Waking The Warbling Sound E-Book

Z.J. Galos

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Lyric Poetry
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 147

Beschreibung

Meeting Sola, his dusky Muse, will change the poet's artistic direction. At Amanda's 'Writers Write' workshop, where budding writers meet, their relationship soon starts to bloom, and Sola, his potential Muse inspires him to write love poems for her, and he will cast her as his ideal heroine for his debut novel: 'Spleen of Love'. Love poems from his previous time with Aleta seem to flow seamlessly into the poetry for Sola, his present love interest, with whom he experiences a renaissance in his approach to the written verse. Aleta has morphed into Sola and Sola into Aleta, at times. 'Waking in love' reflects his adoration for Sola, while in 'Love and Literature' the poet AKA Zed, learns about his love for Aleta, yet it seems the names of these racy women are perfectly interchangeable. 'Azza Island' is a further creation of a magical place in the skies, created for téte-à-tétes with Aleta, while the poet lived in Africa.

Leseprobe

Content

WTWS (Waking the Warbling Sound) Drawing 01

Waking early for love

Breathing on her face through this gap in the wall

I

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II

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III

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IV

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V

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VI

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WTWS Drawing 02

Breathing on her face through this gap in the wall VII

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VIII

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IX

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X

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XI

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WTWS Drawing 03

LOVE & LITERATURE

GAP

Aleta

Womanbird

WTWS Drawing 04

His hand outstretched

Colours of the Rainbow

THE SPIRIT AND THE FLESH

Spirit of Azza

Wednesday Morn’

PENS

NUMBERS

TOUCHES IN A DREAMLIKE WAKE

The Temple’s Cello Concerto

Dream time!

En Vogue

Rituals

Ghosts

WTWS (Waking the Warbling Sound) Drawing 05

The Slide

UBUS

Growing Up

Stare

Life, restricted

Symposium

JOURNAL POETRY

I

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II

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III

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IV

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The Chase

Meeting her

Nocturnal Flight

WTWS Drawing 06

A Soul’s Concert

Art lives, Art thrives

Deep Blue

ALETA

WTWS Drawing 07

WTWS Drawing 01

Waking early for love

The poet recalled the time, when he saw Sola for the first time and fell in love with her instantly. He muses, thinking back at his dusky Muse:

I wonder how many people are awake at close to five in the morning, poets, writers, housewives and mothers, lovers…

I write like the tornado that sweeps my inside, on unlined paper. My feverish outpour is directed at a Muse that sits above my shoulders, like the Horus falcon perched on the shoulders of pharaoh Djoser, who built the step pyramid with the inimitable genius loci at the time: Imhotep. Besides being a doctor and chemist, he was artistically gifted and also a scribe. Later Imhotep became deified as the people venerated him for his healing powers.

The sculpture of Djoser, in the then overfilled Egyptian Museum in Cairo, where every visitor is channelled to, as the most important one of the Old Kingdom, is located left from the entrance hall. It has certainly burned into me its powerful image. It has affected me with its majestic appearance, powerful and haunting in its dusky stillness. Often stillness and taciturn behaviour, also in people, have more lasting powers on one than loquaciousness. I have turned my verbal overflow into a writing flow, pouring my heart out, my thoughts and fantasies. Suppose, I have to make more good use of it, pour it all into the mould of a new story, a short story, or a novel, just as we have learned at Amanda’s school of writers.

However, we have criticized the teachings, the selective attention of facilitators and their apparent bias. Topped by the unsuccessful communication, following the change of office locations, the feed-back became zero, at least for me during the Writers Write Class follow up.

For me the ever present Amanda, having built her school and literary workshop on an excellent idea, reminds me of Gertrude Stein, in the Turn-of-the-century-Paris, who, besides having an open house for artists, had also been a positive critique for Hemingway’s writings. Gertrude dined and wined all famous artists in the making, from Picasso, Apollinaire, Braque, Vlaminck, and Cezanne, just to mention a few, while she entertained also poets and writers, who all came to visit her spacious apartment in Paris. Her biographer and living-in lover, Alice B. Toklas, mentions that Picasso’s drawings were also placated to toilet walls, obviously as payment for the meals and drinks that kept him alive and prolific.

Hemingway wrote in various Cafes around Montparnasse and he visited Harry’s Bar that’s still going. Later when his work had been honoured with the Nobel Prize for Literature, he could afford the Ritz [where Diana stayed last] and one of the bars had been named after him. I recall the book I read: Paris a Moveable Feast. I wonder how proud Gertrude must have been, having coached him along, as she heard about his top prize in literature.

“You must be accessible,” she said to him, meaning that the reader has to understand what he intended to say. That’s when he coined the phrase of the one dollar words.

We all battle with the fusion of words, we have often intuitively selected that appear to us, too simple for the involved and are often part of complex thought processes that also follow stream-of-consciousness-writing. Fusing feelings and an active mind into an easy readable style the reader will enjoy, has never been on my mind, probably as I have developed my own style of painting and drawing during years of doodling and also serious studies in art. Now I am not merely doodling any longer as I write a story, or do I doodle with the possibilities of happenings?

In the end we all write stories. You write about separation of couples due to force and politics, I know about through my mother, separated from my father all her life.

Even philosophical musing can be successful as a sequel, woven into the story. We all oscillate between actions and reflections, often stopping actions, as we are not free like birds, in spite we might have thought so at times.

After all it is one’s own world that is depicted, whatever story one writes and I have read some excellent memoirs of artists and interesting personalities that serve as encouraging role models to do as good and even better if I can.

I tend to like variations in writing books, like Amos Oz does. Do you know of him?

He is never dull, never the same. The serials of thrillers might be a way of earning a living, but commercial success alone does not make good writing in the literary world.

Or do we enjoy books merely by their commercial success?

Whatever we write, must be worthwhile in terms of understanding the theme that underlies in the story and will be concluded in a positive effort to reach the goal the hero had set, the main character has aspired. But there are overlaying aspects of dreams that twist and turn one’s story. It feels like a gigantic battle for supremacy, almost East against West, Socialism against Capitalism.

For me the theme of passion is at present the most important in my life. I hope I could contribute to some worthwhile reading through the years, I’m able to write and when time would still be ruled by inherited genes, good angels and someone powerful ones that are perched on my shoulders, protecting me through tough and rough times. I hope these angels protect you too Sola and your children. I use passion in my love stories, in my novel of suspense, fiction, and fantasy writings. I have started part three of Spleen of Love and I think it is an unusual book, but so is my being, looking at you, Sola, as an unusual Muse. Now then, the result will be overwhelming I think. Of course we always think that our work is unusual and over whelming; we don’t know if we can build-up a readership still at a later age, but we wish to find that out.

I wonder how this story ends. I have to leave it hanging, as I do not know that yet. It had started like a stroke of lightning, accompanied by sounds of thunder. It reminded me of Beethoven’s musical grumblings with the ugly Sisters of Fate.

The music of my words turned into Mahler’s movements of his third symphony, maybe parts of the fourth, as I worked on. Movements of a late romantic sound painting, which we have to achieve with words!

The view is still in me: The light of a summer morning, playing on liquid silver rippling of the lake Atter in Austria’s Styria. It is located in Steinbach, where Mahler composed his second and third symphonies. I stood in awe at his piano, touching its keys, sensing the power of his genius that flowed through it. Some of the atmosphere of his ‘Komponierhäuschen’, his composer’s retreat that had been specially built for him, rubbed off on me, as did the colourful atmosphere with the play of light and shadows in the immediate surroundings.

In front the lake, behind the houses and the bottle green wood with the scent of pine, the ‘Hoellengebirge,‘ – Hell’s mountains – he had walked for hours, his mind absorbed and reflected his immediate experiences and thoughts on life and love, he transferred to his compositions.

Then, as the sounds of his symphony’s introduction came to an end and the second movement started, the scents and sounds of summer welled in me and the couple kissing on a park bench stirred in me the sweetness of falling in love.

The book I had been writing is well on its way now and the lovers seek nearness and intense company. How could I ever get enough of my Muse’s face, her deep layers of mystical personality that percolates through her dusky eyes and lashes like a late summer rain on my skin?

How can I get enough of her personality beaming through her glances and warming my soul, while I watch her concentrating on the act of writing?

She inspires me with the striped colours of her blouse, top buttons open, with a soft velvet darkness below I wish to touch.

The middle part of the book is tough going, a first ride on a camel, on horseback without a saddle, or a risky hiking experience in the Austrian Alps. Once the sweat had poured from all pores of my body and life is back to a comfortable hot shower and a creamy soap, the pleasant cool fresh linen in a well-made bed invites to lovemaking. Love, sweet, with pleasures never ending, always wanting more and never fully satisfied for long. However after all night I feel content.

Diversions hit the scene and Sola steps sideways into an affair she doesn’t want, could not foresee, detecting her darker side that came suddenly to the fore.

I am pissed off that I cannot get closer to her, as I do everything I can to win her over, but I fail dismally. The situation is hopeless. I visit pubs and fall in love by chance and mere desperation. It all is futile, as it’s only her I want.

Sola is acting on her desires and longing for him. Gender love is not her ultimate pleasure in life, but releases her from the bounds of an arranged marriage, she feels is inhibiting her freedom of acting naturally. She has to care for her growing kids that are everything to her. Though at the back of her mind, Zen’s face comes up, every time, she climaxes. He emerges from the dark of her being, like a shadow, she cannot shake off.

He suffers. He is pulled apart. He is a man after all and he has a hard-on every time he thinks of sleeping with her and adoring her cinnamon being; fusing with her velvet being. It is physical attraction, he knows by now. It is the dark mystical life behind the shadows in her eyes that leads him to the deepest corners of her soul he seeks to uncover. He wants to slip behind them and in loving her, detect the world of spices in an unknown garden she represents to him. He has come at times into touch with a garden like hers, filled with exotic fruit, herbs and spices, he tasted, but she is for him more than that exotic attraction; she is a comfort zone and a cushion to place his dreams upon. She appears like a passionate lover that rides a white stallion, he has turned into.

She is for him the embodiment of a fusion of sexual love and intellect. It is the intellectual part that drives the physical part into an attractive setting for him. He reaches out, desiring her sinewy fingers on his skin. The thought arouses him and his mind rushes to lewd pictures that form part of her seduction. He thrives upon the thought of seducing her, already since he’d met her. It only takes too long already to have happened in reality, as it has happened in his mind many times, replayed, over and over. He is realizing that time runs out on him to create an opportunity, she has consented to already.

Sola is enthralled by his poems, letters and short stories. Once in a blue moon, as he is successful meeting her, she admits that she is returning to all of his work time and again. She calls him her dear Zen, not friend. She is not depicting him as anything tangible, but fantasizes about him, appearing younger and with bursting strength. He is always sensitive to her demands and wishes, an ideal lover for her. She admits to all in her dreams, but never to him. She is married that will not hinder an affair du Coeur, but her children, in their teens need her and she cannot split herself like she experienced seeing on others, who could conduct stealthy affairs next to their married lives.

She is genuine, sensing all sincere feelings that shake her more than insincere ones, turning her restless and cause her darting about like a wild mare.

She supposed to be writing, but she is restrained by her genuine feelings that are judged by her moral standards, she has been brought up with in a community plagued by racial segregation. She has many ideas about her novel that should deal with segregation on grounds of race and political issues, connected with living in such an unjust world, devoid of basic human rights.

Sola blames family commitment for her inability to write, but she left out her psychological pressures that have built up in her inside through the years of her marriage.

Zen offers her his room to write in peace at arranged dates. She does not respond directly, as she is afraid of falling in love with Zen. She thinks he is sweet to her, encouraging her to write. She cannot answer his letters, he calls The Cinnamon Letters, as she is bound by rules, her social position, and her family that is the greatest part of her life. She feels to be a deer in a physical trap, she cannot see how to come out off, unless she takes the sacrifice of losing a limb. That is the point, when her children do not need her any longer in such exhaustive manner. Then she intends to break loose from her family corral and travel to India. There she could perhaps feel free to write. He is not sharing her opinion and he needs to write every day wherever he is situated. Every morning there is the potential time for a poem, like the love poems, he writes to her that never seem to end:

turning in my bed,

sheets fallen off

in a nightmare’s clasp,

nearby sounds of a couple

making love…

I wish to be with her

somewhere a tragedy

emergency siren sounds

people die at all times…

I wish to be with her

her picture flashes

through my mind

the colours of deep

commitment on her,

cinnamon dust rises

from her eyes,

as she looks at me

I smell sweet spices

I drink all in and run

ahead of her, wishing

to lure her away to

analipsi island…

she takes my hand

and walks me to a lake,

rippling extensions

of her beautiful mind

I doff my clothes

and in a cleansing dive

stand before her, naked,

her eyes aglow,

meeting my desire.

Breathing on her face through this gap in the wall.

I.

The final week in November

Just a weekend off now,

Hot morning's air arouses him

As he throws off his light clothes

Stepping into the warmed-up

Water, delightful, refreshing swim

In the nude.

He thinks of islands, beaches

That are decorated with the

Bronzed nudes of the suntanned

Beautiful people,

Leisurely holiday seekers for

Whom time stands still.

The curvaceous road he loves

To ride upon and reach the

Mountain with the spots

Where he can take-in the

Wide-reaching awesome

Views.

Swim now some rounds, get

All muscles toned, 's 21st of

November, he recalls, it is the

Day he did remember from

A year that passed, looking back

It feels like having travelled

All along the winding road

To places that his mind

Selected just for a short stay,

Let life sink in and fall to the

Ground of the soul like

Sediment.

Then one can go back and

Sift the pictures of the rich

The fauna and the flora of

Life,

Lie back, close the eyes,

Let the feelings drift upon

The coral reef of late,

But glorious days.

He has been fortunate

To dive into the bay, share

The fruits of sea and of

Magical creation.

The place of seven islands

Does evoke in his inside

The feeling of a pleasurable

Dive into the soul of his

Muse,

Liquid love of fondness,

Blue heaven of warm

Surrounding wetness that

He kisses with his face,

That he meets with his short

Breathing

In a dive between these ivory

Thighs of her cries

That greet his open-mouthed

Caresses with a song and again

With another cry

Absorbing his restless tongue

With tight squeezes to his strong

Neck

In her spasms of her close-by high

He seeks to share with her

Whenever they hug tight and

Press onto each other like leeches

That mingle now their blood.

All is running, all is fluid,

All is flooding mind and soul

And he is still close to drown

In her lustful constrictions that

Bring him to his final height,

When fingers clasp and nails

Will sink in cramps of lust into

The malleable flesh.

Finally they could express the

Powers of unrestricted lust,

Pleasure without any boundaries

Of a misconstrued moral baggage,

Without any suffocation of any

Moralist's views,

And the pureness of an absolute

Enjoyable perfect fuck.

For twelve moons he had lived

The life of a recluse that had