Slanted Eyes (Yeux Bridés)
In a red coat she walked on black high heel shoes
In a crowded street between men with neckties
As we passed by she cast a casual glance at me
And I admired her radiant almond eyes.
Once on a sunny afternoon in late August
I saw her again in a park under blue skies
The wind moved gently lacy cirrus clouds
And I adored her graceful Asian eyes.
My ancestors did not build the Great Wall
Nor did they belong to ranks of Samurais
But when the Moon rises west of the Silk Road
I dream about the girl with comely oblique eyes.
As the years slip by and we grow old together
We walk hand in hand on fields of butterflies
Why do you love me? She asks and I tell her:
For your beautiful soul and your slanted eyes.
poem by Paul Hartal
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The Sobbing God
It was 1942 in the Warsaw Ghetto
And Rabbi Kalonymos Shapiro posed a question:
Did the God of Israel abandon his people?
And then he heard the voice of Jeremiah:
“My soul shall weep in secret places
And my eye shall weep sore and run down with tears
Because the Lord’s flock is carried away captive.”
As the dark days descended on the earth
And the flames engulfed the ghetto
The Lord bitterly sobbed,
Mourned in agony the innocent souls.
But God hid his tears in inner chambers.
He wept lonely in solitude
He concealed his immeasurable sorrow.
For, the Lord loves the world immensely
He suffers silently with his infinite pain.
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poem by Paul Hartal
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Her Kiss
He steers hurriedly the hardened handlebar
The light dims out in a cozy red chamber
A door of dreams opens with a moan ajar
A want of breeze lays layer upon layer.
Her dress is colorful but simple and modest
Her jasper hair falls on her white shoulders
He enters her cave beneath the jade forest
An old book on the shelf silently moulders.
Her skin is velvety silk, delicate and smooth
Her eyes brightly glisten, the pearls of Atlantis
One cannot find such jewels in any booth,
Her breasts pomegranates, sweeter than raisins.
Forgive me, he says, for not kissing your mouth
And she smiles and agrees yet somewhat amiss
Then he moves to the door turning to the south
But before he leaves she kisses him on the lips.
poem by Paul Hartal
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Poem for a Right Angle
The summer sun at noon shines bright
And you are always everywhere
Underneath and at immense height
On the ground and in the air.
Your birth place is unknown to me
But your angle is always right
A vertical perpendicular, carefree,
To a horizontal line, firm and tight.
Marked by an elegant small square,
Your own cute symbol, neither acute
Nor obtuse, ninety degrees of a stair,
A skyscraper's desire to salute.
A quarter-turn of a full circle,
Three hours on an antique time piece,
Go Angulus Rectus, ride your bicycle,
The wheels rotate in patterned caprice.
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poem by Paul Hartal
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The World Has Changed
The world has changed
Because you left it
I feel your presence
But where are you now?
I know that you are alive
Memories do not descend to the grave
I touch a flower and touch your soul
I talk to you
And you return at dreamtimes.
You are in heaven now
You are in paradise
But where is paradise
My angel, my darling?
Some say the Garden of Eden
Was an island in ancient seas
In Bahrain or Babylon
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poem by Paul Hartal
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Descartes' Despair
How can we affirm our own existence?
Cogito ergo sum, Descartes said,
I think therefore I am.
But wait!
Who is doing the thinking?
The body?
Am I my body?
Well, Descartes explained, we are talking about
Two incompatible substances:
The unextended and indivisible mind
In contrast with the extended and divisible matter,
Res cogitans versus res extensa.
Yes, but am I my body?
How is the contact created
Between the mental
And the physical worlds?
Princess Elizabeth of the Palatinate asked.
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poem by Paul Hartal
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The Fuehrer Makes an Aesthetic Decision
The House of German Art
opened its gates to the public
in Munich in the summer of 1937
with a grand exhibition.
The pseudo-classic building
displayed Nazi art works
and Hitler himself delivered
a long inaugurating speech at the show.
Gesticulating wildly, the fuehrer
denounced with incensed rage artists
who attach theories to their work.
Aesthetic doctrines, he said,
pollute the mind.
Then the dictator went on
proclaiming that he was always
determined neither to analyze,
nor to discuss artistic judgment,
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poem by Paul Hartal
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Unruly Dragon in Porcelain Equilibrium
Feral fires in your fluid soul
the magma of your volatile thoughts
are bubbles of molten emotions
erupting from the crater
of a flaming volcano.
The raving lava gushes forth wildly.
It carries suspended crystals,
it streams down the mountain slopes,
drawing over them
intractable arabesque patterns.
Then high above the mountain peaks
an eagle spreads its wide wings
among amorphous clouds
flying free boldly in the crumbly sky.
And like quietude after a storm,
your restless mind,
a turbulent brain craves for calm
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poem by Paul Hartal
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Talking Back to Parmenides
He was taller than I expected.
Standing at the white city gate
Parmenides of Elea patiently waited.
What year is this? He asked.
2005, I said.
All these years, he murmured.
Yes, I nodded, you were born
More than twenty five centuries ago.
You were writing in hexameters
About the Way of Truth
And the Way of Seeming,
I reminded him.
Yes, I remember that, he said.
My memory is as good as in my youth.
I used to delve into the Enigma of Being
In the quest for finding the hidden heart of
Certainty and permanence.
We were silent for a while.
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poem by Paul Hartal
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Two Sphinxes
Time has taken you into its arms
Bringing you to the room
Between new sunrises and antique sunsets.
While the tangle of fog covered the foliage
Beyond the carved clouds and subtle vapours
Pulsating remote landscapes with Sun-Moon eyes
Were receding to the fading horizon.
Look! The golden carpets of fallen leaves
Lie on the October grass.
The drooping willow at the corner
Between a pine and two maple trees
Stands like an eroded camouflage
And silver shores with restless waves
Emerge, sink and penetrate
The hidden galactic system of our love.
Time has taken into its arms
Bringing you to the room
Between new sunrises and antique sunsets.
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poem by Paul Hartal
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