In Another Waiting Room In the sheltering place I hate to dwell in, lost on the banks of the Loire river, the flows are unsafe, the waters troubled, icy, wintry air, sun rays above all. I rang at Hardy's door. Not the British counterpart of Laurel of course – the time shifted from this point. I kept no one else's appointment but mine for I needed more pills to cure the nightmarish gaps night knights and knives had carved in this damaged brain of mine – I had to avoid suicide. I laurel this room for its safeness and quietness, the light, the whiteness, the space – frames and spaces follow me everywhere, even in hell or on the benches where I sat listening, dreaming, exercising, contemplating Bishop's art of drawing maps and landscapes. That morning I sat on another bench, in another waiting room, waiting for Hardy to come in and ring my bell, remind me of the hell, cure me from mental hay fever and send away all disarray. I sat opposite this painting by Russian-French artist Sonia Delaunay – Long Journeys. Colours and shapes, round and vivid, bright, dazzling, all these effects drove me back to this place loophole dreamt – hell hole lived – I even recognized on the right-hand side a woman wearing saluvas... red-striped like Sandia's. Four panels divide the canvas where variegated ghosts shake hands, dance, pray or swim, eat papaya, sweets and pizza in the shades of an umbrella. Through the window I watched magpies fly from tree to tree, in search of food, probably. The magpies back there feast on chelonian offsprings as they sprout from Saziley. I watched this leafless tree reminding me of the nervous human system. Mine is a battle field, a war HQ, a shadow cabinet, a closet where dreams and nightmares copulate. I watched the roof tops and the tree set on this March morning blue sky, its clear, light blue lagoon shades invited me once more to dive in the depths of navy blue memories darkening my thoughts, opening my mouth, starting my youth, peeling me out. The heating system started, I was still staring at the sky and in a start watched the closet hiding the beast. The flame trembling – I could hear it – would lick the erected hair on my arm: this limb never produces any harm, resting softly and bare on the arm of the chair, cherishing the feel of the plastic surface. Hardy came in, my arm lifted me up, and stretched out towards the doctor's hand. I sat on the opposite chair. He waited for my words to come out. He expected me to hand him my SS card. I could still see Sonia Delaunay's art. Master of painters in my heart. Maore let me breathe now. Let me forget you. Let me live. Let loose. Leave me a lone.
The Loss followed by GMO (Great Moments of Oblivion) was written during a period of doubts and uncertainties. Life’s events always inspire me. They are my fuel, my muses, my most terrible companions when I sit in front of the digital page to write…One year after two of my previous collections were published Maore (Lapwing Publishing) and Carmine Carnival (Lazarus Media), to have this chapbook published fills me with pride and joy. I know this is the best homage I could give to my father. Not only because most of the poems in this collection are about him, our relationship and the frightening gap his death has brought, but because Great Moments of Oblivion is about food, and that he was a chef and taught me how to enjoy food. ” – Walter Ruhlmann
The Loss followed by Great Moments of Oblivion
Flutter Press, 2014
Paperback, 54 Pages Price: $8.00
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