Tallinn reading & poetry film set

1. Ode for Cairo

Can be listened to as a live version with music here: https://m.soundcloud.com/linda…/cairo-the-definitive-version

I am coming to you, to your first stirrings in that dreaming sea

Did you hear it as I hear it?

This is an untrackable destination.

The muezzin calls, salutations rise as cars rumble in the wide belly of this night. We cross the Nile, cross ourselves, cross into gypsy heart opened, the tears of so many

whispered with longing for night to meet day, moon to meet sun in endless devotion, earth and sky making love for eternity.

Cruising Cairo by that star powered river; open top convertible, a black jewel speeding through the bracelet of streets. Downtown plunged into pharonic salutes, libations, talismanic truths. Anubis watching still.

The heat and the noise and the light. The heat and the noise and the light

We stumble out into the ongoing night and walk along streets of shadowed images, snakes and lovers entwine to the Nile.

I rise, demolished by drink and heat, demolished by love, everything passes like an hallucination. Lying in the darkness of the Cairo night I see my heart, my winged heart and feel the blood begin to descend and

let

it

go

I don't know, I do not know anything.

And now the totems come; crocodile deity at my knees, Sekhmet above.

Let them come, let them take me; here I am.

It's pouring down upon me; the realisations the abandonment the loss the love the fight the fire the beauty of your form

I want to touch you have your hands on me your lips to mine I want to start and never stop

This city, this madness of streetlife and cars

high rises

hawkers and call to prayer

big business and farmers in the mixdown

Oh Cairo you are some strange musical, some script of old, curling under the surface

There in your gypsy glamour and in cool girl heels, lipgloss perfect with perdita eyes

with your galleries and bars, your spoken prayers in fashion boutiques, your hijabs and tight pants, your men with eyes searching for a meeting, your desire for indulgence and dance with denial, your love, your closed doors, your chaos and sanctity

and here I am careering through your streets, changing my life, I felt I was changing my life

What's the time it takes for something

What's the time it takes to know

I thought I knew

I never knew angels had fear

I never knew any angels to ask

Did you?

And did you hear the djinns in Cairo jaywalking across the stars

as wide boys marked hearts for target practice

Did you ever do what you wanted?

So the tears fell like a rain of white flowers, flushed with the sound of

emptiness is the dreadest weight

another name

another beginning

and thousands of words and beliefs growing

We are into each other. We fly, we run, we float, we eat the fruit of each other, we taste the possibilities and walk in real and imagined gardens, our souls stroll through rose temple paradises

seduced before the next S P L I T

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2. The Cherry

The morning air did not dare to breathe, the trees tried to hide and even the birds kept their songs in on that day, on that day.

The man from the kiosk who always clapped his hands and shouted happily was counting anything he could count, his face turned into his work.
Some people ate breakfast, watching non stop television, aching for live death. Others waited. Waited to die.
And now the jazz piano plays, making you remember, what do you remember, what will you say you saw.

I went to the closed shutters, looked out onto the army tanks, row upon row, as they started to move. Each with a young man atop, like a cherry to the gods, his machine gun aimed.

We knew where they were going, we all knew. And we followed their path, watched and stored what we saw. We said We will not talk about this. We did not say anything.
I heard the sound of tear gas canisters exploding one by one and automatic gun fire scattering opinions yet still there was silence. I saw photographs of burnt bodies sat as charred husks and blood upon blood yet still people said there was nothing to see.
And now the jazz piano plays, making you remember, what do you remember, what will you say you saw.

I saw the tanks return, and those young soldiers were somewhere we could not see them, faces of the underworld forever turned to the dead they had created.

Some people celebrated. Others were quiet. The talking ones were taken away. And they renamed everything to make it clean and right.
But the air saw, and the trees saw, and the birds saw and the wrong stayed alive.
And now the jazz piano plays, making you remember, what do you remember, what will you say you saw.


Lest we forget

Rabaa massacre 14th August 2013
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/August_2013_Rabaa_massacre


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3. Che

What stories did Nana Lynch read you
of Galway tales and
leaving lands
forever
that blood in your veins that knew the wrongs that needed righting
that blood in your veins that sprang from a flame of red hair and a fight against famine and rule from many years before

I wonder if Eva Peron understood the sneer when you wrote and asked for a jeep
before setting out across that continent of inequality
did she even hold that letter herself, or was it read to her as she had another manicure of invisible blood and misplaced pride

When friends lay dead and Cuba was reborn
how long did the moment burn as you picked up the ammunition
leaving your physician's case behind
knowing the wounds that would have to be opened
within and without

What screams of pain did you shower into the unrelenting Congo night
when the news came of your mother's death
disallowed to enter the hospital
because you were her son
the son that gazed upon a sorrowful African earth and weeped with the canopy that covered your fire

Oh the songs you must have sang in Limerick as they welcomed you with sprigs
and Quinlan captured your thoughts in the airport bay
enroute to your last story with Fidel
and disillusioned with the new power you would leave
struggle to breathe in a Bolivian jungle
that fight for breath being the one fight you'd had all your life
and so few comrades came to help you
their eyes saw a Russian supremacy which wouldn't care for your ideals

Barrientos asked for your head on a spike in downtown La Paz
but it was America that got your hands
What Neruda did you last read
before they shot you in the heart
before they stole your grandmother's watch
before they concreted your dismembered body under the airstrip
and sent out the press release

your amputated hands; shelved as a trophy in the offices of the CIA

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4. Kill Your Darlings Parts 1 & 2 Poetry Film:  https://vimeo.com/367088816

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5. Followed by the reading of Kill Your Darlings Part 3

One day you realise you don't know the exact date any more; the date it began or ended. That date which before marched in front of your head and gripped your heart tight - is lost. Just as the memories of touch are gone. Though I can remember your smile and your eyes. Thoughts of what happened come in flashes, sometimes after months of respite – only yesterday I tried to remember the last time you left the house, the final closing of the door - and I couldn't hear a sound. I closed my eyes to hear it; that angry shutting, that end; but the sound wasn't there. And then I remembered that it hadn't happened that way, with you. With you it was through the telephone only and you said you wouldn't come again, that there was nothing you needed to explain. For your heart had nothing to forget.
And if that cart and bull turn over,
Papa's gonna buy you a dog named Rover

Now those men like ghosts, I watch their faces; perhaps I am the ghost and what an advantage, those ravaged faces, time held upon them, magic and flirtations no longer available in their eyes – only age and the catching up of the body that has eaten them.

And behind their ghosts are the priestesses of Babylon in the temples of healing and the fish head priests, is the lapidarium, the stones standing as a providence within the realm of creation, epigraphs testify to the great importances now replaced, the musty odor of the fall of the Romans, the air of lovers now all gone, nations and empires now columns and fragments, the gates to historic cities dissembled to tombstones for their song, is the torn down theatre, citing fire hazard, some of the beauty remains but much has become defaced, ugly, built over, now one has to find charm in concrete. Some dirty charm. Like a stolen fuck behind an abandoned building.

And if that dog named Rover won't bark
Papa's gonna buy you a horse and cart

Yet for him the tree was emanating light. It quivered and moved, an archaic divine bird, a super conscious being; sparkling, remembering, opening, responding, speaking, awakening. Bright, white light. So much so, that it hurt his eyes. He was looking for a way out of there, for a more comfortable place within that forest for them both to lie down. Perhaps there was a hut or covered area, for they were cold. He was stumbling in the dark, trying to give out that he had a plan, that everything was alright, that he could protect her – keep her warm – that it was just the night and nothing more, just some dark hours to wait through. And then as he trod slowly over the dead bracken and tried in vain to find a resting place there suddenly was the tree – somehow lit – alive with light.

And if that horse and cart fall down,
You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town.

Do you remember when we experienced the tide turn, that very moment, that magical flip of the water's pull as it started to recede – just as we had begun to be oceaned yet still danced with our veils to our mistress' song. It was you and I and the great blue sea, it was you and I and an alchemical spell that formed a priestesses' alliance in our hearts. Do you remember when we felt that joy, sister, of embracing the path of the heart.

Memory, is like another land with no bridge. Only water that is too strong and too wide to traverse.

The absence of everything kills me.