowhere.
So you may call me Mermaid in this tale. In this Olympic scoring, From winter into spring. In style and also fashion the Mermaid cuts won’t cut it on the ice. There freedom must abound especially among comrades. Dive deeper.
Requiring this, my curvy cursive tailing, the regular tight dress just won’t suffice. It is a trapping. A devilish device without the feathery, asymmetrical flare and colored Red for Russie. Oh well, at least it’s not a peacock swell and flare. No exhibition here or there. Or anywhere? For fear.
So take it off. So change you say! but not for money, power. Must rearrange, redress the sex. This sin is mine. By any other name it is Narcissisa. In putting on the natural girl, in falling hard to show and tell. I must reform.
I’ll fall in love with Jesus. Nice. This sin’s the thing that got me into trouble twice. The first with him, and now with… Jesus will set me right.
Imagining me making love to God is superhuman. Weird. Not wise. Not normal Christian practice, this. In thinking Christ the bridgroom. And yet the Pastor mentions this. He’s free and clear. Not me. I’m _____. I’m not. But, I am through. Sorry, and sometimes silent too. Or maybe not if you would just believe me.
No room for this temptation or this image, immaculate conception. Exceptions and entendre’s not allowed in any forum, or casual mention. So this may be my last and final worm meal, and invention, before the press arrives, and hit men have me in their sites.
Too sick for supper, a swimmer more of sorrow, No Rehearsal feast, or wedding ring to borrow. I really do believe, possess great faith, just not enough discernment underneath. Barely an ounce of wisdom in my foolery. Some day I’ll learn it well in all this schooling.
American express to hard times here. I climb upon the cross I bear in owning up to weakness, where it’s just not fair for thinking to be painful. Speech refraining. Reproach disdainful. It’s ultra limiting I think. This dress. And growing Mermaid hair a mess and in between in length and coloring. More like a Samson in loss of strength for loss of hair I’ve yet to grow to perfect flowing beauty.
I’ll keep my skates though. Glide away. Away from all varieties of pride. I’ll give my self more fully to the first and greatest of the kind commandments. Drive gratefully and sing more Seriously, in Broken Hallelujahs. If I can’t fully love my fellows, then by God! I’ll love my God much more discretely. Much more repletely. Word on the street….He loves me too. Completely.
Meanwhile in Sochi, excitement of the flesh rehearses step work, exactness and expression, originality and freshness. Technique sung out with grace the elements succinctly in this short form race. Around they glide and prance in circulating, harmonizing. They’re simply very appetizing these samplers of the world. Oh how they twirl. Their siren songs enticing men, and boys and girls.
The fans, they eat it up and spit it out. They send their love for champion teens while singing praise to Nicotine in smoke rings, yellow fingers, stoke mustached Lenin stogies more like furnaces than bombs and boggies.
The beautiful young athletes are gods and goddesses. Leave me at odds in coveting each and every perfectly chiseled body and flowing bodices. Like Michael’s David, the marble marvels speed around the oval while US kids still drink their Tang and Ovaltine. While Russians and the World pour into view, there are millions in the country who are starving too. The clarity of disparity just disgusts me.
The crowns they wear of olive leaves. Adaptive togas more suitable for legs than wings, need slits for splits to breathe. Instead of parkas better suited for winter on Red Square, falls Stalin’s broken nose. I thought I’d maybe see a chess match there. Wrong. Instead requires tissues, and long underwear.
I’m kind of glad I’m here not there though. Afraid I’d likely be in jail there from falling into public prayer there. There at the Kremlin. But not for atheism. Ha! More for my God. I long to care more.
I wouldn’t be in trouble though for this thing. For staying home with greasy Sunday hair in choosing not to go for churching. Eclectically in bed, rehearse electric messages in my Christian head. Some think this absence terse. But they’re not me. I much prefer good verse, the burning bush soliloquy and mountain hikes of summer. Bummer! It’s 45 degrees in that facility, the Ice Cube. It’s warmer in my bed and in my tele-vision.
Bardu, the words you write require senses to take notice, the mind and heart and voice to do a circle dance, just to promote this cutting in on one another, perhaps a waltz or salsa. Thank you. I don’t pretend to know your craft, but you do make one dance. How’s that?! Per chance we’ll meet some day…then what?
So if you know me, what would you soon call me? Word slut? Or would you call me dear, if I were not your dear? Fool inquisitor? Just wondering. Please dont console me.
Still, this is a thing I’d like to know and hear and feel from every person who has ever known me….but they don’t really know me. They do not say this thing. No no. The world is such a silent reader, more frequently finds voice in gossip, cell phones, in commerce keeping time zones. Smiling cost cutters wield nicer vices.
Electronic fare someday will make us cyborgs. And while we’re on it, what name should I address you as? Something Italian? Roman? Croaz? A name that I can sing? Be known as…
Your name reminds me of the “Happy Wanderer” of mountain tops. I used to sing this song when I was very young to mom and pop. And now along you’ve come. Our hiking trails have crossed and may be sold in privatizing golf courses. Please do not take offense. I’m lost and runing wild colt with the horses.
“I often go a wandering along the mountain track. And as I go, I love to sing, my knapsack on my back.”
More like a fanny pack or baggy purse I carry this, my writing notebook in. It’s not my sister’s baby Moses, but I can tote a strong, clear tune in breaking into chorus when I am in the forrest.
Valerieeeeeeeeee valerahhhhhhhhh Valerieeeeeee valer a ha ha ha ha ha. Valerieeeeeee DG Barbewwwww.”
The short dance ends as it began in smiling and in posing. Who knows when, and if I’ll ever go to Russia, or to any Olympic Games. Proposing I’m in no rush. Hooray! The female Nordic jumpers are making history. As such, I cheer in sistering. Those girls are making it, and I’m alive to view and taking it with pleasure. And I would be more golden too, if only in imagining some poetry.
I love the heros and the over comers. Some Frozen ones prevail in what they’ve done in turning viewing numbers. Some day I’ll climb the podium if only you would speak to me again. For now I only bid a Ciao bella, and blow a kiss Dear Valeriu DG Barbu. 🙂