The airy sky has taken its place leaning against the wall.
It is like a prayer to what is empty.
And what is empty turns its face to us
and whispers:
“I am not empty, I am open.”
translated by Robert Bly
Author: zdunno03
from The Swan by Gunnar Ekelöf
A freshness lives deep in me
which no one can take from me
not even I myself–
translated by Robert Bly
on self-centered young men
impress the young girls
raised on romantic movies
self-centered young men
bloated on their own egos
in borrowed fashion statements
they can talk the talk
in caressing vocal tones
intellect barren
originality lost
words as empty as they are
midnight at the hotel bar in Alsancak
funny to hear
Si & Gar
lost in America
while found here
in Turkey
so many years
later
on the rooftop cafe in Alsancak
Bonnie Raitt
sings
can’t make you
love me
and I watch
ships at sea
carrying memories
far far
away
To all the blogs I follow
I may be slow reading your posts since I am visiting friends in Izmir and only have my iPad. It’s slow going through my emails with this. So bear with me. I may not get around to all of you till Monday or Tuesday.
thinking about my father
because you still come to me at odd moments during the day, the night, and so much is still left unsaid
I remember how he almost stumbled
going down the aisle
in Our Lady of Peace
to pray the Sunday
before his operation
he seemed frail to me
that day
and I was embarrassed
as if I had a right to be
this man who won 26 fights
one summer
who raised 7 brothers and sisters
because he was the oldest son
after his stepfather died
and then his mother
took them all in
to his home with my mother
newly wed
counted out his tips
on the kitchen table
all those years of his life
those tips that kept us solvent
inflated his salary
to make us almost middle class
the glasses sliding down his proud nose
his hand brushing his hair
as he squinted at the line on boards
cut lumber
put up a new kitchen wall
put a roof on the garage
panelled the bedroom
worked every day…
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long way from home
I am like some weary traveler
in a hotel room
lost between the shower and the ice machine
with plans to come home
for the holidays
we would have coffee
a candle flickers on the table
your hands play with your spoon
I watch you brush the hair from your forehead
loosen the scarf at your neck
your eyes look beyond me
to some future that almost was
and I fade from the table
stranded on some stretch of highway
a long way from home
whaddya hear whaddya say: watching Jimmy Cagney
one forgets
how graceful
he was
acting with every part
of his body
that dancer training
coming into play
the quintessential tough guy
chip on his shoulder
the old one two
too smart
for his own good
never totally bad
but always
that Irish heart
glowing
love for the girl
on the right side
of the tracks
and he
always from the wrong
part of the city
that hitching
of his shoulders
just before
he carries on
always dying
in a blaze of gunfire
or the chair
pretending to be
yellow
as a favor
for his childhood pal
Pat O’Brien
the priest
even though
his character
had no need
of redemption
he took
whatever punishment
or justice
that came his way
with the same
tilt of the head
those eyes
defiant
the hint
of a smile
on his lips
Leonard Durso 