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
