poetry

Statement

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2015

 

On days like today it is hard to love one- and thyself, to still believe that people

are born to live and dream freely. I wonder what Rousseau would say of the chains

that we forged for ourselves in full, but willing ignorance.

We got too used to the fact that wars are not fought in our lands,

that guns do not sound in our towns and people do not die in our homes

in vain. They do.

Not just today, and not just here. We must see it clearly, and need to realize that

a hidden war is still a war even more when we close our eyes to stay

politically correct.

 

There have been countless wars, pointless wars,

even wars fiercely justified. All of them unfair wars.

Tell me though, who ever fights fair?

No man is ever prepared for war and

you see, to say there is a war does not solve anything.

For years now we have been ignoring the rest of the world,

happy to stay in our growing bubble of lies and political machinations.

So many slaps in the face we brushed off and justified.

 

For years now, we have been hearing empty phrases:

Something needs to be done. But no one wants to begin

by saying: This is the problem. Terrorism started somewhere.                            It was our fault.

On days like today living in this place makes me sick down

to the very unknown pits of my stomach.

So this is the famous celebrated humanity? Remember, what it was again

we said that makes us human? What was it, which is proper to a man?

 

The logos, the laughter, the mourning, the shame, the clothes,

the vengeance, the art, the war, the power, the fear of death, the love,

the hatred.

 

The highly developed intelligence,

which we seem to have shed along the way, stupid enough

to let our politicians pretend the problems are far away (but really so big they clouded our minds)

It is the news and even more it is our very inner self who got shell-shocked,

who thought it was safe in its clever human form.

All this makes me want to crawl down on all four and lick salt of

kindly offered stones until my tongue bleeds out,                                   as bitter might be the only feeling

we still have left as

humans. The deer laugh at as now.

 

The first one: the history. No, we never learn. That is man’s trace;

The witchcraft will not save us from

our death. The self-pity will not save us from our guilt.

Wars, they will not be challenged by words.

(The world leaders condemn the killings.

the politicians condemn the killings,

the intellectuals condemn the killings,

the media condemn the killings.)

If only condemnation could be enough.

 

We need to condemn our inability

to unify

to communicate

to act.

We need to say our fears and keep our heads up,

start to speak out loud, as citizens, as Europeans, as people.

 

Two: logos. The language that we speak

(all those words). So many languages you stand in awe of,

facing beautiful, beautiful vowels rolling off strangers’ tongues

that you will never be able to pronounce or understand.

So many words but we do not talk to each other. We do not dare to

talk of things that matter to us because that might hurt, the realisation that

The world is not perfect. That not everyone is made equal.

That buying things does not pave the way to happiness. That problems

Will not go away just because we do not name them.

That there are different religions, and different races, and different cultures.

That we all live here, now, and we want to live here then and we want to

travel and show our children what the world is like. We need to work this out,

differently, and not tomorrow.

 

Third: the capacity to feel shame.

We are very good at being ashamed of the wrong things: of our feelings

betraying us in public, of our weaknesses: the petty secret milk and sugar cravings

in the middle of the night, of nudity: hiding our scrotums instead of

being grateful that our bodies still do not give up on us.

Who is not ashamed of the things we have not done?

I say:

Shame on us             for all the hatred we sow and we now reap

                                    for choosing weak leaders for our countries.

                                   for our indifference and comfortableness.

                                   for our proud blindness

                                                                                                  of the untouchable animal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alice Maselnikova

Roman poets: modern and old

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Latin is often regarded as dead as any language can be. Stories, poetry, love letters, simple daily correspondence: everything in this tongue seems to belong to a vanished past, thither behind us, a vestige of a civilisation long begone. We postmoderns would rather go and look for Latin inside dusty tomes at far shelves of a town library than on the internet among music videos, where, among sound bites and trendy pop clips, it just seems out of place.

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