VPT Poetry Retrospective

Maybe it’s the early cold and the coming late autumn and winter months.
Maybe it is the campaign of the administration of the block entrance to clear- with the help of a couple of polyglot laborours and their horse carts- the common entrance premises of the junk accumulated over the years.
Maybe it is a special new resident moving into the block.
Maybe it is the moving out of the old system of organization of a social core around a common problem that is protected as necessary to balance existence by some administrative institutions, and fought versus by peer others.
Maybe it is the necessity to develop new human traits on the permeating indignation.
Maybe it is the business circles of the social and administration organizations that are creating common problems to fully engage the emotions and fear of the general public, and the time and effort of many pensioner functionaries blocked between own survival instincts that ban any discussion on existing problems, and own awareness of the world’s psychological projects, which necessitates subtle management so that the contingent of subordinates survives.
Maybe it is the dog upstairs that jumps and plays about day and night but for a cheered short night walk.
Maybe it is the white dog next-door, replaced by a black one now, that suddenly left to leave me with a new instinct for neighbours and pets.
Maybe it is my recalling the two dogs that dashed from opposite the block to snap at my neck.
Maybe it is the fact is that under one per cent of the house dogs are registered as having owners responsible for the dogs’ actions.
Maybe it is the latest victim of strays that triggered mass media discussion on the stray common problem.
Maybe something else makes me remember this old poem of mine:

The Howl Of The Fine Weather

The howl of the weather fine is terrifying
The cold chimney now mourns a missing life
The season’s gathering its clouds in the high skies
The wind is sweeping its streets of the gathered dust

A door stored on a balcony is banging
The passage cleared by the missing door
made a connection which no one is taking,
but is another chimney huge, another hall

A parent’s crying, stable, grown, honest
He was a pillar of the old spreading days
His daughter’s now missing, claimed for being modest
and ready, with her fate, to home-anchor ways

The world has chimneys cold, and its trains burning
The world has plans for weathers, weathers for the world
In all the seasons, both have moves most winning
But in the crowds motley, nobody’s weep is heard

The howl of the weather fine is terrifying
The cold chimney now mourns a missing life
The season’s gathering its clouds in the high skies
The wind is sweeping its streets of the gathered dust
V.P.T. 1.03.2008
(‘Dorman’, ‘Directions’, ISBN 978 954 91614 7 2)
V.P.Toucheva 22.10.2009 Sofia, Bulgaria, EU

Now that the administration quartet of a) places responsible for social disruption, b) those responsible for social complaint, c) the ones in charge of social amendment, and d) places responsible for social restructuring, is brushing the dust off the materials gathered for short-term, middle-term, long-term, or eternal, application, while applying the trick to tail-sweep the traces behind, as well as, the way lying ahead, I need not wonder if the centuries to come will be quite sure where to look for information about who I was and what was the role of the world in my endeavour to turn poet.

One thing there is for certain, and it is that the more effort I apply in producing perfection to be liked by my teaching experience, the more amusing is the fact that no matter what masterpieces I write, the world will not accept them as nothing but good products unsupported by the poet’s participation in structure events, nor will the world give me postmortem tribute as I will have left a legacy saying that a dead body can’t get warm, no matter with how many blankets you pile over it.

In line with the above, here is a poem of ‘Whispers’ that will be a musical some day, but not before I write the text and compose the music- two self-assigned tasks, the latter of which rather impossible for the time being (some other poems are at poetrypoem.com/author909, though not the whole of ‘Whispers’ will go there, or anywhere yet settled):

Whispers Poem 10

A blooming spring in early snow
Her life’s a spring postponed for fall
No snowdrop heads, sprightly, wise and low
No apples ripe with harvest calls

She’s the image of time modern
The image of time and life real
Chased is by all who fall in cornered
to verify belongings, deals

She’s chasing, through a wizard feeling,
all who have chased and followed her
All getting paid, or with the instinct
to make their rivals do their work

Time influences her a little
Time rides her back to make a hunch
Time weathers her head tough and brittle
Her hair flies to seek its bunch

Her face strains hard to reach achievement
Strain smiles, grinning at defeat
Achievement’s closer to instinct
Escape’s more precious than a feat

One eye emitting light foreseeing
The other skilful in catching light
She measures distance from-to, bridging
the present now to the future’s past

Her arms are always holding something
A something close to her chest
At times, it is a child lovely
At times, a finding cherished best

At times, ransacked container contents
Sometimes, a precious purchased load
Sometimes, just space that must stay close
for energy resourceful, cold

Thin legs have suffered famine’s plague
Wounds where motion is denied
Feet trained to hook and hold the frame,
or ballet-pose for a flight

A beautiful, a pretty, lady
Seen to be such by many men
Attention reaching her in plenty
Her life so bleak, she can’t complain

An envied by all women lady
Intrigued about by that score
who’ll wrench a hen’s head for no laying
From tables fancy driven off

A blooming spring in early snow
Her life’s a spring postponed for fall
No snowdrop heads, sprightly, wise and low
No apples ripe with harvest calls
V.P.T. (26.01.2009)26.01.2009
V.P.Toucheva 17.10.2009 Sofia, Bulgaria, EU

I have gone as far as to imagine a curtain hiding the stage from the audience- there is a large flower inside a jar upon the curtain.

Drawn, the curtain keeps the outlines of the jar only, while a swirl of characters and situations slowly configurate the flower on the stage.

Here is Whispers, Poem 5:

The past is whispering its unforgotten, buried, dreams
The present is replying with remorse and pity
Upon a stall, a seller’s selling, for a trifle, some expensive things
Arrayed, there wait some flowers in bunches withered,
and fruit preserved for cold winter in transparent jars

A man is blocked in supervising from afar, away,
unless the flowers withered get their water vase,
unless the fruit preserved gets out and dries wane,
unless the seller finds an opening for thought and taking part

The past sends, one by one, its flowers and their stories
The present shows, one by one, its practically precious jars
Their whispers come across and dash to reach their unknown homes
Life’s products, made to be consumed, to rot, or wither, stay behind

The past is whispering its unforgotten, buried, dreams
The present is replying with remorse and pity
Upon a stall, a seller’s selling, for a trifle, some expensive things
Arrayed, there wait some flowers in bunches withered,
and fruit preserved for cold winter in transparent jars
V.P.T. 3.10.2009