GUEST POST // The Sea is Watching by Mario Savioni (with commentary by Marta Pombo Sallés)

In some complacent nest,
I saw the open door –
The extraordinary field of innocence.

She weeps having not expected
To be a party to purity.

It is a field of fog at the end of the lake,
Where the weeds swirl.

He says, “I do not need tea.”

Again, the swirling field.

He walks alone along the edge.

Do you know the sound of water lapping?
A sun setting behind reeds?

He hears laughter not meant for him
And words:

“Death waits not on age.”
“The young sometimes die before the old.”

She loves him, this slayer of rice paper.
She races in winter to free him.

They cry on a bridge.
She is shadowed.
Young lovers.

Spring comes.
Spring is the answer.

Or is it summer?

In it, I see the weakness of men,
And a woman’s burden is to trust.

But we are not strong enough
To carry the weight of ourselves
Through this eagerness.
Laughter there is none.
A bloodied mouth, the searing wind,
As if evil came,
Then rain, a purity.

The field weak now,
Showers pouring,
A storm,
Things breaking,

And then suddenly it stops.

Who is the wiser?
So much lucky red silk –
Floating debris.

Two women wait,
While the sea is watching.

It is like Noah,
And so they sit
Looking at stars from a rooftop.

It is about men and their gentleness,
As she waves the lantern in space
And sees the shooting star.

by MARIO SAVIONI
© All rights reserved 2011

A review of Mario Savioni’s poem, “The Sea is Watching”

I was rereading Mario Savioni’s book entitled After and had a closer look at poem “The Sea is Watching”:

I like it very much as a poem having found inspiration in the Japanese movie with the same title.

The whole poem sounds very musical, especially when I read the words from the book and, at the same time, listen to its author, reading it aloud on youtube.

This is how I interpreted the poem at first sight:

The “complacent nest” could be a euphemism for the word brothel. The “field of innocence” is something I associate with Oshin. She is an innocent prostitute because she still believes in love although she is a sex worker. She falls in love twice. She weeps because the promise of marriage with Fusanosuke has not been fulfilled. She is not “a party to purity.”

There seems to be a he, not wanting tea and walking along the edge, either Fusanosuke or maybe it is the second chance she gets when she falls in love again with Ryosuke. The word “edge” suggests risk. Could they be the “young lovers”? There is death, someone younger dying that could refer to Ryosuke killing Kikuno’s customer.

The coming of spring suggests the lovers’ season par excellence. The beginning of love. Summer would mean this love is already ripe, like fruit.

I also see the traditional men-women roles. “The weakness of men” who are supposed to be so strong but they are weak with the pleasures of the flesh as they need prostitutes and sex, often abusing women. Luckily the rain and the storm seem to come as an opportunity for purity, for the prostitutes to clean themselves and to get rid of this life. The “lucky red silk” appears to me as the symbol for the brothel, now a “floating debris”.

The two women sit and wait on the rooftop, a symbol for an anchor where they can hold on to. “The shooting star” means hope, a wish that someone will come and rescue them from the flood, maybe the second he, Oshin’s second opportunity in life, that is, Ryosuke coming by boat.

by MARTA POMBO SALLÉS
© All rights reserved 2016

Six Word Stories #14

Your lips brushed across my threshold.

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2016

Six Word Stories #13

Your temple became my new temple.

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2016

EARS WIDE OPEN // anastasis tree

Earlier this year, we wrote a poem called anastasis tree. It’s one of our personal favourites and it seems this was also the case for many of you, our dear readers. Oh, and guess what? We were lucky enough to have the inimitable Miljenko Williams do a reading of it for us. We think you’ll agree that he’s done an absolutely wonderful job. Please do sit back, relax, and enjoy! (Also, may we recommend that you cast a curious ear over another of his readings here? It’s one of his own poetic efforts. Seriously, check it out. It’s SO good!)

anastasis tree

thick scabbed bark like a panoply
but tenderer than a wing-stroke
stealthy touches, airy kisses,
cracking, cracking

i’m but a breath, thinly stretched
by potter o’er clay and bone
i’m a tumbleweed in tumbleland
a noose dropped at the hanging tree

gnawing trails through rotten caudex
weaving cocoons inside the heartwood
quivering fibrils, feeble pulse
waiting, waiting

you are closer than the wisp of lips
you are deeper than oceans mere
you are greater than fears all brung
an empty space at the hanging tree

gentle stirring feels like convulsions
nobody asks you when you’re ready
voiceless screams, waterless tears
waking, waking

we all submit that need to know
we know love that seek out truth
we love true another’s name
our troubles left at the hanging tree

you want me for you
i want you for me
so let it be
a butterfly sways
on a hangman’s noose
at the dead tree

Text by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
Audio by MILJENKO WILLIAMS
Image by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2016

Deuteronomy: something that Moses and Eliot hushed up

A tiny, black Kitten took a leisurely stroll down a drowsy, prestigious street. Kitten didn’t seem lost or panicked. I would even say that Kitten was rather focused, as if looking for something.

Finally, Kitten chose a cute little porch adorned with dried twigs, pumpkins and autumnal blooms, and climbed onto it. Kitten sat a little bit, and then delved into some unsolicited mail which was tossed around, as if to fill the time.

A passing dog stopped to look at Kitten, then it bristled and started to bark. Kitten ignored this while continuing to pore over a leaflet with ads of whistling kettles.

The door opened a crack and from it an annoyed woman’s voice exclaimed, “Boo! Leave it!” Kitten meowed softly. The voice then changed like the wave of a wand. “Oh… kitty kitty! Just look at this poopsie!” A moment later, two hands scooped Kitten up.

Kitten became a real consolation to the old woman. She fussed over Kitten all the days and nights. She doted on Kitten. And… you know how it happens, yes? Their love was like butter of the herd, and milk of the sheep with the fat of lambs. Like the rams of the breed of Basan. And goats with the marrow of wheat. Drink like the purest blood of the grape. Blah, blah, blah…

And it was good.

Could you blame her? Me neither. Let who is without sin be the first to cast a stone. Love is a tricky thing and you should think twice before you scoop up a tiny kitten from your porch. Where lies the boundary between selfless care and careless selfishness? Whom do we love? Ourselves in the object of love, or the object of love in us? Little black kittens, who slept on your pillow, grow up and occupy your bedroom…

A boombox filled the air with the treacly backbeat of a musical. The digestive repose of a feline’s gastronomy must never be broken whate’er may befall.

That huge black Cat with coruscant fur lazily swayed in a rocking chair in front of the fireplace. The tiny grandma snuggled on his lap, snoring softly.

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2016