Hesitation mother of all demon


Hesitation demon
eats time. As if time were not more

than a holland linen

stained with the rust from a pin

that attempted to mend it

that was oxidized by

the small Iodium demon of salt in skull-water spilled

Last night the usual idiocy that has kept me busy

A woman sitting at a bar,

and I hesitate, euphoria lost,
he who hesitates is.

she messes about with her black dyed hair, good enough

my fingers arthritic from writing poems

twist around the table-cloth, again the holland linen, is that it

the fabric, from the fates ‘singer machine, the fates determined this unlimited

greek tragedy hesitation

the greeks like the latin americans and the spanish

saw this as the origin of numerous crimes

(her fingers twiddle about the black-dyed bun of her hair which perhaps

is hiding a crystal ball, lorcan and fate like)

Decade
and fifteen solar gyrations
euphoria means
the good unscrupulous

the good that transports, that carries across
a daimon with wheels, wings, six legged
eight legged scorpion that carries across
There is a genocide happening in Iraq, and perhaps three other parts

of the vast and horrible mundus-cumulus
as I lament about this
there is no literary intrigue or heroism in having been
a frustrated angry little man bitten
by a scorpion and hesitator sounds like the name of a machine
electronic dictionaries do not recognize it,
must be a weapon of secrecy
People from the past become demons
idols of reluctance
and I spent part of the day in a small chapel ornamented
with their photos,
photon light lost
euphoria lost
where is the good that carries
if I throw their pictures on a wave
it is not a raft still
I am reluctant to burn the pictures of these
still born seeds of love, that like a bee that leapt from a holland linen
a bee that never gave honey,
lest it show she is under-emancipated, and instead
meandered into my house while I ate alone
after waking up alone, only produced vinegar
when my blood needed wine

when my heart needed wine

to get drunk so that  some invisible carnival shows itself in the room

in the prism of limitless shadows

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poem Hesitation recitation mother of all demons

by Arturo Desimone

2014

Valentin Serov, 1912

Valentin Serov, 1912

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in the Stockholm Review, three poems. Thanks to kind, smart editor Ted Martin Greijer


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The Kaftan Mourner in Hotel Grand de France, by Arturo Desimone (Flash fiction)


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note of once again poetry against technocracy


Yesterday I went for a walk with the last un-cremated goddess of happiness, we sat by the river bank to eat some black bread by the river, imported from the Slavic territories, full of nutrients and even a Russian worm, he stood up to salute us and we cut his head, or his ass off with a fat-knife. The river bank had overflown and then the water skirted back and we sat on stones and old coins of bankrupt third world currencies rejected by a Swiss-minded Charon, stones and coins and bits of bone turned to coral pressing through our clothes. Then we noticed something horrible, luckily most nature mystics and most poets have been made extinct before seeing it, with the exception of us two: styrofoam, floating in the blessed Styx river, where we had washed our legs together as children.

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notes today upon waking


Cemeteries of empty graves. A cremation, a defiance of the necropolis, a final humiliation of the dead. It is possible to humiliate, to murder those who are already dead. The genocide in Iraq.
The academicism and its polite war against dead writers and dead artists in the West–a campaign which pales by comparison, anything in the West pales by comparison, here they have not seen the youth of the cypresses.

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Ghatak’s Meghe Dhaka Tara: Immortalizing the refugee woman on celluloid


Originally posted on kaleidoscope:

Ritwik Ghatak & Partition

India’s moment of liberation from the British was also a moment of rupture: with independence came partition on 15 August 1947, in what was one of the greatest ironies of 20th century history. Partition did not mean quite the same thing for Punjab and Bengal – the two provinces that got divided on the eastern and western borders of India – but there was one aspect that was common to both: most ordinary citizens found it difficult to accept the fact of partition and their lives changed beyond recognition once they became refugees.

And yet, as far as Bengal was concerned, Partition hardly had any immediate thematic impact on film or literature. The first Bengali novel to deal with partition came out only in 1955 – Narayan Sanyal’s Bakultala P.L.Camp. But it was highlighted on celluloid much earlier – in the 1950 classic, Chinnamul (“The Uprooted”)…

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The Destruction of Hispano-Islamic Civilization: Recollections, Reflections, and Significance


The Destruction of Hispano-Islamic Civilization: Recollections, Reflections, and Significance.

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