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This crazy vision of mine.
THE ABORTION.
The stillness of the room is
gently broken by the first stroke
of the young concertmaster’s baton.
Onstage, the unfolding curtain of flesh
slowly reveals the
rising stamen of Ganymede.
Life force swells: the crescendo é accelerando
of aching muscles and rallying corpuscles
soon cheer on an intimate pas de deux
between hand and penis.
At once, the ritual fountain catapults
stars and comets in a
grand feu d’artifice.
How suddenly the triumphant applause of
body and emotion dissipate into silent shame
as the youth wipes away the seed
of the aborted fetus.
THE HOMECOMING.
Two machines work in tandem to
transport the newcomer to his
destination: the Incoming Arrivals
terminal, some 60-feet away.
One is called Body: a
miraculous mechanism of impulses
and veiny cylinders which pumps
sparks of inertia into otherwise
lifeless organs and limbs.
Another has assumed the name Escalator:
a complex simple machine, whose
sleek metal and plastic components
derive their electricity from a
brain unaffected by emotion and the
undependable workings of the spleen.
Together, these two brains scheme
to smuggle Body from plane to
terminal without arousing its
potential security risk:
the emotional system.
Body’s eye-apparatus fixates
upon the fourth wall,
noting neither destination
nor landscape in-between.
Brain sends Body impressions
of Elevator and simultaneously
commands to “search and find.”
Spleen sleeps, sufficiently
blinded by Eyes (and too
sophisticated to implement the
long-since devolved functions
of Ears and Nose).
Vessels pump … gears spin;
and Eyes notes a multitude of
peer-bodies assuming similar
movements; a signal is sent to
Brain, with press releases to
Body: “Everyone is doing it.
Ergo, it must be right!”
Body moves toward Escalator
with gusto; and Spleen awakens
abruptly when Escalator
chuckles “gotcha!!!”
But the hopelessness is not
fully understood until Spleen
realizes that Body is alone
in the stream of fast-walking
zombies, guided by Eyes’ robotic
gaze … and overhears the one-way
laughter of Escalator, who
neither sputters nor flinches.
(The preceding poems are from “Collected poems and stories”.)
STORTÅEN.
Hhhjaaahh … skål!
For glede … og
forføreriske hipp hopp –
ghettorytmer som
tvinger mitt hjerte
til å synge, og mine
stramme lender til å
svinge … fønky!!! Jaaaahh …
Virkelig svinge; uhh høhhh …
så intenst at
muskelvevene mine får
huden til å sprekke
perler
av oljeglatt svette
som renner, nei –
siver …
hemningsløst, og
uten samvittighet
… langt nedover …
(ikke stopp) …
mot min ventende …
(JEG BLIR SÅ FLAU –
den rykker noe jæææævlig
med musikken) …
mot min svære,
stygge,
opphissede,
arrete,
sexy
og sjelfulle
stortåen.
“Skal vi legge oss snart,
søta!??”
(The preceding poem is from “Three-legged Waltz”.)
INSTANT RECALL.
‘Real’ briefly becomes surreal,
through transference;
flashbacks of earlier moments –
long since filed away on
my mental hard-drive:
from the first teenage ejaculation to
secret college dorm circle jerks, and
more-recent ‘delurked’ web chats.
Our momentary glimpse in passing
awakens all those lost memories
and more … yeah …
relentless fever; overtaking us
both — albeit individually, and
intentionally confined to our own
private memories and fantasies –
We meet … just for a few minutes …
and briefly exchange a
kaleidoscope of potential
experiences — fueled by
instant recall.
The scent of my own fresh semen
on my genitalia, chest and chin
inundates the moment and
my last thought as our eyes
finally avert one another is:
“Scoop it up!”
SEX ME UP!
Sex me up … real good!
I’m following every word
in our web chat … looking
for every possible perambulation;
all double-meanings and
cleverly-veiled suggestive remarks.
But don’t get too direct with me, and
I don’t want to know your problems;
you must never interfere with
my attraction to the fisted fantasy
that gives me ultimate satisfaction:
the ‘other world’ you think that we create
together, but which I (myself)
both covet and selfishly desire to own
entirely and solely.
You know the rules … you know the game;
now sex me up — real good!
BUSTED BY A BANALITY.
I was just about to successfully
pull off a ‘premature evacuation’
when the goddamned computer announced
“You got mail!”;
thus waking my sleeping partner.
After lying and saying I was
just going to get a glass of water,
he turned over and returned to his snoring.
I sat up awake …
wondering what his important
e-mail message was.
“We can get you a bigger penis!”
I crawled back into bed,
quietly singing to myself
about the fifty ways …
(The preceding poems are from “Gaytude”.)
THIS CRAZY VISION OF MINE.
I lie on the sofa — half-asleep in a wet dream,
my body lubricated with sweat and the
room pungent with the imagined scent of
dripping man-cunt and semen.
The ringing of the telephone disrupts my fisted dance
with an impudence that only can be described
in four- or five-letter words, and a disturbing
feeling comes over me — somehow
I know that something is amiss –
this crazy vision of mine offers no
humane release; there is no humanity
anymore — only the immorality of
so-called ‘morality’ and idleness.
They say that idleness is the work of
the Devil, yet society binds us to
television and global propaganda
ranging from politics to advertising:
a sadomasochistic mind control.
Big Brother is not watching us –
we have become Him willingly,
embracing uniformity and ratting
out suspected dissidents — be they
enemy or friend, neighbour or mother.
I pick up the receiver and before
I manage to grunt ‘hallo’ I hear
a husky breathing sound –
not quite panting, but a
relentless deep-seated
emanation evolving from
the caller’s spleen.
After two minutes of mutual
breathing into the receivers,
I excuse myself to go get
a cigarette, and we continue
our duet — my caller singing
the baseline while I willingly
exhale the melody.
When my suitor abruptly
hangs up the telephone
I fall back onto the sofa,
finally spent — and
immediately depressed.
I cannot get the experience
out of my mind.
It is forever embedded in my libido
and I will never again be the same.
(The preceding poem is from “Entre Nous”.)
My Stranger … So Sweet.
MY STRANGER … SO SWEET.
So sweet
are your suggested promises.
My stranger.
My unobtainable
moment of passion.
You coax me;
you cast me aside.
We can only have each other
in our leap-frog dreams:
both out-of-sync and yet
totally — oh so totally …
in syncopation.
The relentless fantasy is more
than the sum of reality’s
individual parts.
I see you everywhere;
in the gait of strangers …
in my memories.
Beginning from the
waist down …
easing toward the toes
and then quickly
darting upwards
to a fleeting and
indiscriminate
photographic flash
of your insignificant face.
My stranger.
My passion.
My stranger …
So sweet.
GLAMOUR.
Walking the fine line
between glamour and
sobriety … taking care not
to fall between the
cracks … not to believe
in the darkness of the
daylight alone,
away from the glitter
of champagne cocktail nights,
designer jackets,
tastefully-torn jeans
and uncomfortable shoes.
The music must not stop;
shine the camera on me
just a little bit longer. See:
I am setting the pace,
flaunting a fashion statement.
Synthetic is but a natural
reaction against reality.
Just give me my moment.
A self-made idol;
cliches spat out and
regurgitated.
Yes, I could be a star.
What … my name?
I am just part of the
rhythm, the lights are
my melody against the
night of glittering glam.
A torn off piece of
average sparkling
against the annals of
history and the
forgettable.
DIRTY TALK.
Dirty talking shadows in
dimly-lit smoke-filled bars
stir restless gonads to
suggestion, proposition
and sweet, nasty lies.
The scent of body sweat
mingles with department store
perfume like oil and water,
leather and silk –
unlikely, yet strangely magnetic.
Oh yeah …
I love the way the lie
exuding from your posing stance
binds my wrists and genitals
pulling me to my knees,
demanding nameless submission.
Across the distance we begin a
sultry dance of anonymous flirtation:
I turn to catch your stare,
you look away;
my eyes drop to my cocktail,
yours slowly scan my torso and loins.
I acknowledge with a smile and you
walk away because I broke the rules,
was too eager to collude fantasy
with reality and was, therefore, unsafe.
You feign indifference as you watch me
leave with another two hours later.
And I’m already half-spent as
I prepare to torpedo our dirty talk
into the bowels of my compromise.
BLADE.
our dance is ritual;
a senseless obsession
between two moths
playing with fire.
no chains, no whips.
just bondage … and the
ever-sweet consequence of
a saber’s cutting edge.
FOR THE BOYS (with AIDS).
To friends who don’t know
and strangers who don’t care,
soldiers of love worship
tinsel-town sex goddesses
with all their strength.
They thrive outwardly on
the rantings of Madonna and
privately soothe their pain
and hopelessness with somber
strains by Leonard Cohen.
Their greatest ambition is
to shake the shackles of shame
which imprison and threaten
them with the most undignified
fate of all: namelessness.
To some there is no irony in death,
but others are enraged at the
uncanny plight of these handsome
living dead whose only crime was
need for love and recognition.
SURVIVOR.
SURVIVOR.
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 …
HERITAGE? RIGHT!
Heritage … right!
So what has your generation
really passed on to me?!!
A set of identities that often don’t fit;
a world riddled with standardization,
wars,
lies,
plastic reality-show idols,
virus,
global warming,
uncertainty,
and all too easy access to drugs …
(that sweet salvation that ultimately enslaves).
Sure, I respect what you worked for:
a sense of potential, and the
personal freedom to express my
‘right to be me’.
But what the fuck does it matter when
individual isolation in an
out-of-control jungle presses me
further inward than you ever were?
I won’t give up today’s cyber-existence;
but sometimes I really do envy your
‘Good old days’ …
Heritage … right!
(from “Gaytude: a poetic journey around the world”)
L.A. HOMEBOY
Hey Homeboy!
Ran into Faith, your woman,
up in the barrio last Saturday.
She wanted to know how her ‘homeboy’ is.
I told her you was still doin’ time.
Her ma won’t let her write,
but it ain’t been the same, bro’.
Little Julio’s started dealin’ crack,
and she’s two months pregnant.
When I asked her if the kid
was yours, she started cryin’.
I didn’t know what to do, man;
so I put my arm around her
and mumbled: “You gotta keep the fai …”
Then I stopped, dried her tears
and smiled, while sayin’:
“If Homeboy was here, he’d tell you
to keep the baby, Faith.”
(from “Collected poems and stories”)
Cloudburst.
CLOUDBURST.
breakdancing clouds
laughingly roar
with all the grace
of shattering glass.
(from “Collected poems and stores”)
SHELTER.
When dusk acquiesces
to the shelter of night,
overpowering the
songs of crickets and
silent movements
of creepy-crawlers,
a quiet calm
overtakes
the ruminations of
my psyche
allowing soul regression
to dance
in the matrix
between experience
and remembrance.
FRAGMENTS.
Dulled slivers of emotion
no longer entangled with
words flutter and scurry
out-of-sequence.
Once air-bound, the
footloose fragments of
a life gone past seek
resolution and release by
eluding recognition and
assuaging the sharpness of reality.
And quite relentlessly these
now-transformed bits of
parchment confetti find new
definition by recreating history.
(from “Three-legged Waltz”)
Dog days.
DOG DAYS.
On dog days,
when nothing goes right,
impatient young men grumble
that the gods are
not on their side.
Their pursed lips
may boast indifference
but tell-tale scars
of self-abuse underscore
the misery of defeat.
PEER GROUP HEROES.
To inner-city true believers,
average is the ugly consequence
of weakness and error –
their idols being tv immortals,
and greatest foe time.
Suitably, peer group heroes
inspire the less visible
with eloquently-layered lies –
and not once disassociate
mask from morality.
(from “Collected poems and stories”)
BOUNDARIES.
Peripheral lines
in my psyche
and yours
dance and intersect
with agreement
and understanding.
But crossed
boundaries
lead both
dogs and nations
to quarrel.
(from “Three-legged Waltz)
All about Adam.
I have published various literary works: poems, stories, novellas/short novels, literary criticism, essays, art photography criticism; and also work with painting and photography. I was born in the USA, and reside in Norway. I have been a professional visual artist (since 1995) and a writer (since 1987). I have published 11 books, in USA, Norway and India, as well as several short works in literary publications. Among my many literary and artistic themes are multilingualism, the transcultural, spiritual development, societal development, LGBT issues, hiv/aids etc. I have written, performed and published works in English, Spanish, French and Norwegian. My poetry and essays have been translated into several languages, including: Spanish, French, Russian, Japanese and Bengali.
I have had one-man and group exhibitions at art galleries and public institutions in Norway and Sweden. My most recent exhibitions include a group exhibition at the R5 Gallery – Government Ministry Gallery in Oslo, a one-man show at the Rådhus galleri (Oslo City Hall Gallery) in November-December 2009, and my one-man exhibition (art photography) at S9 Galleri in Oslo in June of 2011. My art serves as book cover art and internet art as well as fine art.
Adam’s profile at Saatchi Online Gallery
Printed book publications:
MOST RECENTLY RELEASED (BY CYBERWIT.NET):
The tunnel at the end of time (co-written with Rick Davis and Azsacra Zarathustra), Cyberwit.net, ISBN 978-81-8253-160-4 , © 2010, India.
PREVIOUS PUBLICATIONS:
Malerier og fotokunst,a short 38-page retrospective overview of some of Adam Donaldson Powell’s best known oil paintings and photographic art works. Published by Cyberwit.net as a special limited and numbered full-color, soft cover edition (55 copies only), ISBN 978-81-8253-154-3, India, © 2009.
Gaytude: a poetic journey around the world, gay poetry in English and French by Albert Russo and Adam Donaldson Powell, 335 pages, published by Xlibris Corporation, © 2009,
Library of Congress Control Number: 2008907964, ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4363-6396-9, ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4363-6395-2, USA.
2014: the life and adventures of an incarnated angel, 135 pages, Cyberwit.net, ISBN 978-81-8253-118-5, © 2008, India.
Critical Essays, literary and photobook criticism by Adam Donaldson Powell and Dr. Santosh Kumar, 108 pages, Cyberwit.net, ISBN 978-81-8253-110-9, © 2008, India.
Le Paradis (Paradise), 80 pages, Cyberwit.net, ISBN 978-81-8253-103-1, © 2008, India. Includes a booklet with symbols from The Universal Language of Light, as seen by Laila Holand.
Rapture: endings of space and time (86 pages), Cyberwit,net, ISBN 978-81-8253-083-6, © 2007, India.
Three-legged Waltz, (80 pages), Cyberwit.net, ISBN 818253058X, © 2006, India.
Collected Poems and Stories, (175 pages), Cyberwit.net, ISBN 8182530288, © 2005, India.
Arcana and other archetypes, (special limited edition – hardback collection of poetry), AIM Chapbooks ANS, © 2001, Norway (now out-of-print).
Notes of a Madman, (hardback collection of poetry), Winston-Derek Publishers, Inc., © 1987, ISBN 1-55523-054-7, USA (now out-of-print).
NEW E-BOOK, RELEASED IN NOVEMBER 2010! ORDER “THE STALKER – Tale of a French Bitch” NOW AT: AMAZON KINDLE BOOKS!
The Stalker (Tale of a French Bitch) is a story that explores the battle between the sexes, sexual orientation, questions of gender and the psychological aspects of personal identity. Rachel, the main character, suffers from multiple personality disorder and enters into a relationship with a transsexual in transition (a shemale). There are many twists and turns to this bilingual tale, which is mostly written in English but which also includes a bit of French.
NB. Don’t own a Kindle device? No problem. You can still read e-books from Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk. See iTunes for free kindle apps for your iPhone, iPod, iPad, personal computer and other devices.
MY OTHER AMAZON.COM E-BOOKS INCLUDE:
- The Tunnel at the End of Time: ORDER IT AT AMAZON KINDLE BOOKS!
- 2014: the life and adventures of an incarnated angel: ORDER IT AT AMAZON KINDLE BOOKS!
- Entre Nous: ORDER IT AT AMAZON KINDLE BOOKS!
SEE MY AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE: AT AMAZON!
CHECK OUT MY NEW PROMOTIONAL VIDEO HERE!
NB. This is best viewed with Safari or Mozilla Firefox. Enjoy!
Other publication experience (selected):
Essays, literary criticism and photobook criticism by Adam Donaldson Powell have appeared in many literary magazines, literary websites, newspapers etc., including but not limited to: Small Press Review, Ginyu, Los Muestros, Inyathi, Lynx Online Literary Magazine, Skyline Review, Taj Mahal Review, Samora Magazine, Kritya: a journal of poetry, Writer’s Cramp, Portugal News, Skyline Magazine’s and Hudson View Poetry Digest’s literary criticism website etc. Adam has reviewed many talented authors and art photography book artists, including: Albert Russo, Pradip Choudhuri, Jan Oskar Hansen, Shirley Bolstok, Robert P. Craig, Mary Barnet, Literary House Review 2007, Orania Hamilton, AZsacra Zarathustra and Jgor Pyatinin, Geert Verbeke, Barbara Elizabeth Mercer, Alan D. Busch, Fernando Rodríguez, Victoria Valentine, Vijaiganga, Marie Mappley, Robert M. Wilson, Linda A. Peters, Ban’ya Natsuishi, Sayumi Kamakura, Moshé Liba, T. Wignesan etc.
Adam has written prefaces for books, and edited novels and books of poetry, as well as individual poems and short stories, written by several other authors.
Adam’s own literary works and artworks have appeared in several literary reviews and journals, anthologies, online magazines, literary websites etc. on several continents.
Distinctions and memberships:
GAYTUDE IS THE 2009 NATIONAL INDIE EXCELLENCE AWARD WINNER FOR THE CATEGORY GAY/LESBIAN NONFICTION!
Adam Donaldson Powell has been listed amongst notable GLBT writers of all time: here!
Steering committee, WORDS: one path to peace and understanding, Oslo, 2008. Read the ONLINE REPORT.
Winner of the AZsacra International Poetry Award, 2008
Recipient of Norwegian Foreign Ministry’s travel stipend for authors, 2005.
MEMBER OF:
BONO
World Poets Society
Poetas del Mundo
Norwegian P.E.N.
Bilingual MCA
IFLAC-Argentina
DEGREES AND EDUCATION:
New York University, Master of Public Administration, 1985.
Goddard College, Bachelor of Arts, 1974.
Language studies in Norwegian, Spanish and French in the USA and Norway.
Post-graduate studies in international business administration (BI School of Management).
Private piano studies with several renowned concert pianists, including: Jacob Lateiner, Arminda Canteros, Berenice Lipsen-Grüzen and John Ranck.
POETRY PERFORMANCE:
Adam has performed his poetry in English, French, Spanish and Norwegian, and at various venues from New York City to Oslo to Buenos Aires to Kathmandu.
(above photo courtesy Blikk Magazine, Norway)
The Stalker (tale of a French Bitch) … and Entre Nous
NEWS! THE STALKER (tale of a French Bitch).
NEW E-BOOK! ORDER “THE STALKER – Tale of a French Bitch” (bilingual and erotic) NOW AT: AMAZON KINDLE BOOKS: THE STALKER
The Stalker (Tale of a French Bitch) is a story that explores the battle between the sexes, sexual orientation, questions of gender and the psychological aspects of personal identity. Rachel, the main character, suffers from multiple personality disorder and enters into a relationship with Angélique, a transsexual in transition (a shemale). There are many twists and turns to this bilingual tale, which is mostly written in English but which also includes a bit of French.
A short excerpt:
Rachel seemed to be back-in-form as she followed the priest in the direction of the toilets, showing no problems balancing herself on her heels. Once in the hallway where the toilets were located, Rachel steadied herself against the wall and waited a couple of minutes before pushing open the door to the men’s room and walking inside – careful to assure herself that no one was following or watching her. Once inside she confirmed that they were all alone. The priest was standing in front of a urinal and was lost in his thoughts. “I will give you something to think about,” said Rachel to herself. She quickly looked around the men’s room for a weapon but everything seemed to be bolted down in the austerely-furnished men’s room. About to give up and leave the toilet, Rachel then spied a metal trash receptable under the hand drier next to the door. She quickly snatched up the receptacle and repeatedly bashed the priest, exclaiming: “This is a privilege I am about to bestow upon you!”
The bleeding priest was cowering, and looking quite pitiful and shocked as he cried out: “Dear woman! What devilry has possessed you to attack an innocent priest in this way? I …”
But Rachel was no longer Rachel, and Emily was pissed. She was pissed at all priests, at all men … and at all who had ever hurt her. And she coldly responded by continuing to bash the poor man with the trash receptable while saying: “Never again. Tell your fellow thugs that they never must fuck with me.” And smashing him senseless with each word, she repeated: “DO (bash with trash receptacle) … NOT (bash with trash receptacle) … FUCK (bash with trash receptacle) WITH (bash with trash receptacle) ME!!!” She completed the ritual by throwing the receptacle at the man, who was now lying on the floor like a wet dishrag – bloody and near unconscious. Emily splashed some cold water onto her face, tried to remove as much of the “silly make-up” as possible, and Rachel (now back, and seeing what Emily had done) affected calm as she hurriedly exited the men’s room – as if all were perfectly normal. Once back in the hallway, she hurried past a cleaning woman pushing a cart – who was on her way out of the personnel toilet and entering the neighboring ladies’ room – and back to the table where Sébastien was still studying the menu.
NEWS! ENTRE NOUS (a gay erotic fantasy).
NEW E-BOOK! ORDER “ENTRE NOUS” (multilingual and erotic) NOW AT: AMAZON KINDLE BOOKS: ENTRE NOUS
Adam Donaldson Powell has been listed amongst notable GLBT writers of all time: here!
Mots cochon.
La poésie est merveilleuse … mais la vraie poésie se trouve dans la vie quotidienne. Malheureusement, le plus souvent, seul le poète peut la comprendre.
— Adam Donaldson Powell
Gaytude est une vision poétique, tant de la diversité, que de l’universalité de l’expérience gay … elle est la confluence dans laquelle l’amour individuel, le désir et l’identité, sont à la fois, constamment en tandem et en conflit avec les moeurs, les coutumes, les codes de conduite et les tendances de la société. D’une certaine manière, nous sommes tous gay … dans la mesure où nous voulons tous jouïr du droit d’être différent, et en même temps, de rester ce que nous sommes essentiellement. Pour certains, la plus belle chose qui soit au monde est la reconnaissance et l’acceptation, pour d’autres, c’est l’aventure qui prime, l’excitation d’une intimité secrète. Ce livre est dédié à tous les gays de la terre, aussi bien à ceux qui proclament haut et fort leur homosexualité, qu’à ceux qui ne la mettent pas en avant, ou qui la cachent, de peur d’être pointés du doigt, de subir quolibets et agressions, voire pire, de se faire emprisonner, fouetter ou même tuer, dans ces pays, encore si nombreux, aux régimes régressifs, qui les considèrent encore comme des malades ou des criminels. Un jour, les gays du monde entier pourront citer Catulle sans rougir: ” Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo ” (je t’enculerai et tu me suceras).
— Adam Donaldson Powell
Douze poèmes de ” GAYTUDE ” : par Adam Donaldson Powell,
(adapté de l’anglais et de l’espagnol par Albert Russo)
MOTS COCHON.
Insinuations lubriques murmurées
dans l’espace enfumé des bars
qui excitent les gonades
et font croire à des promesses
mots doux et traîtres à la fois.
Les effluves de corps en sueur
se mêlent aux parfums
des Grands Magasins
comme l’eau et l’huile,
le cuir et la soie –
éléments hétéroclites,
qui s’attirent cependant
comme par magnétisme.
Eh oui …
j’aime cette manière que tu as
de mentir en prenant des poses,
en attachant mes poignets et mon sexe ;
en me forçant à m’agenouiller ;
exigence d’une totale soumission.
Dans cet air étouffant, nous entamons
le ballet sensuel des flirts anonymes,
tu détournes ton regard ;
je plonge le mien dans mon cocktail,
tu commences alors à scruter,
Lentement, mon torse et ma taille.
J’acquiesce en souriant, et toi
tu t’éloignes, car j’ai enfreint
les règles du jeu,
trop pressé de remplacer
mes fantasmes par la réalité,
invitant par là le danger.
Tu me regardes mais feins l’indifférence
et je m’en vas avec quelqu’un d’autre
deux heures plus tard.
Moi, épuisé,
le tête fourmillant d’images lubriques,
j’investis, écoeuré et rageur,
les entrailles d’un quidam.
CHERCHE AMANT, UN VRAI.
Je veux un amant, un vrai …
et je le veux maintenant.
Comme Arthur Rimbaud … ou Jean Genet.
Non pas comme ces mauviettes
qui ont parsemé ma jeunesse :
l’oncle qui m’avait convaincu que j’étais
une ‘tapette’, un ‘gogo bizarre’,
avant que je n’apprenne
ce qu’était la baise ;
et cet enfoiré qui m’a violé
dans la maison de sa mère — m’obligeant
À tenir ma langue de peur qu’elle ne se réveille
et appelle la police … pour me coffrer, ou pire.
Ou bien encore cette ‘folle’ sadomaso qui
possédait tout un attirail de jouets sexuels
et de godes en caoutchouc,
mais qui se fâcha lorsque je me mis à rire
parce qu’elle ne pouvait plus bander … normalement.
Je veux un amant, un vrai ;
qui puisse me sucer et m’enculer
et me prendre comme un ‘homme’.
Je veux un amant, un vrai … qui soit
tout ce qu’il dit être ; et qui s’en ficherait
que l’on apprenne qu’il aime un autre homme.
Je veux un amant, un vrai …
Comme Arthur Rimbaud … ou Jean Genet.
Et je le veux maintenant.
AVANT LA MORT DE MON BIEN-AIMÉ.
Je pense à toi …
et me meurs
lentement
dans les rêves.
Je pense à toi …
Et maintenant
tout ce qui reste
sont la musique,
quelques paroles perdues
et … peut-être
une ou deux larmes
errantes …
Je pense à toi …
La pluie occulte
l’arrogante apathie,
l’insupportable rhétorique.
L’apologie
sans visage
de ceux qui demandent pardon.
Je me réveille et découvre
des larmes
coulant le long
des fenêtres fissurées
et des rêves brisés …
Soudain …
Je ne peux plus pleurer ;
la pluie s’est arrêtée.
Sous le ciel dénudé
le vieux tableau se décolore.
Et je pense encore à toi …
jusqu’à oublier
le silence qui existait déjà
avant la mort de mon bien-aimé.
MON ÉTRANGER … SI DOUX.
Si douces
sont tes promesses suggérées.
Mon étranger.
Mon inaccessible
moment de passion.
Tu me cajoles ;
tu me rejettes.
Nous ne pouvons
nous posséder
que dans des rêves fugitifs :
tous deux si différents
si totalement autres
et pourtant …
si merveilleusement
en harmonie.
L’implacable fantasme
est plus que la somme
des parts de réalité.
Je te vois partout ;
dans les pas des étrangers …
dans mes souvenirs.
Glissant depuis la taille,
lentement, jusqu’aux orteils
puis, avec la violence d’un éclair
l’on remonte, tout en haut,
pour ensuite
découvrir ton visage
insignifiant.
Mon étranger.
Ma passion.
Mon étranger …
Si doux.
LAME.
Notre danse est un rituel ;
une obsession insensée
entre deux papillons de nuit
jouant avec le feu.
Ni chaînes, ni fouet.
Juste une attache …
et les douces conséquences
de la lame tranchante d’un sabre.
SURVIVANT.
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 …
LE DERNIER TANGO.
Les règles de vie
les plus importantes
nous ont été révélées
avant l’aube, dans l’une
des grandes avenues
qui ont toujours été
en contradiction avec
la logique des choses utiles :
la vin jeune …
la débauche sexuelle …
les achats compulsifs
et sans doute aussi …
la fréquentation des églises
un jour ouvré.
Nous nous reconnaissons dans les
rêves vivants capturés
dans les tableaux de Goya et de Jérôme Bosch.
Et là, nous dansons notre dernier tango ;
lentement …
religieusement …
désertant la mémoire
des choses réelles
a l’ombre de nos
ultimes
indiscrétions.
ÉTALON.
Répondant à l’appel
d’une chaude nuit d’été,
le jeune homme musclé repère
les rues depuis le perron de
sa maison d’Oakland
avec le regard aiguisé d’un vautour.
Il apaise le feu
qui traverse ses entrailles
en buvant de la bière
et un fumant une cigarette,
se déhanchant aux rythmes
qu’émet son Sony Walkman
senteurs exacerbées
qui l’émoustillent.
Chaque fois qu’une femme
passe par là, il la salue
et lui fait des propositions.
A l’une d’elles, qui lui suggère,
avec mépris, de ‘se la faire mettre’.
Le jeune homme répond
en lui envoyant un baiser
et se met à rire
manière de se défendre
tout en restant courtois.
Jusqu’à ce qu’il avise
un garçon qui lui fait
des yeux doux
et il se met alors à crier :
“Cesse de me regarder comme ça,
Espèce de pédé ?!!”
METTONS LES POINTS SUR LES I.
Mettons les points sur les i …
Non, je ne suis pas ‘gay’, voilà, c’est dit …
Alors ne va pas pas chercher les poux ;
ne me salue pas dans la rue,
ni à la gym, ni dans la galerie marchande ;
et pour l’amour du ciel ne le dis jamais
a personne, tu entends ?
(Sinon, sinon tu risques la mort !)
Compris !!! VOILÀ ce que je voulais te dire …
PEUT-ÊTRE.
Vive
L’amour !
Vive
Le sexe !
Vive
Le mensonge !
Peut’être t’ai-je rencontré
dans l’errance de mes rêves.
IDENTITÉ.
N’aie pas peur …
Surtout ne fais pas le crétin
et cesse de te prendre pour Dieu le Père
alors que tu n’es qu’une mauviette.
Ne vois-tu pas que
je n’ai aucune envie de te baiser …?
Je veux être aimé, admiré ;
et parfois je veux être toi.
Suis-je en quête de fausses identités ?
Peut-être bien,
mais ce qui me peine le plus
c’est que je sui prêt à tout
pour en avoir une.
D’identité.
TRAVESTI.
Tu sais que je t’ai à peine reconnu
cet après-midi dans tes habits masculins !
Ton déguisement était si parfait
que tu as le temps de t’asseoir
avant même que je ne puisse m’enfuir.
Tu m’as à la fois surpris et intrigué
lorsque tu t’es plaint de ce que
le temps soit si long — car
souvent j’ai envié, voire méprisé
ta liberté et ton sens capricieux
de la réalité.
C’est drôle comme …
toutes ces années …
je t’ai pris pour un fou.
Mais à présent que nous partageons
le même désenchantement,
a propos de nos attentes
et du temps qui passe,
je me reconnais en toi.
REVIEWS OF GAYTUDE:
Multilingual poetry.
A few poems from my book entitled “Three-legged Waltz”:
THREE-LEGGED WALTZ
Well hidden behind the portals
Of passionless and watery eyes
The incessant carousel of an insomnious
Three-legged waltz is revealed with
Childlike vision; hypnotically in
Syncopation with the murmur
Of the inviolate ticking clock.
In this surface-like existence, well
Beyond resistance and emotion,
Every attempt to break through is
As futile as punching a pillow
Or screaming in a dream.
And in the absence of promise we
Eventually find solace in our perpetual
State of existentialism and blues –
And pretend not to recognize the
Everpresent and bittersweet
Scent of lemons exuding from
Each and every passerby.
ANTES DE LA MUERTE DE MI AMOR
Pienso en tí ..
Y muero
Lentamente
En mis sueños.
Pienso en tí ..
Y ahora
Lo único que queda
Es la música,
Unas palabras perdidas
Y .. quizás
Una que otra lágrima
Errante ..
Pienso en tí ..
La lluvia oculta
La arrogante apatía,
El retórico insoportable.
La apología
Sin rostro
De los que piden perdón.
Despierto y descubro
Lágrimas
Que baten
Ventanas con grietas
Y sueños quebrados ..
De súbito ..
No puedo llorar más;
La lluvia ha parado.
Bajo el cielo desnudo
La vieja pintura se descolora.
Y yo pienso aún en tí ..
Hasta olvidar
El silencio que ya existía
Antes de la muerte de mi amor.
TAL VEZ
¡ Fuerza !
El amor.
¡ Fuerza !
El sexo.
¡ Fuerza !
Las mentiras.
Y tal vez te encuentre
En mis sueños errantes.
EL ÚLTIMO TANGO
Las reglas más importantes
Con respecto a la vida
Nos fueron reveladas unos momentos
Antes del amanecer en
Una de las grandes avenidas
Que siempre están en discordia
Con la logica de las cosas útiles:
El vino joven ..
El sexo promiscuo ..
Las compras compulsivas
Y quizás .. el ir a la iglesia
En un día de trabajo.
Nos reconocemos en los
Sueños vivos capturados en
Las pinturas de Goya y El Bosco.
Y allí, bailamos nuestro último tango;
Lenta ..
Y religiosamente ….
Y huimos de la memoria exacta
A la sombra de nuestras
Últimas
Indiscreciones.
MIENTRAS ESPERAMOS
Pacientemente — nos mantenemos,
Desesperados por creer en Dios,
En la justicia y la humanidad.
Repetidamente — sufrimos
Nuestra propia ignorancia e inmovilidad.
Admirablemente — nos hacemos mártires,
E intentamos paliar nuestro dolor con santidad
Y consideración.
Inevitablemente — nos vengamos,
Con las mismas tácticas de nuestros agresores.
Últimamente — nos avergonzamos
Por todos los que pensaban que éramos extraordinarios.
Típicamente — esperamos
Que el mundo reconozca sus equivocadas críticas.
Irónicamente — no aprendemos nada,
Y no se olvida ni se perdona.
ZODIAC
You and he and they
In opposition to
My circle of One.
The moon is in Fresno –
Long gone retrograde
And void of course.
BOUNDARIES
Peripheral lines
in my psyche
and yours
dance and intersect
with agreement
and understanding.
But crossed
boundaries
lead both
dogs and nations
to quarrel.
OF FOOLS AND KINGS
The tides of time
separate fools and kings
much as ocean waves:
swelling, crashing and
mixing water and sand —
and in a passing moment
one is indistinguishable
from the other.
EDDERKOPPKVINNE
Du, edderkoppkvinne.
Som bestandig er iblant
De best kledde i byen,
Men som aldri bruker
Penger når du er ute.
Du, edderkoppkvinne.
Så sjenert at gutter
Leter etter deg inntil
Du fanger dem.
Du, edderkoppkvinne.
Så ensom. Så lei.
Så redd for deg selv.
Du edderkoppkvinne.
Er det rart, eller ..?
PÅ SOPPTUR I KONGERIKET
Barbeint tripper jeg gjennom skogens kongerike
Uten antydning til verken forståelse eller fare.
Jeg er på oppdagelsesreise, og jakter etter soppens
Gjemte hemmeligheter som et naivt barn i spøkelsesalder.
Nå og da blir min skjønnhetssøvn forstyrret av naturens
Stillhet, som fremkaller ubevissthetens ristende og
Fortryllende bilder fra steder uten tidsrom eller navn.
Bak en dinosaurusalders bregne, og ut fra under en
Mosedekket stein, titter den vakreste sopp jeg
Noen gang har sett, med en svær rød flate spekket med gul.
Jeg strekker armen min mot det skattete funn og
Stopper opp akkurat når jeg er i ferd med å ta på den.
Steinen har begynt å stråle smaragd lys, først med
Den rolige anspennelse til rødglødende kull, og siden
Som den overveldende illuminasjon av Guds evig kjærlighet
Og barmhjertighet, gjenspeilet i trillionvis av smil.
I det øyeblikket reiser jeg ut av kroppen, og chakraene mine
Stiller opp i en perfekt linje mens jeg ser på meg selv
Og summen av menneskelig eksistens fra langt ovenfra.
Og i den fullkomne harmonium gjenopplever jeg livet som
I de himmelske periodene mellom jordiske inkarnasjoner,
Og alle mine daglige bekymringer og hemninger virker like
Drømaktige og ubetydelige som en midtsommers dagdrøm.
Jeg returnerer aldri helt tilbake til bevisstheten som kjent
Fra før, men beholder en liten del av den utstrålingen som
Har nylig preget mitt hjerte på en så vidunderlig måte.
I ryggsekken bærer jeg hjem ingen sopp, men trolig den
Mest ettertraktete skatt fra skogens kongerike: javisst,
En alminnelig stein — som souvenir fra livets drømmereise.
SKUE DIN GUD
Skue din Gud,
Og vit at det er alt som finnes.
Skue din Gud,
For det finnes ikke noe annet.
Skue din Gud,
Som stammer fra dypt inne i deg.
Skue din Gud,
Som er selve skapelsens kjerne.
Skue din Gud,
Og la deg drukne i Kjærlighet og Lys.
Skue din Gud,
For det finnes ikke noe annet.
Se inn i speilet,
Og skue din Gud.
Skue din Gud,
Og vit at det er alt som finnes.
Iaktta dine venner, naboer and fiender,
Og skue din Gud.
Skue din Gud,
For det finnes ikke noe annet.
Bryt ned illusjonen om et skille,
Og skue din Gud.
Skue din Gud og vit at
Alt er ett og ingenting er tilfeldig.
Skue din Gud .. og
Skue din Gud .. og
Skue din Gud.
All works copyright Adam Donaldson Powell, 2006
ORDER “THREE-LEGGED WALTZ” AND SEVERAL OF MY OTHER BOOKS FROM CYBERWIT.NET OR AMAZON.COM
Palabras de María Cristina Azcona
sobre el libro “Three-legged Waltz ” de Adam Donaldson Powell.
Este libro se inscribe en la línea de las grandes aventuras literarias, aquellas que convocan a los escritores que ven siempre un poco más allá de lo que corresponde a su determinada época. Esto asegura no tan sólo su éxito sino también, y lo que es mucho más importante, su vigencia con el paso de los años.
Cuando José Hernández presentó su “Martín Fierro” generó polémica y tuvo innumerables problemas para poder ponerlo en la calle y lograr que el público masivo lo conociera. Esto se debió al hecho de estar escrito en “gauchesca”. Hoy en día nadie discute el genio de quien lo escribiera, en la forma en que fue escrito, ni su magnífico y aleccionador contenido, testimonio de una sociedad injusta. Había un motivo para estar expresado de ese modo: en ese particularísimo estilo. Un motivo a ser descubierto e intuido por el lector avezado: Simbolizar en ese lenguaje, toda una estructura cultural sumergida que yacía debajo de una supracultura dominante. La cultura popular perteneciente al criollo y que incluye esa expresividad que lo caracterizaba.
Hoy, frente a esta joya literaria, nos preguntamos el porqué de esta presentación trilingüe. La respuesta la tendrá el estimado lector cuando reflexione sobre lo que dice este libro. En los mensajes implícitos y explícitos. ¿No es el ser humano siempre un ser humano, viva donde viva o hable en el idioma en que hable?
La poesía multilingüe es decisiva en nuestros días, como puente de comunicación intercultural, desde la diversidad en raza, cultura e idiosincrasia hasta llegar a la integración de valores que son aceptables por tan diferentes grupos humanos. Este es el camino de la paz mundial y debemos transitar todos juntos estos puentes transculturales que se construyen y se van desarrollando en los foros internacionales de literatura multilingüe. El respeto por la diversidad es la condición sine qua non de la paz. El bilingüismo y más aún, el multilingüismo literario son la ruta más directa y eficaz hacia el logro de un entendimiento armónico y durable entre todos los grupos humanos que pueblan la Aldea Global. Más allá de hegemonías hemisféricas, culturales o raciales.
Los poetas, que, como Adam Donaldson Powell, son capaces de expresarse en prosa o en verso, en forma igualmente exquisita y clara, tanto en una lengua como en la otra, y que nos acercan, mediante una intención elevadísima del espíritu, una enseñanza, un sentimiento, una emoción, una denuncia o a veces simplemente una idea, son merecedores de nuestro interés, de nuestra admiración y respeto ya que representan el patrimonio pacífico de una humanidad en declinación moral alarmante.
Es imperativo ayudarlos a levantar la bandera de la fraternidad internacional a través de la herramienta armónica de su voz entendible por todos.
Este ha sido el espíritu de mi movimiento internacional “Bilingual MCA poetas y escritores bilingües por la Paz “ el que he fundado en 2001 y que reúne a poetas con las mismas preocupaciones que desvelan a Adam D. Powell.
El principio fundacional de IFLAC, el Forum Internacional de Literatura y Cultura de la Paz, (auspiciado por UNESCO, creado y dirigido por Ada Aharoni y cuyo Vice-presidente es el Dr. Ernesto Kahan, Premio Nóbel de la Paz 1985 compartido por su fundación “Médicos por el desarme Nuclear”) y que hoy tiene presencia en tantos países, entre ellos Argentina, rama de la cual soy directora desde 2004, ha sido desde siempre alcanzar la paz por medio de la literatura. Los escritores de todas partes del mundo hermanados en un mismo sueño de armonía, intercambian sus escritos y sus reflexiones, por medio de una comunicación maravillosamente estética y fluida que posibilita el alcance de su mutua comprensión.
Adhiero con toda mi energía a este nuevo libro que hermana autores, culturas y lenguas con un múltiple universo verbal pero un similar universo de contenido en valores expresados en la única lengua que, parafraseando a Chéjov, jamás miente: la poesía.
María Cristina Azcona es argentina. Psicopedagoga, por la USAL de Buenos Aires y Orientadora Familiar por la U. de Navarra, España. Reconocida como investigadora de la paz por el Instituto Biográfico Americano. Colaboradora y Asesora Editorial para Cyberwit de la India. Directora y Fundadora de Bilingual MCA, Organización Internacional de Poetas Bilingües por la paz y Directora – Embajadora en Argentina para IFLAC, Forum Internacional de Literatura y Cultura de la Paz. Es además Ensayista y Poeta bilingüe cuyos poemas, artículos y comentarios literarios han sido publicados en Estados Unidos, India, Jordania, España, Israel y Reino Unido. Es autora de cuatro libros en español publicados por editorial Caddan: “Dos Talles menos de Cerebro”, “Mundo Postmoderno”, (ambos de poesía social) “La Voz del Ángel” (novela) y “Estar de Novios Hoy” (ensayo escrito junto a Ernesto Castellano, su esposo).
Photo by Adam Donaldson Powell
