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"Ragged Magic" "Ragged Magic"
by Jan Sand
2008-03-30 09:21:20
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Tall and thin.
Tall and thin with a grin.
An ironic smile, with guile
To permit an opening. Friendly enough

So that approach might coach
In anticipation a reciprocal
Appreciation.

I saw him in the subway station.
No one else about.
In this city late at night he might,
Considering his dress
Evoke panic, shouts, distress.
But no.
He seemed harmless enough
Made of funny friendly stuff.

"Hello," he said. Shook his head.
"Sorry about those." Indicated ragged clothes.
"I am, in this moment, at these dates,
In dire financial straits".
"I am", one eyebrow rose, "a magic man."
He pinched his nose. "I can produce wonders."

He curled his thumb, touched his chin
To indicate he would begin.
I heard distant thunders.

"Watch!", he said, and a red
Balloon popped out from his palm.
Without a qualm he twitched his nose.
The balloon arose.
But on his toes he poked the thing.
It sprouted, first, one wing, then another.
Tweeted. Then flew down the tunnel.
"Look!", he cried, produced a funnel, out from which
Poured golden streams. He grinned and from his eyes
Sprang glowing gleams. I leaped back.
With a "crack!" he shook his beard
And disappeared!

I peered behind a nearby post.
There he stood, most delighted
At my surprise.
He winked his eyes.
I wished him luck.
Gave him a buck.

    
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Emanuel Paparella2008-03-30 11:23:11
"Each man carries within him the soul of a poet who died young." - Sainte-Beuve (Add a comment)

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

--Pablo Neruda

(continued below)




Emanuel Paparella2008-03-30 11:26:42
The poem above by Pablo Neruda appears, as a memorial to Massimo Troisi at the end of that gem of a movie (reviewed in Ovi some time ago) titled Il Postino. Massimo Troisi, who plays Mario the postman vis a vis Neruda in the movie died tragically a few days after the completion of the movie. The movie, by its own poetics lends itself to various interpretations. One of them could be this one: even if all of us sing in the bathroom, all of us are not Pavarotti, and though all of us look to doodle and draw at some period of time, not all of us are Raphael. The same thing applies to poets. Though many of us `write' what we feel is poetry at some point in our lives, not all of us turn out to be poets. Only when we discover that poetry is an indispensable requirement in our life, we can call ourselves poets, because by then we have realized that we cannot call ourselves anything else. Indeed art is important but remains elusive for many. The crucial question which Il Postino forces us to ask ourselves is this: will time and the world take away the poet that is in all of us, or will the poet within overcome time and survive in spite of time and the world. Indeed, a case can be made that if there is really a poet within he will survive; and if he doesn’t survive, he never existed in the first place. Poetry is like grace; it is free and it come unespectedly.


Emanuel Paparella2008-03-30 13:34:06
http://www.ovimagazine.com/art/2176

Readers curious about the movie Il Postino may open the above Ovi link.


Chris2008-04-01 22:11:44
Abrika Dabra
Sim Shalabim
Things are seldom
How they seem

Kazam Shah-zam Shah Kazoo
What will the magic do to you?

I wish I may
I wish I might
Have the wish
I wish tonight

Let there be peace on Earth.


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