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Kofi Awoonor

24 Sep

THE CATHEDRAL

On this dirty patch
a tree once stood
shedding incense on the infant corn:
its boughs stretched across a heaven
brightened by the last fires of a tribe.
They sent surveyors and builders
who cut that tree
planting in its place
A huge senseless cathedral of doom.

Kofi Awoonor killed in the terrorist attack by Somali militants on the Westgate shopping mall in Nairobi.

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Rain Cat

7 Feb

Rain Cat

‘Cat in the Rain’ by Ernest

Hemingway

There were only two Americans stopping at the

hotel. They did not know any of the people they passed

on the stairs on their way to and from their room. Their

room was on the second floor facing the sea. It also

faced the public garden and the war monument. There

were big palms and green benches in the public garden.

In the good weather there was always an artist with his

easel. Artists liked the way the palms grew and the bright

colors of the hotels facing the gardens and the sea.

Italians came from a long way off to look up at the war

monument. It was made of bronze and glistened in the

rain. It was raining. The rain dripped from the palm

trees. Water stood in pools on the gravel paths. The

sea broke in a long line in the rain and slipped back

down the beach to come up and break again in a long

line in the rain. The motor cars were gone from the

square by the war monument. Across the square in the

doorway of the café a waiter stood looking out at the

empty square.

The American wife stood at the window looking out.

Outside right under their window a cat was crouched

under one of the dripping green tables. The cat was

trying to make herself so compact that she would not

be dripped on.

‘I’m going down and get that kitty,’ the American wife

said.

‘I’ll do it,’ her husband offered from the bed.

‘No, I’ll get it. The poor kitty out trying to keep dry

under a table.’

The husband went on reading, lying propped up with

the two pillows at the foot of the bed.

‘Don’t get wet,’ he said.

The wife went downstairs and the hotel owner stood

up and bowed to her as she passed the office. His desk

was at the far end of the office. He was an old man and

very tall.

‘Il piove, ’the wife said. She liked the hotel-keeper.

‘Si, Si, Signora, brutto tempo. It is very bad weather.’

He stood behind his desk in the far end of the dim

room. The wife liked him. She liked the deadly serious

way he received any complaints. She liked his dignity.

She liked the way he wanted to serve her. She liked the

way he felt about being a hotel-keeper. She liked his

old, heavy face and big hands.

Liking him she opened the door and looked out. It

was raining harder. A man in a rubber cape was crossing

the empty square to the café. The cat would be around

to the right. Perhaps she could go along under the eaves.

As she stood in the doorway an umbrella opened behind

her. It was the maid who looked after their room.

‘You must not get wet,’ she smiled, speaking Italian.

Of course, the hotel-keeper had sent her.

With the maid holding the umbrella over her, she

walked along the gravel path until she was under their

window. The table was there, washed bright green in

the rain, but the cat was gone. She was suddenly

disappointed. The maid looked up at her.

‘Ha perduto qualque cosa, Signora?’

‘There was a cat,’ said the American girl.

‘A cat?’

‘Si, il gatto.’

‘A cat?’ the maid laughed. ‘A cat in the rain?’

‘Yes, –’ she said, ‘under the table.’ Then, ‘Oh, I

wanted it so much. I wanted a kitty.’

When she talked English the maid’s face tightened.

‘Come, Signora,’ she said. ‘We must get back inside.

You will be wet.’

‘I suppose so,’ said the American girl.

They went back along the gravel path and passed in

the door. The maid stayed outside to close the umbrella.

As the American girl passed the office, the padrone

bowed from his desk. Something felt very small and

tight inside the girl. The padrone made her feel very

small and at the same time really important. She had a

momentary feeling of being of supreme importance.

She went on up the stairs. She opened the door of the

room. George was on the bed, reading.

‘Did you get the cat?’ he asked, putting the book

down.

‘It was gone.’

‘Wonder where it went to,’ he said, resting his eyes

from reading.

She sat down on the bed.

‘I wanted it so much,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I

wanted it so much. I wanted that poor kitty. It isn’t any

fun to be a poor kitty out in the rain.

George was reading again.

She went over and sat in front of the mirror of the

dressing table looking at herself with the hand glass.

She studied her profile, first one side and then the other.

Then she studied the back of her head and her neck.

‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea if I let my

hair grow out?’ she asked, looking at her profile again.

George looked up and saw the back of her neck,

clipped close like a boy’s.

‘I like it the way it is.’

‘I get so tired of it,’ she said. ‘I get so tired of looking

like a boy.’

George shifted his position in the bed. He hadn’t

looked away from her since she started to speak.

‘You look pretty darn nice,’ he said.

She laid the mirror down on the dresser and went

over to the window and looked out. It was getting dark.

‘I want to pull my hair back tight and smooth and

make a big knot at the back that I can feel,’ she said. ‘I

want to have a kitty to sit on my lap and purr when I

stroke her.’

‘Yeah?’ George said from the bed.

‘And I want to eat at a table with my own silver and I

want candles. And I want it to be spring and I want to

brush my hair out in front of a mirror and I want a kitty

and I want some new clothes.’

‘Oh, shut up and get something to read,’ George said.

He was reading again.

His wife was looking out of the window. It was quite

dark now and still raining in the palm trees.

‘Anyway, I want a cat,’ she said, ‘I want a cat. I want a

cat now. If I can’t have long hair or any fun, I can have

a cat.’

George was not listening. He was reading his book.

His wife looked out of the window where the light had

come on in the square.

Someone knocked at the door.

‘Avanti,’ George said. He looked up from his book.

In the doorway stood the maid. She held a big tortoiseshell cat pressed tight against her and swung down

against her body.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘the padrone asked me to bring

this for the Signora.

Take Five

6 Dec

Remembering The Vital Force Of Jazz Pianist Dave Brubeck

from: For The Fallen

12 Nov

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

Laurence Binyon
WWI Poetry: On Veterans Day, The Words Of War

Ghosting

23 Oct

Well Halloween is just around the corner and I have been thinking about spirits, ghouls and of course ghost. So I did a bunch of Googling terms and I came across the following.

Ghosting, there are several common usages, one is used for Craigslist ads vanishing and there are two other definitions that caught my eye, because they are emotionally contrary. One is joyful with spirit of playful mischief in the Halloween season and the other morose, with insolence for others.

The first Ghosting is where one surreptitiously leaves a bag of treats and a note on a neighbor porch informing them they have been ghosted and with instructions to ghost two more neighbors.

The other “Ghosting is the act of disappearing, leaving a relationship and a person without as much as a “by your leave,” much like a ghost that would vanish into thin air.”

I don’t have any experience with the first, but I do with the latter. A while back a person I know ‘pulled a goddamn Keyser Soze on me, and like that, she was gone.’

I paused at this point in writing – gave it a good thought and decided to delete the meandering feelings and just put down the basics.

  1. Confusion, guilt, void – What did I miss? What did I do? Ghost is a good word – haunted.
  2. Catch-22: If only I could open up a genuine honest communications, but that is exactly what the other is avoiding – so now I am the bad guy.
  3. Closure: There is none.

I my case, communication was just occasional emails; there are twitter friends who I have communicated more frequently, etc. But still –

Image

Now for other’s views:

“You’ve probably been ghosted at some point (I’m so sorry!) or maybe you were the ghoster (shame on you!). You may still be haunted by past ghostings. I know I am. Not because those ghosters were hard to get over, just because they pissed me off. There are many psychological reasons why an otherwise decent-ish person may ghost: cowardice, weakness of character, self loathing, narcissism, or pathological fear of hurting feelings. But are we going for decent? Don’t most of us want to be better than decent? But honestly, all of a ghoster’s justifications for their disappearing acts are irrelevant. Why they vaporized into thin air is not important. It’s the fact that they did.”

Abbreviated: Why you should not ghost

  • Ghosts are haunted.
  • Honesty is the best policy.
  • You risk getting a stalker if you ghost.
  • It’s a vicious cycle.
  • And if we are being honest here, we have to say that ghosting does not make anyone look like a nice, caring person.

Image

If you could read my mind

17 Apr



If you could read my mind, love,
What a tale my thoughts could tell.
Just like an old time movie,
'Bout a ghost from a wishing well.
In a castle dark or a fortress strong,
With chains upon my feet.
You know that ghost is me.
And I will never be set free
As long as I'm a ghost that you can't see. 

If I could read your mind, love,
What a tale your thoughts could tell.
Just like a paperback novel,
The kind the drugstores sell.
Then you reached the part where the heartaches come,
The hero would be me.
But heroes often fail,
And you won't read that book again
Because the ending's just too hard to take!

I'd walk away like a movie star
Who gets burned in a three way script.
Enter number two:
A movie queen to play the scene
Of bringing all the good things out in me.
But for now, love, let's be real;
I never thought I could  feel this way
And I've got to say that I just don't get it.
I don't know where we went wrong,
But the feeling's gone
And I just can't get it back. 

If you could read my mind, love,
What a tale my thoughts could tell.
Just like an old time movie,
'Bout a ghost from a wishing well.
In a castle dark or a fortress strong.
With chains upon my feet.
But stories always end,
And if you read between the lines,
You'd know that I'm just tryin' to understand
The feelin's that you lack.
I never thought I could feel this way
And I've got to say that I just don't get it.
I don't know where we went wrong,
But the feelin's gone
And I just can't get it back!

What I want

25 Mar

What I want
(Why was this so much to ask?)

What I want is to hold you tight and keep you from harm.

For you to charge fearlessly into the world, then share your adventures with me.

What I want is what I knew, all those many years ago when we were young and I saw your beautiful smile for the first time; I want to grow old with you by my side.