may I take it you are aware of the genius of Gogol Bordello? I love their take on wearing purple!

album recorded version
awesome live version taped in Italy 2006

Adrian

This diary entry, observation, whatever it is -is brilliant -should be in The Observer or something..

You really nailed this one, amigo…

I am so glad you received safely my card to you.

REBIRTH…

AND DOES THE BUTTERFLY

AS HE SPREADS HIS WINGS FOR THE FIRST FLUTTERING BEAT

IN HER NEW SUNBLESSED LIFE

LAUGH

AT THE FEARS OF THE CATERPILLAR ?

God Bles you John and you are not the one who seks forgivenesss I have prayed that you can forgive me for how I treated you and know that you are loved.

P.S. Never Ever Give Up !!!

I’m sending you another poem from ‘one of my favourite poets’ as I’ve been revisiting his work recently and as I read your blog I think of certain poems of his.

LONELY AS A CLOUD

The end is distance. A day
too great. You are surpassed. Your steps cannot be equated
with such immensity. You sit on the track,
waiting. You do not ask yourself
why you wait – exhaustion is its own answer
and there could be
no justification of all this silence. A single tree
shades you from noon. It is as though
you have achieved some irredeemable
godhead; as if all your life you have striven
for this isolation. Detail distracts you:
even out here, crows live – their black
drift through enormity. Ants. Beetles. Grass.
You cut across a paddock, thinking to save
some miles. They will find first your swag, then
your clothes abandoned.
The cities have a more subtle way of death. How white
your skeleton will be, naked,
picked clean, in the next summer’s
furnace solitude. How marvellously simple – the white
bones, the orange grainy texture of the plains, blue millennia.
You are pleased by the stylisation of your death.
The crows, too, express interest; also the ants.

Here’s a poem from one of my favourite poets.

VALLEY

where time is a flower, a stone, days
drop their rich litter, and we lie
in them as in a bed of leaves

our house is an old mountain
we come and go
the river brings us home, the wind

we know of the world
its legends call, echo
with the sound of steps
on a lost road

mysteries have the weight of butterflies
drifting at the bright
border of all we know – that flowers die,
that trees may fall, startling us,
fall in the stream and change its ways

in an instinct of seasons
all history plays

rising early
we walk for hours

nothing exists
but time, which is slow,
and distance, which is green

sensing we live
beyond something, almost
posthumous, our lives turn, our history
the shadow on a sundial

this is a littler one…

RAINPOEM

three days of rain: indoors
the mind runs over some
eternal mysteries
polishing them lightly: outdoors
noticing how
even the hugest man seems frail,
gentle, trying to keep dry
a loaf of new bread