Humble mumble from somewhere

Easter Sunday (ups, now it became Monday) - some will try their luck today (again): bunny hop. No, not on a bike but on a boat, not a small obstacle but the Mediterranean. A miracle so to speak. Overload and too little wood or plastic to surf the open sea, too little horse power to ride against the waves. A nutshell, out on a pond. Ascension may come but how deep is the fall before and how to revive? The slow descend into another element, life bringing substance that brings death. Too salty and too much of it. How much can you take before engulfing it all, becoming sea, never to be pulled ashore?

A day like this, when the story of the pain of a human is brought to her first triumphant climax, when the white and red lights are cast upon earth after the storm has passed and the material temple has been scarred, on a day like this not only the new arrivants are present in their hopefull bunny hop. Many ancient, old, new and untold stories of deceit, imprisonment, torture, struggle for survival, staring gazes and loud cheering to one's death are present as well. Two of them searched a voice and found a humble vase of words stuck to the silk of this digital web. Here they are.

Number one pushed to be written a month ago in Venice and published today online. It is the well-known ordeal of a woman of the tribe of San, brought to England by a cunning doctor, portrayed, exposed, commented and written about, laughed at, used and abused both in England and in France by the supposedly most learned and fortunate men of the Empires. It is no other but the woman that was named The Hottentot Venus. There are disputes if Saartjie Baartman is her real name or merely the first one to be imposed by a European. For those who don't want to read: The Cyrcles Edge offers image and sound followed about a rant.

In any case: there exist two literary translations of her and her story. The South African poet Diana Ferrus wrote a "A poem for Sarah Baartman" that may have influenced the French minister of research and law makers to return the long displayed remains to South Africa in 2002. Secondly, a play has been written and produced by Suzan-Lori Parks titled "The Hottentot Venus". They are both better researched and probably written with more premeditation. Probably they could defend themselves better against the criticism of writing about things "they don't really know about". I confess that my lines are written by a sudden shiver in the spinal cord whilst hearing for the first time about this woman-in-constant-exposition. 

Fi nameless 'uman on display

1029180311 Ca' Foscari

You standing in a cage they put around

you are moved into the lights of Empire

as a shadow under scrutiny

by pale darkness with gloomy eyes

and spit drooling from open mouths

You sitting in your cage whilst

the latest buyer fucks your great

anatomy right from behind

are running the savannah

behind tearing eyes

are lying on a beach

beneath your burning skin

where the marks of insecure

short dicked bullies write

H U M I L I A T I O N

on your ample body's lush widths

where herds of eyes graze upon

eating the light and reflection of your

nameless beauty of Otherness

May your parts fully rest in peace

and may the eyes now close shut tight

May the show be over and done

May the show be over and out

May the show be gone

Rest in peace and respect

Number two has to do with a similar exposition of bodies. But this time in ancient times and in a bloodier way. Gladiators in the Collisseum. Not the way the Hollywood movie portrays it. Not entirely at least. 

glad? later. 

maybe one is glad later 

but as a gladiator

I is just another slave

on the way to work myself

to death

The games are promised

to thrive

for 101 days...

The Roman plebs is hungry

and blood must run

and entertainment come

If no good show this Caesar must run

Senate might even return

He don't want no run

Thus blood

from enslaved people

out of the cages into the arena

from the underground 

to the spot of some thousand eyes

to this roar and this stomping

I had never heard before

Like an over-sized elephant herd

fleeing bush fire

Maybe one is glad later 

but how should I survive 

if summoned on inauguration day

with another hundred days to go

Luck 

and a fingertip of earth powers

and a fingertip of star dust

and a fingertip of water from the Tiber

might prove to be enough

if spent wisely

But now out come 

the hungry lions

and maybe I am glad later

but now I got to fight

or fall victim to sharp teeth

whilst the masses cheer and laugh

at my bloody death

Due to recent developments and discussions

I will not be tempted to write two lines in rhymes and go to bed. Happy to have done something. Said something. Maybe touched a reader's heart in a near or far off future. I will not be tempted by that kind of rhyme. Politricks howl and whine.

When a dear friend sent me the link to democracy now!'s report on Germany's far right propaganda in the eager fangs of the so called people's parties in the so called centre of the political stage, followed by an interview with Slavoj Zizek, I was amazed. Obviously their perspective from the outside was not able to see all the people in this country that do not want to "tolerate" foreigners, migrants and asylum seekers but are happy to live in the pulsing streams of translation and encounters where everyone can be as much foreignized as 'naturalized'. To tolerate would mean to look down on someone. Mutual respect and a caring attitude is what we live instead. Good old 'love thy neighbour' - conviviality at it's best. 

During an anti atom energy protest in Munich, Germany

Nevertheless Zizek is right. The voice has got to go back to the streets. Good, strong, positive inspirations have to break the insane barking of the media hunting dogs and the ever winding Newspeak of governments and multinationals. Yes, there are people who project their abstract fears and very lively disappointments onto the Other. There always were and always will be. What has to come back is a confident, measured, unagitated way of discussing the problems of living together, of sharing this little island, our planet. Positive vibrations, respect for every form and way of life would be the Propa Propaganda just the way Benjamin Zephaniah rhymes it. But you may ask yourself: What has that got to do with me?

Nothing and everything.

Generation in-between

We live between different myths of different nations
our passports carry a question mark
and we surf the currents of entangled migrations

We live between the margins and the centres
our homes are many - our spirit our bones
We invent new lives and become self inventors

We live in the live streams, uploads and digital dreams
our profiles share many tongues and more locations
We are constant translation, movement and beams

of light into the heart of darkness
right there in Central Europe
where some want to care less

We meet sisters and brothers in settledness
those who greet, laugh and bond with us to bless
a handshake that shatters rigid walls of separation

No space without some forms of migration
ever changing process - unstable translation
Let's have ovations for flotation in negotiation relation

and show some love for the fearful ones full of temptation
Shadows of separation, distortion, might, extortion and foul power
Send them love and bless their light in fragmentation

but tell them of a world in movement
tell them not to be afraid

New 2 Naples and before 2 Procida

Once again we meet on this blinking screen. Once again I brought some Italian poetry. Well, globalEnglish poetry written in Italy, Southern Italy that is. Neapolis, the new Greek polis and Procida, that which lies forth in the maritime logic of ancient archipelagic times give some rhymes. Down there, late Summer was still beaming with yellow light. I stored a lot of it. May some reach you by reading this. 




Reasoning Language


What we say and how we pronounce it
might just change the way 
we perceive it 
and decide 
if we believe it or if 
we despise or regret it

Walking Naples


When walking Naples
stereotypes crumble like some 
of the old palaces and I realize
that what others despise and
criticize, ridicule and vaporize
(verbally, mentally or even actually like 1943-45) 
is sometimes (and more than often) 
what I love and what I cherish
because it's life and live and full
of energy


Love is life and life is love 
if you don't try to be above 
but right in the middle 
of things going on 
Things not to come or gone 
but in your breath 
Neither blind nor dead 
but feeling 
with every string of this temple
-your body – 
and this light 
– your soul – 
walking Naples

2 holy trinity (partial version)

Going back from Procida to Munich on September 19th 2010

a Sunday that liquefies San Gennaro's blood in sunny Naples

every word underlines 

the distance

but still we advance 

cause if we don't 

believe in the impossible 

what could ever be 

our hopeful stance

Venice 09. dark poetry.

Floating body over sunken city

[Variation on an old stereotype: Venice the dark lady.]

dAn november 09 Venice

Venice is going down

but I only hear her

silence and the slightly

nauseating smell of dark waters

& confused behind masks

the last tolls of a hundred

bells are maybe just cries

of millions of seagulls fighting

over

the dead floating body

surrounded by blinking garbage

and soft weeds

& confused behind masks

there is no air there is no

space

and a floating body might

just be another dark hole

to see the star spotted night

of one's inner retina

& confused behind masks

one cannot see the

seagull-bell and her closing

in

floating in dark smelly waters

were last blurbs shatter

the moving surface

& there is no air

(c) Daniel Graziadei 2009

Words out of heart's ache

dAn 0133301208 @home

Whenever I see the news

flashes and whenever I hear the latest death

tolls I hear this war War WAR! deep in my ears

And whenever I hear our white collar red and blue

tie kind of guys talking about not talking but bombing

some so-called terrorists back into stone ages I think of Hitler

and that faked attack by German special troops in some Polish

costumes. And again I hear war War WAR! deep in my bloody head

So when twin towers crumble and red busses explode and morning trains

and subways and hotels and warships and cars and persons and discoteques blow to pieces...

I hear this haunting refrain

and it's rhythm doesn't fit

to the cycle of my blood pumping

one love, ONE LOVE, 1 LUV

And now that the bombs fall

again and the mortars and the missiles kill

again and now that the industry of armament is grinning

its big big biz and winner's smile again

Now that the kids are screaming

with the jets and bombs

Now that the kids are bleeding

with the city, land and scape

Now that the hate is pressure rising

again and every one has his opinion and her side

a flag, a song, a demonstration

Now I hear the screams of ancient furies

on news flashes and roof tops everywhere on every tide

But I do not surrender my pulse

And I will not surrender my rhythm

And I do not surrender one love

And I will keep and tender white dove

And I do not take sides

And I will never deal hides

And I do not

And I kill not

stop

Actually

I should silence myself

Better it would be and easy and free

(no friends I would lose on both sides of this bloodied river and its ready-to-throw silt)

I should silence myself - some say -

due to historical reasons and guilt

(Colonialism, Nazism and all that killing spree)

I could silence myself

but alas, what a silencer that would be on my poetical head

I could silence myself

but my ass, what a headshot that would be on my poetical dread

So speak I must

So write I must

hitting dust

between frontiers

impaled

on that forbidden wall

that Banksy coloured (the way I would too)

so let's end this rhyme 'n' stand silent, stand tall

You

who have the tanks and the jets and the might and the right

friends overseas and this everglooming historical plight

from Egyptian times to this very night

you could read your scriptures:

One I for an I

You

who have scorn and have zeal and have spittle

just to drown the other side and an ideal of world union

How about a little peace on your own side

instead of all that cutting and whittle

Hostages of splinters and fractions

you could read your scriptures:

You were not created to bombing die

You

both of you!

Unconditional love for the same land

unconditional love for the same God

how come you learned to hate your brethren?

You

both of you!

Cutting your men the same way

cutting your meat the same way

how come you learned to butcher your sistren?

You, both of you!

Shame on your war-mongers

your weapon traders

your killers

Shame on you

for not caring enough

for your children to raise

lambs instead of an army

For not trying hard and tough

to share that land that you love

in peace and harmony

Shame on you

for oh easily falling

for such bloody bait

as fury and

hate

You will say

I am an infidel

both of you

You will say

I am an ignorant

both of you

You will say

and you will sway

and find excuses

But all over the world

word has it

that your conflict

might just be

the ultimate key

to peace

So don't

tell me

not to

care

(don't

tell me

not to

dare)

We have already overcome

Instead of sleeping
waiting
instead of dreaming
reading
instead of rest
foreign politricks at it's best

And I am not waiting for the call
as the hope instilled
and the chain undone
is all I longed for

I cannot vote and
the fate of
this inter
national
change
is like warplanes
screeching
over my dreads

I cannot hide
and I cannot
help

But nonetheless
this hope instilled
I bless

We have already overcome

"Vienna Night Walk"



dAn 0156051108 MUC

Island spotting on my mind

Rain is falling and
a swift breeze rises
German summer seems
over and my heart goes out
to the Caribbean
and the places I touched
a year ago
Soft sand between eager toe
and the coral blue reflecting
in my glistering eyes
whilst behind my uplifted dreads
the green green jungle
roars waiting for the first
smoke to rise
So he can come
down on
me

Grey clouds are stalling and
a cold wind surprises
German summer deems
to be over and my voice goes out
whilst dreaming the Caribbean
and the islands watched
on that mindmap aglow
Soft sand will change for snow
and the coral blue expecting
is just a shadow in my eyes
whilst in everchanging beds
I quench my haunting thirst
for the hummingbird's cries
So I n I pray come
down on
me

dAn 1742200808 Forstenried

No Poem [for three voices]

dAn 1548050508 Forstenried

I should write about Sex

but I think its rhymes make me flex

I should write about Drugs

but all is drinks and mugs and hugs

I should write quite right

but the wind of change blows a different kite

Ssht! Hide!

A, a-a, a-a-a, ey! What you tink you mumblin?

No poem to cheat

No poem for sheep

No poem in cheap

No poem to weep

A, a-a, a-a-a-a, ey!

Under plastic palms white whales do lie

under blueblue sky lonely gull no cry

This is not the magic island of thy dreams

this is not holy earth under sun's beams

this is just a stone in a sea of rocks

this is just one broad back of bloody flocks

A, a-a, speak up, come, say!

This ain't all bright and nice

hehe mister music give out some spice

This is to fight up twice

hey mister government take me advice

This is bad street and mice

stand up mister lazar shake off those lice

This ain't all right six dice

hehe mister gambler tell me your price

A, a-a, na-na-na-na, stop!

Thrice seems suffice

Under plastic palms I stare at bigbig bills

under blueblue sky not a cloud on the hills

This is not the magic island of my dreams

this is not the only earth under glory's beams

It is about one hole in the blue

but it is just a story for you

Get down knave, kneel pray!

No verse sound sleep

No poem short sleep

No poem dreams deep

No poem to peep

A, a-a, a-a-a, ey!

I know I should rant about Sex

but I think its rhymes make me flex

I grow I should rant about Drugs

but all is drinks and puke and jugs

But man, believe! I DO rant

and a little seed I will plant

A, a-a, a-a-a, ey!

Plant it deep

let water weep

let nature feed

plant it deep

Under plastic palms lies big economy

whilst under blueblue sky this ecolony

is not the magic island of thy dreams

but a nightmare of ¡oh so cruel! extremes

Ey!

One poem in deep

One poem to keep

One poem to repeat

One poem to read

out aloud and sing and shout

but only full of hope

Only full of hope

Hey, tell it, man, finally tell it!

Better than a plastic Eden

and longlong legs from Sweden

is the sweetsweet kiss of brutal reality

on this planetary island in rural universe and duality

Yey!

(c) dAn 2008

Thank you Mister Right Wing

Your Iraq spells Vietnam

and all the books of history

yes all your films and veterans

in vain

The cry of sanity and peace

in blue wide grinning sky

when spring 2003 killed hope

‘cause April blossom carried arms

and bombs and devastation

Quiet!

Your Iraq smells Vietnam

no luck no peace no victory

but fresh hot oil in cheaper cans

In pains

the beast howls off the leash

Killed in vain

so many thousands have gone by

bullets, bombs, starvation, rope

and desert air is shrill alarms

All wrong and war’s dictation

Silence!

Your Iraq bells Vietnam

one sound so far from glory

that creeping through all media runs

in shame

and takes what it can seize

Grilled in vain

on shiny reason’s tight knit tie

high on proper propaganda dope

and monger’s warring charms

What helpless desperation

Listen!

Your Iraq tells Vietnam

A tale so dark and hoary

that overspills all borders and all clans

in chains

of unknown brutal Western breeze

Milled their reign

in bloody sands that’ll never dry

but crackling creep from slope to slope

No oasis lives without grieved harms

and protest and resistance eat frustration

Mind!

Your Iraq hells Vietnam

Hush, hush!