Puppet Stage

The masks of human evil are cheap, and plastic-
not really masks, windswept masses of
tissue- blundering blindness gets passed on,
assured senses of doom, satisfaction in
the pain of others, as though anguish were
our anointed element. Why as I climb Old
York Road the bridge is an expensive one
to surmount: thousands here hurled from pitiless
heights, as was decided each time by casual
stooges, whose own eventual, catastrophic
deaths were not faced by themselves or anyone
else, Kabuki puppet deaths, Old York Road
another puppet stage. This, midnight's full load.



notes of one day

by Guido Monte

translated by Adele Ward

when i wake in the morning

walcott is my homeric hero,

and the caribbean my promised land

even if i have never been there,

they are in my mind

among white almonds,

the islands' bays

happy and without pain,

epic gods who sail

the sea for fun,

the smiles of the poor islanders

are gifts of the dead,

the slaves

have been liberated.

it is already lunchtime but

the shade of

alda merini buzzes the entryphone

claiming to be

an angel of sickness,

she comes up and shows scars,

pill-poisons and photos

of abandoned animals,

she asks me quietly

why so many creatures

have asked her for a way to die

as quickly as possible, just so,

without thinking.

at night i turn on the lamp

on my table and browse

poems by pasternak, poems

of silence and snow,

from a time already old,

that is passing, of rooftops

in winter, and pavements,

of a branch in blossom,

the last one in a white night.


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