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Выставка: Самоанализ

Автопортрет человечества

Автор: Коул Е.Л. Грин

Базируется в Кейптауне, Южная Африка

Instagram: @ cole_e.l_green, @ greentree.poetry

Facebook - Коул ЭЛ Грин

Сборник стихов, охватывающий различные эмоции, любовь, потеря, природа, смятение и жизнь. Только вкус полного сочетания поэтической справедливости, чтобы оправдать и соединить с кем-то внутреннее чувство, которым может поделиться любая душа в одиночку или с компанией, превращая мир в слова, хотя бы в попытке сделать жизнь более понятной и, в свою очередь, более красивой и живой.

Person at Night with Smoke

"The Banshee"

You always feared Her;

it was the creeping feet of 

common sense that saved you.


In the back of your mind you saw her

smoking a cigarette 

(its ends suited Her)

as She waited for you. 


The smoke weaved up and down;

black perfume, 

you tried not to breathe it in,


but it rolled off your tongue all sweet

glazed your lips so fine


that you let yourself grow older

and She came in crawling atop your back;

you told Her to never come back and fourth 

dimensions like time shattered around you.


As you drowned the wait and sea 

smelled like ticking minutes.

Fleeting pollen,

it never suited you to tie bonds with any lovers.


You tried to live under your own reign;

you always said that 


prophets pray in green for profit 

because crosses weave a God of dollars,

that love wasn’t something you buy and large

hearts bled grey promises.


You expected your happiness to rise and Fall

was coming, so everyone knew 


She would touch everything:

in your garden She tinged tulips yellow to mock the sun.

Next to church bells you howled 

because you had made yourself forget Her


until your body couldn’t anymore,

until Her cold touch felt like wind’s embrace,

until you stopped fearing


the final celebration:

moths nestled themselves into your hair like flowers

bats wove a leathery robe around your torso

even crows sang for you as they flew into red-poppy skyline. 

Sometimes a trail of feathers fell into your eyes like raindrops.


She whipped three vultures to 

fly the Carriage to you.


Within Her misty black eyes you saw yourself-

prayers stashed under the bed

lovers lingering within your fingers-

you had feigned yourself like a painting


but She knew 


so this time you didn’t bother to hide 

as you stepped inside;


it was the leaping feet of 

feeling alive that ended you.

Image by Aleksandar Kyng

"You Are Going to Want to"

I will not tell you what to do,

only in my head.


I will smile tightly

until you see my face as a maid’s drawn sheets

(I fired her after you called her ‘Mama’);

I will look up at the ceiling and together we will shake our heads 

in silent contempt for your mistakes. 


Dear Herculean task,

I am a sage of dead herbs,

I am your savior;


but I will not tell you what to do, 

only in my head

which gloats its unveiling

like the glint in king’s eye;


you will only see from absence;

you can learn from nods

bought in dimes coining slang like ‘I love you’


but don’t ever think you can cheat me:

no cashier will accept your change

because everyone knows I am stubborn,

the pebbles in my glare spell stagnancy.


Muddied whirlpool, I will reflect your future 

once you stoop down to see it;

you are deliciously young

and questions run through your veins

more than blood;


you are starved for certainty

but even though my bones have shriveled 

and my skin has cracked

you never listen,

you think you already know all books and wiles;


so us two puppets will play each other


I will not tell you what to do,

only in my head 


until, a faded veteran, 

one of us submits —


and it won’t be me. 


Akiko Jindo

Astonomical Clock
Image by Rodolfo Sanches Carvalho

"Before You Meet Me"

Dear Past Self:


You are an innocent swimmer,

soles unblemished by prickling heartbreak-sands,

pulsing against waves polluted with skulls

(my feeble feather, I pity you;

my sweet seed, I am jealous of you).


But when the sun melts into yellowed tar

and fish crawl into each other’s gills,

or winds whistle haunting shark’s lullaby,

only I can stand on islands of wrinkles.


Fresh mornings draw my cheeks in cloudy smile-lines.

You are yet to become me:

I am future’s glimmering summer

(I taste like wild honey, 

smell like forget-me-nots);

I am your evergreen tree.


You will despise the seawater that eroded your soul’s castle

(you decorate its walls with wishes and diamonds; 

from the left-wing turret you watch 

the sky drop prayers in liquid blueberries),

but you will grow to love who you become.


Now, go—  

flatten all raindrops, 

color tea leaves in orchid’s pink,

bask in the bleats of your calf-heart 

like a sunflowered girl in the prairie;

forget I exist,

(or you will meet me too soon).

City Traffic at Night

"An Hour From a Minute from Now"

You will find happiness 

an hour from a minute from now

and that’s it,

she tells herself.


But is now present or perpetual?

All she sees are

haphazard “routines” stacking up in front of her

like rotting pancakes


Time was an illusion until it wasn’t;

sanity’s queen, she had dictated the clock’s pace

to twist little moments

into candy canes


But now the clock runs by its own hands;

it has grown fat with time and power,

boasts beer-belly of gloat

as mobs of ticks imitate each other.

The chords ring like madness. 


All anyone spouts is,

be strong,

so she tries to find new little moments:

blinded hunter,

she runs a manic search for escapism.


Eventually she can only interrogate herself:


Why do you only appreciate

presence from absence?


Or are people simply fickle, and the world mad?


But do you really dare define anything

in this crumbling dictionary?


She pretends to find small nothings in herself

that she knows do not matter,

will never matter

(what is ‘matter?’

it, too, has lost itself

underneath the clock's meaty arm)


But she won’t stop 

until time starts being subjective again,

until an hour from a minute from now


or so

"March 13, 2020"

When the world comes to an end,

I’ll hold you tight as, like a simmering cat,

the darkness curls in around us.


If we had all the time in the world 

I would admit that I loved you; 

we would pass our days into honeyed sunsets;

we would read each other’s soul like a Bible.


Beyond the plagues and indecisions

of rowdy self-editing men,

we would end the tyranny of clocks

in a revolution of two. 


But we don’t have all the time in the world,

and as you look up at me I say

hold me, dear love, 

until every light fades away 

and we are caught in the 

frozen goodbye of winter's shadow.

Автопортрет человечества
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