ONE 9 • Poetspace

Vestibul med perspektiv Swedish
Cecelia Johanna Kopra
inte här, snälla
akuten är runt hörnet
nej, inte här
piccolo på röda mattan, två bagagevagnar i mässing
Ur hissen stiger nattens drottning
med vidvinkel över lokalen
det har fötts ett barn utan mamma i natt
en liten flicka i clowndräkt
konsert ska det bli
Bud med motorcykel
vår tuba är sjuk
men vår kurir med valthorn klapprar mot kullerstenarna
någonstans andra sidan hörs en bildörr stängas öppnas
och det är jag som går genom glasrutan nu
splittret är jag
och glashinnan växer ihop och det är jag som är hel nu
diamanter och platina i dagsljus här utanför
en solitär är jag i den gula plastskylten om städning
bokat enkelrum på intensiven
Och där i vestibulen stiger någon in i hissen igen
jag hinner inte se vem det är
men piccolon hasar efter sin vagn utan jordfästning
ovanför receptionen dinglar ett rött kors
och en ortodox präst bokar rum med kabel-tv
på rum nummer åtta ringer patienten på den
schweiziska klockan
systern stiger in naken i vit dräkt
hon har en hätta på huvudet
(men ännu vet vi ingenting, vi är kvar nere i vestibulen
men du som läser vet nu. Kommer du att tala om det för oss?)
Hotel Vestibule Poem English
Cecelia Johanna Kopra
“Not here, please
the emergency room is around the corner
no, not here”
bell boy on the red carpet, two brass luggage carts
From the elevator comes the Queen of the Night
wide angle across the room
bicycle messenger
a child without a mother was born last night
a little girl in clown dress
there will be this concert
Messenger on motorbike
our tuba is off sick
but the courier with a French horn clip-clops
along cobble-stone street
somewhere outside a car door opens closes
And I walk through the glass wall
I am the splinter and I am in one piece
diamonds and platinum in daylight
a solitaire am I – in the yellow plastic CAUTION! wet floor sign
a single room is booked at the emergency
and in the vestibule someone enters again the elevator
cannot see who it is
but the bell boy shuffles behind his cart without burial service
A red cross dangles over reception desk
an orthodox priest reserves a room with cable TV
in room number eight the patient rings – the Swiss bell-cord chimes
in a white dress and cap nurse walks in naked
(since we are still in the vestibule, we know nothing of this
but you who are reading know. Will you tell us now?)
The Unravelling Song of Songs
Kevin Cadwallender
7:4- Thy neck is as a tower of ivory; thine eyes as the pools in Heshbon, by the gate of Bath-rabbim; thy nose is like the tower of Lebanon which looketh toward Damascus.
The twin towers of your beauty was all a bit epic for me.
Neither Lord of the Rings nor 9/11 your eyes fit to drown in.
Looking down that road to Damascus but without hope of vision.
You stood architecturally significant but wounded by hyperbole.
The thee and thy and thine of the King James version hung around your neck
like pearl anachronisms and the Lebanon you knew ruby-ed with blood, stifled me.
All I could see was the cruelty involved in a tower of ivory and to find that beautiful
Appals me and Heshbon’s pools were famous for fish, I could never abide that smell.
One of the pools still survives ‘google’ tells me, so it must be true,
It holds no water though, after earthquakes and like accusations,
Like any love I had for you, it has become secular, no longer sacred
And when I view your architecture in the pornography you made of us
I find it hard to believe in anything that involves myth and magic.
Love in ruins and all those words translated as a canticle of loss.
That I no longer sing or care for, faded splendour, as if you give a toss.
Mary Folliet
The Ghosts of Utopia
~for Tom Stoppard~
“The theatre is a weapon at least as powerful as any bullet.” —Clifford Odets
fate invents love’s wit
real travesties teach play
rock on night & day
Reaching Majorit
~for JP~
twenty-one is fun
but the best is yet to come
don’t forget ever!
Ferris Wheel
“on top of the world, or in the depths of despair” —Goethe
round & round we go
nowhere yet still ever on
staking sky to ground
Life’s Health Club
work hard or work out
fit, fat, fixed, shrunk or bedrid
all paths lead to dead
Moving Toward the Exit
“The ground itself is kind, black butter” —Seamus Heaney
from blog to bog man
a matter of minute beats
hearts & flowers too
Ian Hunter
She didn’t get it?
Let me check my records
You never ordered it
You changed your mind
You only paid the deposit
She moved away
She’s dead, sorry
It came back unopened
They’ve stopped making them
They were recalled because of a problem
There is no such gift
You don’t know her
You never met
She doesn’t exist
And neither do you
Ian Hunter
Happiness used to be just that
Then they did what they did
With Marathon Bars (now Snickers)
And Opal fruits (now Starburst)
Happiness became Cheerfulness
Soon it disappeared from the shelves
Only available from specialist shops
then not at all
as EC directives were implemented
concerned about the effects
flavours, colours and additives
might have on
your mind
your heart
your soul
I kept a little bit of happiness
in the freezer
wrapped in cling film
but it was there too long
chipped out of shape
trying top get the polythene off
its flavour gone
History Lessons for the Future
John Calder
There was once a welfare state.
It was long awaited
and many people hated
it, because their taxes paid for it
and it was daily baited
by the press and by the rich
and by the playwrights of the day
who said the rich could not afford
a stitch of pleasure or to go away
on holiday and therefore they were poor and bored.
And those poor proles who had some brains
passed exams, were educated
by the state at its expense
and sometimes to their betters mated
and some began to paint and write
about themselves in novels, plays,
write music, and in other ways
prove that proles were not all dumb.
Somerset Maugham, who in earlier days
bestsellers wrote, he called them ‘scum’.
But some with families found the state
welfare generous, gave up work
and just sat drinking with a mate,
while others, wiser, did not shirk
their work, knowing that their fate
could change and easy times not last
beyond the Tories coming back
with Thatcherism rising fast
and those with mortgages were longing
to be bourgeois and so belonging
to the middle class at last,
forgetting all their labour past.
Now asset-stripping killed the small
companies where work was fine
and pleasant. They all went to the wall
and global business came to mine
the riches of the welfare state
that once belonged to all, but now
all privatised: such was our fate
as greed and avarice conquered all
and fashion was the sole concern
of media interest short and tall
for those with money still to burn.
But every bubble has to burst.
It has! We know not yet the worst.
The banks are bust, the homes are going.
We’re reaping all of Thatcher’s sowing.
But not just her! New Labour’s game
Is Tory under another name.
What should we do, but nationalise
all that we owned when we were wise?
Above all, we should socialise
the things we need to civilise:
Our greatest needs. Clement Attlee did it.
The Right could not his will inhibit
while Maggie could not recognise
that such a thing as society exists,
pounding it with iron fists.
And then comes Blair in a similar gaffe-
‘You cannot stop the globalisation of the world.’
How naff!
So now the bad old times are back,
the thirties here again, a new depression
bringing dole queues, panic, fear
and miseries in quick succession.
If now we want a better fate
we must go back to educate
an honest and a competent
elite to run a world that’s rent
in pieces by incompetence and greed
until private enterprise again is small,
knows what it does, is less likely to fall,
and elect those with honest brains,
looking again to Marx and Keynes
and care for equal shares and culture
and getting rid of the capitalist vulture.
Art & Artist: Antonakis Christodoulou
Deporting the myths — “Deportation to me is when someone abandons their ordinariness mentally or by force,” K.V. said when I talked to him about the images that were created in my mind every time I listened to his musical piece of the same title. I imagined human figures hovering over the ground, in a city where a war had just ended. These men, perhaps dead, perhaps alive, could be easily transported wherever they wanted. I was among them. I didn’t want to go somewhere in particular, I wanted to pass from all the places I loved since I could. Then, I met this Centaur outside Selfridges. It could be a scene from a David Lynch film, he wore a sweater from Gap and he was Japanese.
The Centaurs, according to Greek mythology chose to be exiled to Arcadia after they had been defeated in a battle. My Centaur is definitely their descendant. We don’t know where he was before or where he’s going next. We don’t even know if he really exists. If we decide that he does exist, we have to prove it too. The Greek mythological system gives a clear description. In the Postmodern age representation precedes and defines the real according to Baudrillard. The ancient Greeks needed to believe in the existence of myths they themselves had created. Today the mediation of software results in the depiction of these myths. My Centaur travels with me to London, mingles with the crowd in a city centre and someone can see him only when he really wants to believe in his existence.
He seems to be perfectly integrated in his new environment, as if he was there forever. He could have been there forever without anyone having noticed him. What is different is not always visible and everyone perceives it differently. Besides, who defines what is normal and what is usual? What is representation and what reality? Perhaps the whole world which we inhabit is the representation of another. Carrey represents with engravings the Parthenon’s pediments. Nobody can really know what they actually looked like, however there can be infinite ways to represent them.
If the only choice is representation, then this is also the only truth. We have the privilege of multiple versions but also the danger of exaggeration. A Centaur walked along Oxford Street, met a Siren in Trafalgar Square and then took the tube. At Holborn station he saw the Minotaur going up the escalators. When the night fell, he found himself in Soho, along with Pan meandering among tourists.
James Sutherland-Smith
After all that self-control
We’re just shadows that always go
Where fellow shadows stroll
Without desire or goal
Except to show
That we can melt like snow
Leaving what we said
In the wet street’s glow
To lay to rest the dead.
For the purpose of our lives
Lay in good form not discontent,
To compromise not strive,
So the streets shone like knives,
So rage was spent,
So tenderness was rent
Leaving what we said
Without a firm intent
To lay to rest the dead.
Now what we truly meant
Has passed through what we didn’t mean
And neither seems hell bent
Or even heaven sent
On being seen
To be the stronger
Leaving what we said
Unable any longer
To lay to rest the dead.