Tuesday, April 17, 2012

April in Paris – a Poem


April in Paris – and a woman is waiting for her man, for his reign to end, a model, a pop singer and a mother, a first lady, a third wife, in a country wanting change, but hating to change, while another woman supports her old man, to become the new man, for France, he never supported her this much, when she tried, to be Marianne, to climb the highest barricades, in a royal attempt, before they cut her oxygen.

April in Timbuktu – and a woman is praying for her man, who went out to fight, to claim a land, that has been theirs for ever, drawing a line in the sand, the land of the blue men, a no man's land, neglected by the rulers, in capitals far away, ignoring the wealth of the desert, oil, gas, gold, uranium, ignoring the wealth no longer, fueling the economy, in Europe, fueling the wars, in Africa, the Tuareg will have company soon.


I never met it face to face: Sarah Vaughan

April in Caracas – and a woman sees her president dying, @chavezcatanga, who has tweeted only rarely, after his disease broke out, and collected frequent flyer miles instead, going back and forth to Havana, to get treatment, in another ailing man's country, while his successors are waiting, like vultures, in the wings, drug lords, narcostate, ready to take over, once the cancer has done its dirty deed.

April in Doha – and a woman trains for the Olympics, the first female athlete for her country, allowed to participate, to compete, finally, while obesity has become a national sport, making Qatar the fattest country in the world, officially, a complacent society on a borrowed journey.

April in Ryadh – and a woman buries her dream, she is not an Olympic athlete, she will never be, the king said so, the prince said no, Saudi women walking side by side, with Saudi men, into a London stadium, a no-go, a no show, women at home could get the wrong ideas, about the state of their affairs, while 25 Indonesian maids are awaiting execution, for alleged crimes, if at all, Saudi is always a good friend of the United States, of Huntsville Texas, of Sanford Florida.

April in Pyongyang – and a woman pushes hard, pushes her bicycle home, loaded with a half bag of potatoes, the only food she could buy, at the market today, there was nothing left, in her purse, while her new leader, educated in Western schools, fires a rocket, to stop a fight he fears, that fails, that falls short, into the sea, leaving his people to pick up the pieces, scrambling for a meal, celebrating a cult of personality, waving flags at a hardship, they have been taught to cheer.

I exploit you, still you love me: Living Color

April in Lübeck – and a man writes a poem, speaking some truth, „what must be said“, a Nobel prize winner for literature, a poem literarily irrelevant, but a political hand grenade, some false claims, many short cuts, the poetry of an old man, with a dark past, and a short future, but don't excuse yourself, in the middle of your text, before you even reach the end, this will not save you from being, denied an entry.

April in Manama – and a woman is drowned in tears, in gas, an angry Arab, her father is dying, in prison, a political hunger striker, while Bernie Ecclestone, dwarfing reality, as ever, declares Bahrain a problem free zone, the perfect venue for a next Formula 1 race, the Grand Prix of the Kingdom of Tear Gas, and nevermind the blood on the track.

April in Kabul – and a woman goes to jail, because her husband abused her, has beaten her, an unjust twist of justice, „moral crimes“ they call it, it's a man's world, it's a mad world, in a country, where the bad run free and the good go ugly, morality has lost its ground, a long time ago.

April in Gettysburg – and a woman stands by her man, an American Salafi, a fundamentalist in limbo, announcing his withdrawal from the presidential race, surrendering, what is left for him, the White House is gone, maybe Egypt, or make this Saudi, anyway, to go.

April in Latakia – and a woman mourns her lost ones, her husband, her son, father and son, martyrs for the Assads, victims of their wars, father and son, while Bashar sits comfortably, high heels strut by, nice shoes, Asma!, „for them the palaces, for us the coffins“, sipping coffee, chatting with Kofi, at least the Gaddafis died holding a gun in their hands, father and son.

Le Baiser de l'Hotel de Ville: Paris

April in Rangoon - and a woman receives a prime minister, it is good to be out in the streets again, he has come to congratulate her, she is a new parlamentarian, with a long history, is this democracy, there are still political prisoners in Myanmar, mind you, or just a new way of making business, with the generals, China is very near, you know, they are competitive.

April in Paris – and a woman is waiting for her man to arrive, what to wear?, to bring her roses, which color for the nails?, a life, a love, how fast to go?, waiting for him, to catch her and to set her free, to bring her home, to take her away.

I never knew the charm of spring, I never met it face to face, I never knew my heart could sing, I never missed a warm embrace. Till April in Paris.“ Life is a pain. Life is a joy. After all.

Le Baiser de l'Hotel de Ville: photography by Robert Doisneau, born April 14, 1912, in Gentilly, near Paris France.