Nowhere

One day I ceased writing.
The mere act of lifting a pen
Felt like treason.
I was tired.

I feel tired many times.
And only recently
Have I started to wonder…
Is it exhaustion or is it myself?

I’m starting to realize
That maybe I’m tired of my mask.
That the myriad of intricacies
Which perfect one’s personality
Could be tiring me.

I can no longer find myself,
Nor find joy in the things
Which made me happy.
Nothing tastes like Nostalgia.

But she is elusive,
And I can no longer find her
In the torn pages of an old book,
Or in the simple wonder of my garden.

And as I lose myself,
Even deeper in the shadows
Of a mind which rarely gave me
Reasons for a smile
I feel I’m drowning.

All the plans are gone,
All the truths are wrong.
I have lived misled,
Trying to climb a staircase to Nowhere.

The Twelve and the Daily Coward

Dearest Readers,

I return after a long while, after a gap of silence. It was not really intended, it just happened so… Last year’s end, the bacchanalia of the holidays, travelling and working had me immersed in the realities of modern daily life. My muse took a holiday as well I believe.

Oh well, here I am, doing my usual scribbling, pondering and philosophizing, enjoying a classic cup of tea with milk, sans sugar.


xoxo,
Lady Astor

………………………………….

Are “The Twelve” archetypes
Of the olden Gods
The blueprint for the human souls?
Are we bound to make the same mistakes,
Over and over again,
Until we correct ourselves?
Are we biological sentient entities,
Programmed and thought up by others,
To accomplish a goal in a scheme
We cannot truly comprehend?

These are the questions I asked myself
When pondering of “The Twelve”,
Yesterday alone at lunchtime,
As I watched eager families
Enjoying their Sunday stroll.

Alone in my beliefs,
I try to understand existence,
This intricate puzzle we call life.
I have seen few moments of pure happiness,
Although I cannot say
I have not been fortunate at times.
I have lived though many guises,
Laid my bones in many places,
Known futility in my hunger to learn.
To know the nature of the soul.

I have only but failed
In my obsession
To grasp the unattainable.
The door opens for a second,
Then it’s slammed right in my face.

I have no love for routine,
Care nothing of waking up
At the same time
Every single day…
Guilt and duty make sure I comply.
And I wonder who and why,
Decided this should be life.
Strangled by obligations
Unable to be free at last,
Dependent on time…

Why do we continue
To play the part
In this crazy play
Where there is no gain
Other than coin?
Why do I keep on acting
Like a coward without fulfilment
Letting the days go by,
Giving away my life
And feeling sorry for myself
If the fire of Creation
Is supposedly in my soul?
Or are we created slaves
For the benefit of few
And that is the real ruse?

I think myself,
I think around myself,
I contemplate.
And see no perfection,
But cowardice…

………………………………….



Prometheus and his brother Atlas.

Another Man

My Friends,
Argentina has mourned the loss of their former president and current president’s husband Nestor Kirchner. My views on the current administration have never been forgiving; therefore, I waited for some time until I posted my poetic views on Mr Kirchner’s demise.
To those readers who see in him something I do not I beg forgiveness, hopefully I am mistaken. But these are my opinions, and as such subjective and maybe flawed, but at least they are fully mine.

Godspeed!
Lady Astor

.....................................................

A rich man passed away.
Today, it was less than a fortnight ago.
I made myself wait
Until I last dared
To write and publish
What I must say.

A powerful man passed away,
As powerful as a man can be,
As cunning as a man can be…
He wielded power with an iron fist.

Yet crying masses of people
Mourned his demise.
Friends and family of mine
Attended the grandiose wake.
The funeral of a Statesman,
A Ruler of these Southern Lands.

Yet I can’t understand
Why the slave cries
Over his Master’s death.
Does the slave not know how to be free?

Huge mass of grey crowd,
Gathers to cry beneath the rain.
This is Plaza de Mayo.
Crowds have cried in this spot,
Mothers have mourned in this spot,
For over two hundred years.

I can’t understand their weeping,
Am I too detached?
This man and his wife exercised power
Like few others before them.

They were unable, however to bring Justice,
To end corruption,
To change the backbone of this hungry land.
Yet they were apt enough
To increase their huge wealth.
And increase their friends’ wealth as well…

Hundreds of thousands grieved for this man,
I can’t understand why…
I respect their pain,
But cannot help to wonder why.

A Machiavellian wonder,
The victory of Saturn over Apollo,
A kingdom of falseness,
The tears of the crocodile,
The Isis of Osiris wears the mask of war,
The Lost Souls of the slave mind weep.

What will it be? Who will we be?
They long for a Father
Then turn for a Mother.
Nobody wants to grow up.

For some an agent of change.
For others a criminal mastermind,
For his party members a lost leader,
For the think tanks a myth to be founded,
For his family the loss of the patriarch,
For the Gods… Just another man.

.....................................................

Ages in Violence

Full perfect Moon in the night sky, a dark week down South. A dark poem for dark times. Hopefully, violence births a new Era, and silences the incessant lies.

Love as always,
Lady Astor

.............................

Worlds are created by violence
Stars are born through violence
Galaxies are formed.
Dark matter,
Interstellar mass,
Dense gas clouds in full Technicolor.

Stars are born from chaos,
And at the end of their lives
They blow up as supernovas.
Huge explosions!

Life as we know it
As the never-ending,
Intertwining serpent,
Which twirls and bites
Its eternal tail
From Alpha to Omega.

All life is born through violence.
And love is violent,
And sex is violent.
And yet, we fail to see its beauty.

Because darkness can be beautiful,
Like the forbidden taste of yage,
Doorway to the land of Gods.
But beware, beware!
Because the ancient powers
Can punch you in the face.

We are taught to abhor violence,
Even if innate to the human condition.
But do not doubt...
We are violent, because we are alive.

.............................



Death of a Star in Cassiopeia

Going Home

Dearest Friends,

You might have noticed a pattern lately in my poetry, I am sometimes incensed by the lack of reason and constant repetition of thoughts society displays. I beg you forgive my anger. I feel strongly about things, sometimes too much.

The following poem was written on the plane back home, returning from my holidays in the lovely Patagonian city of Bariloche.
I just had a lovely green tea, after a night of hard celebrations for my 10th year anniversary with my lovely husband, partner, and best friend. It was also his birthday.

Love as always,
Lady Astor

…………………………………………………………..

Going home…
Things always become weird
When holidays are over
And you get to head back home.

“Home is where the heart is.”
If this were true
I would be living in London,
Athens, Cairo or Rome.

Where is my heart?
Where is my home?
I am Ulysses
Forever lost.

I´m just a simple soul
Who tries to wear a smile
As often as she can,
Most of the time.

But to feel the scorn
Of care and love forlorn
Takes the smile away
Closeby, or far away.

…………………………………………………………..

For Manes´sake!

This poem is dedicated to fellow Argentine poet Belén Iannuzzi, in the hopes she can cease to watch the world in black and white and tunes into technicolor.

From Lady, with love

...............................................................


There is Light
In the deep Darkness
Of the void.
Stars shine
Through the shadows
Of the blackest night.

The beauty of the dusk and dawn,
In which the conflict
Of Light and dark
Becomes more evident,
Can be more delightful
Than the blinding sun,
Or the moonless night.

Yet so many yearn
For a World defined
By black and white.
Unwittingly denying
The many shades of grey
Which lie in both nature and heart.

I want to be the raging sea
That brings the bountiful catch.
I want to burn
Like the cleansing fires
That will later bring the crops.
I want to be the embodiment
Of a blazing star at midnight.

Those who want it simple,
Always yelling "wolf!"
Will never be capable
Of learning the flow,
The fire and ice,
Of the nature’s child.
Neither good nor evil,
Neither “Tis nor Tat”.

Yet you point the finger,
And believe you’re righteous,
Bringing back an Old Persian’s
Flawed and archaic thoughts.
And the nerve to call others “vintage”
In their ways and words!

When you are blind to see
Outside your own tiny World,
I tell you things
are almost never what they seem.

...............................................................

Vincent needs no introduction

Let it snow

My dearest friends,

I am now sitting next to a sleeping mountain dog, my only companion while I wait for my husband to return from his skiing session. I do not ski, so I brought over my computer to keep track of my friends and family on these idle hours.

I enjoyed these holidays very much, my first holidays in five long years. Too bad they have to end… But as I type along I think of all those who can’t afford to have holidays, those who have never seen, never will see the pure white snow cover the dirt and make it beautiful.

There is much talk about inequity in my country. And it should be an angry debate more than a talk, for most suffer in silence. But those who have the loudest voice, are the very same who rob opportunities to the working citizen, who create the monopolies they accuse others of having, who roam around the Earth in private jets and lavish jewels while hunger and ignorance surround the land they represent.

I will not tolerate the hypocritical banter of corrupt millionaires, who increased their fortune thanks to inequity. I refuse to listen to lies. I refuse to take sides. The current Argentinean government wants people to be with them by any means, and whoever disagrees becomes an instant enemy. But I dislike their enemies too, relics of a past we all want to leave behind.

I am one. I am independent. I write because I can, in the name of all who have no voice, we are all pawns in this insane power struggle. I write in English, modern day’s Latin, so my words can be understood far and wide.

Open your eyes!

Loves you always,
Lady Astor

…………………………………………………………………

Never saw the snow
Like today before.
The bright white,
Bright white light.
Like Christmas in American movies
Where everyone is happy.

I am happy too,
And still I haven’t got the fear
That grips most human souls
At the end of their short vacations.

Holidays are always short
For those who toil
In the never ending rat race
Of modern life.
For we are not rats
But human beings.

Is there something we can do
To end this game?
On some newspaper
I read about the news today.

A proven crook,
Who obediently follows
His master’s voice – a bigger crook,
Tries to scare us by saying
We are being disobedient.
He clearly never read Thoreau…

But still, there is the snow…
The pure untainted snow,
For those lucky to afford it,
Mainly people from abroad.

And the goons believe they’re clever.
To a certain extent they are.
They’re almost as clever as Adolf,
Or Josef, or Ho or old Mao.
Bang!
The shit goes down.

Today I am happy,
But tomorrow will shortly come.
And so I sharpen my pencil…
I´m going back to the field in no time.

…………………………………………………………………



Cerro Otto, Bariloche, Argentina

We must simply exchange our tea for chocolate!