Piano Tunes

For Hsia Jung Chang

I met you only accidentally
In the cold ether of cyberspace

But perhaps it was not
A random chance event
A lordless accident
Occurring in a disheveled chaos

Perhaps it had to happen
Through the hidden harmonies
that bond sentient souls
To the boned cosmos

Because as you emailed
This stranger later
You needed the words
Reverberating
With the music of the spheres

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poem by Paul Hartal
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Sometimes

Sometimes,
I don’t know how,
I hover over
The Tropic of Capricorn,
Riding on a cirrus
Wispy, white and torn,
Looking at the azure sea
Below.

Sometimes,
I don’t know why,
I am suddenly
At the Arno in Florence,
Listening to Dante’s
Sweet verse at the fence,
While Beatrice is flitting, pure
And shy.

And sometimes,
I don’t know what

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poem by Paul Hartal
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Postmodern Light

If you don't support ‘progress’
You're not politically correct
Though often it is pure foulness
A perfect product of the imperfect.

If you believe in freedom
Yes, you're politically correct
But one's liberty is another's serfdom
Power in the hand of the elect.

If you're not a feminist
You're not politically correct
So do not swing your fist
Even when you are erect.

Your values and tradition
Are politically correct, perhaps,
If your divorces keep going on
Imbued with other family mishaps.

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poem by Paul Hartal
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Post-Hesiodean Poem

Poets of remote past and eternal present
Taught me hymns of love, pride and dignity
They knew so well how to live and die
Yet we live in the twenty first century.

The light is dim, almost colorless around
Pollution, nuclear threats, violence, crime,
Alienation and angst became the essence
Of life on coordinates of space and time.

Searching amongst meaningless things meaning
My poems ripple in the cosmos like ocean waves
I aim and dream to reach the unattainable
In these Post-Hesiodean Works and Days.

Yearning for organic harmonies, the timeless
Calmness of solid geometry I wonder
Hoping that with a poem, painting, song
Or novel, our world is becoming better.

poem by Paul Hartal
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Camp Concerts

In school I learnt
That music beautifies life.
It elevates and ennobles
The soul.

But tell me
My dear teacher:
How could the music
Elevate the prisoners
Of Treblinka?

How could
The waltz or the tango
Beautify the tortures
In Sobibor?

And how could
The symphonies
At Auschwitz ennoble
The victims?

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poem by Paul Hartal
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The Searcher

He rode on bus to the Andes
Villagers burnt tyres at the road
They brandished menacing axes
Fear made the pavement corrode.

He sailed the rivers of the Congo
Dreaming about his tender lady’s heart
She played Schubert on the piano
Yet Babylon waited with a dart.

He walked the streets of Moscow
Burning with desire for her embrace
Fiery lava streaming from a volcano
But his lady vanished without trace.

Trouble found him in the port of Rio
Exhausted he was but tried to relax
Times were better in Ontario
The beer foamier in Halifax.

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poem by Paul Hartal
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Atheism Compliments God

Since God does not exist,
He could not create the world,
Said the atheist.

Then who created it?
The poet asked.

Well, the world just came into being
By itself, she replied.

Well, in that case
This is indeed a great compliment
For God, the poet said.

She gave him a surprised look.
And why is that? She asked.

Imagine that a book, for example,
Could write itself without the author,
Would not be it a fantastic miracle?

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poem by Paul Hartal
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Past and Present

Bygone days silently curl
Fold in airy yesteryears
They retreat to hide
Behind the elliptic orbits
Of the revolving planets

The days become nights
And they change
Like caterpillars
Or like gelatinous eggs
Of some toads
That detect vibrations

And then they quietly sail
With the solar wind
To distant places in space
To remote galaxies
Filled with shimmering stars.

But in the uncurved spheres

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poem by Paul Hartal
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For Miklós Radnóti

Your verse is so magical,
Written so well,
I still adore its music
And drink from its well.
After the war your town
Gave my grammar school
The honour of your name,
Yet history is cruel
It ignored your fame.
Your woman waited years
For your return in vain
And you dreamt she stood
At the russet hedge again.
And like in the old days,
You wished to marvel
On her leg above the ankle
At the delicate blue vein.
My teacher told me
That buried underground
Your notebook of poems

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poem by Paul Hartal
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Fear

Life is often dreadful
Full of fright and panic
A strange stride in the dark
The world became so toxic.

I told her all this
But she said:
The sear of fear
Is real
Deep like the sea
Look into its eyes
And invite him
To a cup of tea.

Yet the arrow of time
Is laden with sickness
Death awaits each mortal being
Both commoner and princess.

I told her all this

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poem by Paul Hartal
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