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

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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!

The Troll

I’m sadly amazed at the levels of violence we humans are using while operating in the free arena that is the Internet. Makes me wonder how life would be if Government and State would cease to exist… And believe me this is cause of grief, because I am an anarchist, and I hate big Government.

Saddened because I encounter this behaviour daily, in posts regarding all sorts of topics, and with people of all walks of life and all sorts of educational levels. It leaves me pondering if we ever will become free of the tyranny of our egos. I know I am to blame as well, because I am also a narcissist, because I want to be right… But at what cost? That, my friends is the ultimate question.

Those in South America may enjoy a lovely cup of boldus tea, but I’m afraid it might be hard to find in the boreal regions of the planet.

My love as always,
Lady Astor

………………………………………………

I hate you
Because I think.
I know what lies within your head.
I am pretty certain,
Just by looking at you,
What is on your mind.

Moreover,
Upon checking out two words you said
I can tell the entire structure of your thought.
Where you are from,
Where you were before
And where you will be.

Because I know.
I know you are wrong.
And I am of course,
Completely right.
And if you haven’t noticed
I can tell all that, with a blink of my mind’s eye!

But you see,
I’m completely tolerant.
If someone ever thought up a statue
To commemorate the most equitable person on Earth.
My effigy would become
The monument’s grandiose face.

Your years of study,
Your abilities
Your contemplation…
Are all irrelevant.
Resistance is futile.
I am right and you are wrong.

Simple as that.
Because I might be a troll,
But I’m also sure,
I’m on the good side of the fence.
I just know I’m right
And you are not.

………………………………………………



The Troll is illustrated by John Kovalic

Friend in Light

Yesterday was “Friend’s Day” in Argentina. One of those annoyingly commercial dates that count on media manipulation, so that everyone feels guilt should they not give gifts – or phone calls, e-mails, assorted greetings, etc - away to their friends… And by friends I mean anyone from annoying peers at work to your old high school buddies.
I chose to write this poem on the day after. It’s dedicated to one of my best friends, who has also been portrayed in several other poems, which can be found in this very log.
I believe it can be better enjoyed in the company of some ginger tea.

……………………………………………………

Friend in Light
Without fright
Takes a dive
Deep in the night.

Open wide
Your curious eyes
With the spark
Of a newborn child.

Look up
At the changing stars.
Upwards is
What downwards does.

In due time
You will see
That you are
What you will.

If you will
With true love,
You will know
What you are.

Real is not touch
Taste or sight.
Real is existence
In this lower realm.
Which is not absolute.
But changeable,
Flawed
And corrupt.

But ideas are not.
They forever stand,
Perfect in the heavens
Perfect in the land.

This is the best gift
I can give to you.
As a father, as a son,
As a friend in Light.

Dedicated to Juan Sabato
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Full Moon rising behind the ancient temple of Poseidon at Sounio

Pound of Flesh

Dear friends,
This is a new venture for me. Never before had I attempted to intertwine my views on local Argentinian politics with my poetry. I spent most of my adult life as an expat and therefore I was active in the society I lived in, keeping the thoughts about my homeland for myself.
But nowadays, with so much hate-mongering exploding like geysers in my land of birth, I sense that if tension is breaking the surface of the unseen, I might as well eject some turbulent thoughts myself.
Rabid supporters of the current government, some of whom I sadly count among my friends, have become angry zealots who defend dogma. I have always stood by the freak of the land, the motherless, the queer, the voiceless… So when things start to go weird, when you have to pick a side because if you don´t, if you dissent, you are consorting with everything that is evil… I choose to pick no side, but the side of reason.

Enjoy your green tea with some mint. And breathe.

Lady Astor loves you, always...

……………………………………………..

You are so damn sure.
You look at me with contempt,
Half smirk,
Shallow eyes,
Random facial hair.

You preach like the priests you hate
And outdark your foes with your lip.
Rewrite the past for convenience,
But swiftly accuse any detractor
With dirt dug from their graves.

Your flag says you stand for the poor,
Yet you side with the wealthy.
Conniving, dark, corrupt…
Relics of a past
That just won’t go.

I am the sepoy.
The traitor you must shut up,
The traitor who lived abroad
And became enamoured with the Evil Empire.
A Lady when you wish there were only pigs and whores.

You tie yourself to old antics,
Still watching the tube in black and white,
While the wild colours of the multiverse
Keep blinding newborn souls
That you haven’t yet touched.

You drone.
You ignorant.
You fool.
Just a tool in the shed of Shylock’s den
Ready to serve.

You are the heckler in my speech.
Shouting obscenities because I don’t believe.
Come up and debate with me,
Share my stage,
Wake up and be free!

Because if you want me to take sides in your binary game
You’ve lost me since the first day.
I do not perform for the blind,
So whatever you hear me say
You will only get it if you wake up and play.

I only wish I am mistaken,
I wish it just for your sake.
I wouldn’t want to be where you are standing.
When Shylock and his aging queen
Demand their pound of flesh.

……………………………………………..

The Coldest Day of the Year

No preface today, just poetry, in remembrance of Martin Inda.

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I’m brewing in hate,
The worst of all emotions.
I lose another friend
In such a short term.
I’m tired.

When you lose a friend
That sense of loss
Invades your soul.
Who will be there to tell our stories
When all our friends are gone?

All the images of times spent together
Flood my mind’s eye
In this chilly weather.
It is the coldest day of the year.
Tears warm my cheeks.

Times too hard,
Times too hard are getting to me.
And cold crisp air,
Reminds me of all those friends
Who couldn’t stay.

Who is to tell,
When the time is up?
As the Fates keep spinning the thread,
I wonder,
Who will be next in line for Athropos´s final cut?

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"The Triumph of Death", Pieter Brueghel The Elder, 1562, Museo del Prado, Madrid.