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Chris Foltopoulos

Παραγωγή 

Κλαίρη Μανιάτη

Απαγγελία ποιήματος 

Εύα Πετρόπουλου Λιανου 

Ποιήτρια

Intersections

Along the way

there are other

paths, joining, re-

joining, leading

away from. Unknown

until you try them

out. What are you

missing? What

are you missing

out? What are

you missing out

on? Along the way

there are / other

paths. Leading

into. Leading onto.

Untried until you

find the joins, un-

known because of

missed conjunctions.

Ecology

One measure is the

earth & how

we stand on it,

watching things grow

& measuring our

growth against them.

The other is the sky

& how we hang

from it, taking

its temperature as if

it were a patient, &

we patient with it.

Laying Plans

How are we

supposed to know

that it’s a “spare the

air” day? Certainly

it has a sort of

maverick quality

to it, but that doesn’t

necessarily mean

we’re living in tough

times; & crash dummies

in minicars always

fare comparatively

poorly in collisions

with the economic

consequences of the

high Italian budget

deficit. The symbolic

use of flowers dates

back to antiquity. Why

must we sacrifice &

shop in a one-room

shack when a whole

mall awaits us?

The Emperor’s Butterfly

(with Martin Edmond)

All the lights went out. The sun disgorged a dust of insects. Microbes crawled from the disintegrated carapaces.

He sensed them marching in serried ranks towards the lesions in his skin. His hands could not find the switch. For a nanosecond a shell of fear encased him. His trembling broke it. Then he acted.

Reaction first. Interrogated the night but it had nothing to say, was full of aliases, none of them his. He felt like Schrödinger’s cat – but where was Schrödinger?

The air was full of dis-ease. Space was the uncertainty principle. Time was not his friend.

This was not an experiment, it was slaughter. The rustling battalions had already breached his integument, were immune to his response. His massing white cells were being massacred. Defense is knowing when to run.

Afterwards, he never knew exactly how he got away. Surmised that just as there were lines of force there must be lines of weakness, and the pale pupa that was his soul had somehow broken one and used the other to lift off.

His new wings were like nothing else in the world.

Like a Poem Living or in the Time of Imaginary Wolves Roaming 

(a reflective prose poem epistolary on the atmosphere and aura of place) 

Where is my love?

Where is my love?

Horses running free

Carrying you and me

-Cat Power

-Where is My Love?

I recalled the east places and their essence. East of the city, anyways. I suppose once it was a good enough area with quiet bungalows built after war/time and during. I think anyhow. I looked n time upon the concrete forms they built stairs with then, and retaining walls sometimes. A retaining wall series that has dirt and a garden growing is a world and a marvellous one. Osho says that if you plant a small garden you will find out something, that the world is for you, that the world belongs to you. This is something true, if you understand.

Those houses were handsome and steady whereas some these days are overwrought and gaudy. Community. Positivity. Ease. I wonder if a poet or writer or painter was born there. Maybe it was in the night I was born. That’s what a mystic said. The time was unrecorded. People and places carry karma. I can see that area in my mind’s eye, which might be interchangeable with the ajna chakra, the third eye. It’s not a great place now. But there were parks and some ok people. It’s a bit of a nowhere place, in that there is no landmark or sought-after destination that people discuss or enjoy. I’m thinking thinking thinking…a pensive type, mercurial, actually born under the rule of that planet, Mercury. Gemini and Virgo share the same planet,- and it races the fastest around then sun. It’s the messenger and is supposed to make a good communicator, journalist, writer. I have no more affiliation with that place. Lots of buildings. And industrial zones. Hydro wires. Strip plazas incredibly old, their signs broken or dismayed and dishevelled, crooked, lacking the original colour. Faded displays and faded hearts. 

I kept going back there long ago, and didn’t know why. But I think it was because I had psychic roots. from a womb and area. Hmm. Strange to consider it all. Ghostly. Phantom-like. I don’t like it. I have decided that I don’t like it. But there were moments. Like an old relationship. It obviously didn’t work out if it is an old relationship. Yet, there must have been something good at some point. What is place? What is time? Can you surpass these circumstances? Maybe it’s tied in with the old question of free will versus biological determinism.

Osho says both are true, have their place. He says evolution brought you here, and now with man, conscious evolution is possible, that you have to become a seeker, a seeker of enlightenment. In nonduality if you awaken, the world awakens to an extent also. But nonduality looks like nothing, so mysticism comes in, for mysticism is better looking for its romanticism, adventure, promise, eccentricity. Osho says for both you will have to come to him, for he is a master and a mystic. He initiated me with a smile once in the astral planes in the autumn of 1993. But I still say Christian prayers. I like Christian prayers and Eastern meditation. Runes cards dreams visions gurus prayers palmistry numerology mediums so on and so forth. 

But yes, that place. I saw an old-time psychic there. She put a rosary on a table and did a reading outside for the summer day was so calm and tranquil. See, I guess that place is not all bad. Why did the soul chose to incarnate there? I don’t know. I can’t remember. Osho says it’s the only the gift of the advanced yogi to choose his or her birth. He said he waited seven hundred years or something to find the right parents, the correct circumstance.

And that the man who poisoned him last time came to poison him again and Osho said, ‘Again? Again you have come to poison me.’ I don’t know if it’s true but that what he claimed. Anyhow, the town. I think it was called a town or township before it became part of the city-proper. I remember the hockey rinks because I played in them a lot. And a girl named Laura who used to go with her friends to watch us play. Electric light and spiritual light I associated with her because she was so magical. She had blond hair and I think dark eyes. Denim. A bit demure, coy. She was really cool and smiled a lot. Birds. I just had a vision of birds I the sky. Birds in the sky in that grey and rainy place. It means that there is hope and air and agility and grace and life. That is good. It is good to have a vision. The birds are going up and separating and thriving. 

All those old homes and aged places. Somewhere people unknown, good souls, walk in their plain clothing to the stores. I see them. There is nothing fancy about them. They are just people. I like that. They are more trustworthy than the others. Areas are different. Intonation of voice, body language, apparel, taste in things. Everything is different. There are even respected and much less respected colleges and universities. I picture the brown brick hospital where I was born. It is not the hospital I thought I was born at. I was at first mistaken. It is one further east. It’s closed down now I believe. But then well I picture wolves roaming, actual wolves travelling in back of this hospital on the outskirts of the civilized world. Tall wild grasses. Feral lands that lead almost right up to the back of the hospital.

I keep picturing that, more from the imagination but much like a vision, an actual vision. So, rugged lands with streams, the overcast rainy place, a brown/brick hospital. I try and picture the circumstances of birth. The woman I chose to be born from or the angels led me to is alone. Her family doesn’t show up. Her own mother passed way years before. A storm has been storming all day and goes into the night. How alone must it feel for a woman to go through all that. Taxing. Trying. Surely painful physically, mentally, spiritually, psychically. I’d better try and write a good poem, at the very least, I’ll say that much. 

Matters and mysteries, all this being born thing. but I read there is a spiritual school of thought that sees being born as an unfortunate thing, being incarnated into all this trouble once again. An interesting take on existence. Quite cosmic. I was born there from an unknown father and a little known mother. Science says one is from northern continents and one from southern.

My name the lady could not remember after. She must have been in distress. The nurses told her I was being taken to rural farm lands and would be raised in an idyllic lifestyle amidst ranch owners and nature and animals, many horses. None of this was true and none of this happened. But I understand. They were probably trying to calm her down. I understand. And the name…they changed it anyhow. 

I was then brought up in the culture of the others, my peers, and the entire generation. Music. Toys. Books. School. Some travel. Sports. A democratic and flourishing society. The zeitgeist, right? Yes. We are not as original as we think yet we also are more original than we might imagine. We read the same and similar comic books, see advertisements, go to movies. Do you remember your first kiss? Of course. How about the calm and refreshing sleep, a slumber so divine and healing, the house perhaps empty and the warmest breeze from a window travelling in, the air like angels? From what spirit world did we come from? Wild. And we then sat in the same theatres and walked the suburban and city streets together. Thinking we are fashionable, trendy. Khaki pants. Converse. Things can be light and bright, even illuminating the night.

Nature and God are immensely strong and vast. We are born and borne from nothing less, and will one day go back into them, some happily and some reluctantly. A few or even several decades is not a long time. What will we do in the meantime? Build an engine, nah. Create art, yes. There is sometimes an electric eclectic ephemeral atmosphere, at dusk, just there, just there for a while, especially in some summers when it feels like rain, like the air is pregnant w/intensity. It’s not dark or light. Something nascent, inchoate, new, is happening. The boulevards even change colour then. I thought it was like a poem living. 

—-

Whisper of Anarchy of Revenge 

I’m not afraid to go over your head

Cause I’m better off dead 

Than with you in my bed 

I’m not afraid to tell them the truth 

Let my feelings loose

Have them end your abuse 

I’m gonna let them know what you’ve done. 

I’m not afraid to tell the world 

That I was your golden girl 

With my hair so neat and curled 

I’m not afraid to end your life

Go on never being your wife

I won’t do it with a knife 

No, you’ll be goin’ to jail tonight

And while I was your bride in white

I hope you have a safe flight 

I’m gonna let them know what you’ve done. 

The best revenge is getting back

Repeating back their same attacks

It isn’t wrong to stab your back 

When it’s a backbone that you lack

Now we’re getting back on track 

You’re having a heart attack 

I’m not afraid to testify 

Even long after you’ve died 

And when the wind blows late at night 

I’m surrounded by flames of candle light 

I remember when you said you might 

Fake your death and start a new life 

I’m not afraid

No, I’m not afraid

I’m not afraid 

I’m always afraid.

Abeera Mirza

Internationally Acclaimed Poet

Born on January 16, 2001, in Sargodha, Pakistan, Abeera Mirza is a distinguished voice in contemporary poetry. A gold medalist and graduate of the University of Lahore, Pakistan, Abeera belongs to the illustrious Mughal Empire and currently resides in Gujrat.

As an Assistant Professor of English Literature at Queen College, Gujrat, Abeera’s passion for words has earned her numerous accolades. Her poignant poem “Sorry” has inspired readers worldwide to heal. With contributions to over 200 anthologies and international magazines, including Raven Cage (Germany), Barcelona Magazine (Spain), and International Literature Language Journal (USA), Abeera’s work has transcended borders.

Her poetry has been translated into multiple languages, including Spanish, Italian, Arabic, German, and more, reaching a global audience. Her words have been published in numerous countries, including:

– USA: Spillword, AllPoetry

– Italy: Alessandra, Orfeu, Verseum, Poetrydream

– Europe: European Poetry

– US: Synchronized Chaos

– Bangladesh: Fatehpur Resolution Blogspot, Puspaprovat

– India: The Cultural Reverence, Skillfulminds, Poetic Essence Publications 

– Indonesia: Hetipena

– Kenya: Mount Kenya Times Newspaper

– Greece: Polisfreepress

– Korea: Literary Newspaper

Abeera has received titles like Miss Literary Critic from the University of Lahore, Pakistan. As a jury member for Maverick Writing Community, India, Abeera nurtures emerging writers, fostering a love for literature. Her inner peace is fueled by reading and traveling.

With her unique voice and perspective, Abeera continues to inspire audiences worldwide, solidifying her position as a prominent poet of her generation.

ZAPOMNIANY OBSYDIAN

Możemy zrezygnować
z mięsa.

Wtedy wyciekną płyny. 

Mięso zrezygnuje
z nas

Forgotten Obsidian

We have to give up

meat.

Then our bodily fluids will leak.

And our meat will give up

on us.

CIEPŁA KREW

Ciepła 
krew

uśmierca

zew 
krwi.

Warm-Blooded

Warm 

blood

kills 

for 

blood. 

MAHAJANA

Psy smakują lepiej 
od mahajany, 
dlatego bez sensu 
byłoby utrwalanie 
w sobie uporczywych, 
niskobiałkowych 

myśli zakonnych. 

A sierść i tak ściągnie 
z podłogi nasza filipińska 
służąca, żywiąca się 
promieniami słońca, 
deszczówką 
i zaklęciami trupów.

Mahāyāna Buddhism

Dog tastes better 

than the flesh of Buddhists;

therefore, it would make no sense

to nourish oneself with persistent,

yet low-protein monastic thoughts.

Besides, our servant will remove

the fur that thrives on the sunshine,

rainwater, and curses of the dead

anyways. 

ROZSĄDEK

Zabawa empatycznych ciał miękkich 
wchodzących głęboko/płytko w inne 
ciała miękkie, półmiękkie, 
zapowietrzone? 
Coś odgryzło mu palce. 

Ale to nie są moje utraty płynów. 
Ja posiadam nadal metalową 
protezę. 
Życie prywatne! 
Tylko życie prywatne się liczy…

Common Sense

Does playing empathetically with soft flesh—

pushing, pulsing deep then shallow

into soft and semi-soft flesh—

allow in air?

Something bit off my fingers.

But I haven’t lost a thing.

I still have a metal prosthetic

instead. This is my private life!

Only ones’ private life

truly matters. 

Clawing and Crawling

Soft and kind

are

felt in another variation

when

waves confine ambition.

I can’t find what is under,

under

the many variables

hidden

under the fabric,

when the fabric

itself is hidden

under

a fabricated

lifestyle.

There are many reasons to cry.

When you lose a lover

who was a friend

but

the intimacy is missed

not the closeness.

Purpose and destruction

seek

comfort

from reasoning.

Problems

which serve deceit well

come to mind.

There are scars across the eyes,

across the miles

and though merit

is sacrificed for appearance

you can hear

the laughter from those

who know you.

I

am an actor,

and by no means

a dancer.

I

yield vicariously

to sermons

and

pretend to come alive.

I

have found

the womb of the soul

favors

deception

and

it is easier to demand

than to

take notice.

To gamble with God,

know that

the devil wins.

You must

fall to your knees

clawing and crawling,

until

a voice inside your head

screams,

“Just wake up.”

Philip received his M.A. in Psychology from Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada. He has published five books of poetry, Mirror Images and Shards of Glass, Dark Images at Sea, I Never Finished Loving You, Falls from Grace, Favor and High Places, and Forever Was Never On My Mind. Three novels, Caught Between (Which is also a 24-episode Radio Drama Podcast https://wprnpublicradio.com/caught-between-teaser/), Art and Mystery: The Missing Poe Manuscript and Far From Here. Philip also has a column in the quarterly magazine Per Niente. He enjoys all things artistic.

I Remember

I remember the Winter of 2011 when a group of local poets visited Bernadette Mayer at her home in Nassau.

I remember how cold it was.

I remember the only heating source in the converted open school house living room was a pot belly stove.

I remember thinking no one had cooler anecdotes of New York City poets from the sixties and seventies than Bernadette did.

I remember she spoke of her friend Joe Brainerd’s book I Remember.

I remember the deserted St Croix, Virgin Island beach my mother and I used to visit when we lived on the island.

I remember how I felt when I heard The Rockefellers were going to build a resort hotel on the site.

I remember thinking that Ferlinghetti was going to live forever.

I remember thinking I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

I remember watching the Brooklyn Dodgers play the New York Giants on the first TV we ever owned.

I remember having the mumps and my cousin coming over from next door to make sure I got chicken pox also.

I remember seeing every prewar western every made.

I remember seeing hundreds of noir classics.

I remember seeing King Kong eleven times in one week on The Million Dollar movie.

I remember my cousin saw it thirteen times.

I remember watching the Joe McCarthy House of Unamerican Activities hearing live on TV and, while I didn’t know what they were all about, not really, I thought McCarthy was a bully and a dick.

I remember my mother hiding a copy of Tropic of Cancer in her secret desk drawer and sneaking looks at it when she was at work.

I remember not getting what he was writing about but that it was dirty.

I remember she had a copy of This Is My Beloved also but she didn’t hide that book away.

I remember reading that all the way through when I was like ten and thinking the fireworks he described were pretty cool.

I remember how cool the black and white the fireworks display at the beginning of Manhattan

was the first time I saw it.

I remember that one of my cocktail waitress saying she saw the movie and it sucked.

I remember she said “…and it wasn’t even in color.”

I remember knowing how to read when I entered first grade at the Catholic school in Christiansted.

I remember I was the only one who could read in first grade and how much the nuns loved me.

I remember how it felt  to be the only non-Catholic in Catholic school.

I remember the first time I read, I Remember.

I remember the baseball game in 1965 I took my girlfriend to see.

I remember there was a centerfield to home to second base triple play in that gam and how she said, “That was a nice play.”

I remember that was the first time it had ever happened in a major league baseball game and it has only happened one more time since.

I remember I still loved her anyway no matter how unimpressed she was.

I remember the first major league game I took our kids too and missing three innings when Jose Cruz hit me on the cheekbone with a high foul ball while I was yelling, “I got it, I got it.”

I remember I would have been blind in my right eye if I had been wearing my glasses.

I remember they wanted me to go to Flushing General.

I remember a nurse telling me once if you have a choice between going to Flushing General or Bronx General and dying, die.

I remember burning my hand when I accidently hit my hand on the pot belly stove that Bernadette asking me to stoke.

I remember it hurt for weeks after.

I remember reading the memoir of Pasternak, I Remember.”

I remember seeing selections from Roman Vishniac’s, A Vanished World, at the State Museum of New York at Albany and crying.

I remember reading poetry at the reading Against the End of the World just down the block from the State Museum.

I remember seeing an exhibition on the Atomic Bomb age at the museum and seeing my first Laurie Anderson work for art, “The Singing Brick.”

I remember writing a poem against the end of the world called the Singing Brick.

I remember it was in a musically themed, against the end of the world book of poems called, Stop Making Sense.

I remember the first poem I ever published in sixth grade, in the mimeo class reader, The Fledgling.

I remember the poem was a pastiche of the song Old Dan Tucker.

I remember duck and cover drills in Centre Avenue Elementary School.

I remember how stupid they were given how close we were to New York City and how many huge glass windows there were in all the classrooms.

I remember the poem I published in the group photo/poem book commemorating our trip to Bernadette’s house.

I remember the title of my poem was, “Emergency Drills, Centre Avenue Elementary School, East Rockaway, N.Y, 1958.”

I remember the first time I saw Throne of Blood in grad school.

I remember the first time I saw Hiroshima Mon Amour in grad school.

I remember the first time I saw the Japanese movie, After Life.

I remember seeing four Brooklyn Dodgers home runs in a row.

I remember we didn’t get the foul ball that Jose Cruz hit me with.

I remember torrential rain on a tin roof on St Croix.

I remember playing spin the bottle and never being kissed.

I remember the high school psychologist telling me I should practice Rorschach inkblots so I could take her test.

I remember refusing to take the test because I thought it was stupid and I didn’t see anything suggestive in those blots.

I remember her telling me I second guessed myself all the time.

I remember her telling me I should trust my instincts because my first thoguht was almost always the right.

I remember how useful an observation that turned out to be.

I remember every two weeks for three years in the nightclub trying to guess which of the new band members was the drummer.

I remember I was only wrong once.

I remember thee guessing game as a process of elimination until you found the crazy one; he would be the drummer.

I remember seeing my first Bergman movie.

I remember seeing Last Year at Marienbad three time in four days in grad school.

I remember not paying attention in my first psychology class lesson in college on the Stanford Binet test.

I remember the teacher trying to make an example of me by giving me the block test graduating in difficulty as the numbers increased starting at six of ten.

I remember I did six, seven, eight and nine as fast as she could put them in front of me.

I remember how stunned she was.

I remember not mentioning having taken that test less the three years ago along with every other test they had on offer.

I remember the summer I first heard Leonard Cohen’s song, Suzanne.

I remember seeing the photo exhibit Requiem by the photographers killed in Vietnam at the Eastman House not long before 9-11.

I remember that exhibits was as quiet as a funeral and all the people who were crying at it.

I remember it was how I felt when I finally got to see The Wall in DC.