I am greatly influenced by the works of Anne Michaels, Charles Baudelaire, and Robert Frost; The Kills and Sonic Youth have also always been inspiration for me. I find poetry is a great tool to learn from,to expand your mind, and to put things in to context. It to me is the greatest art form.
Autumn has come,
And I walk to school in the rain,
And ride the bus, looking through blurry windows,
Admirring the colours of the season,
Red, yellow, and orange; summer’s final farewell
The people are silent on the bus,
And quiet on the streets,
Cold rain and wind has removed their expressions,
While their voices speak inward, to keep their minds from hibernation.
I ring the door bell and after the mechanical buzz I wait for an answer,
“Hello?” exits the speaker rather muffled, “It’s me” I reply,
The door clicks and I open it hastily before it re locks,
I step into the dimly lit stairwell, I can hear T.V.s glowing and rambling from behind wooden doors,
I make my way up the stairs admiring the scuff marks and graffiti, a work of art in collaboration with the holes in the
walls caused by bulky and cumbersome furniture,
I rise then plateau turn then rise again as I make my way from floor to floor,
Politely acknowledging the few people who decided to venture from their apartments at that time,
“Hey” I say “Hey” they say back, a nod or a smile, and then we go our ways,
I squint my eyes at the sun shining in from numerous small windows lining the walls,
And I continue to walk step after step repetively over and over again,
Finally I reach my plateau, my designated number and I knock on the door,
“Hey!” I say loudly through it. The locks rattle and the hinges squeak as you pull the door open,
And welcome me to paradise(relief).
I lived in a town in the north of Alberta.
The winters were freezing cold,
And the summers were burning hot.
But it was the place where I slept,
And I would do anything to gain back the sight,
Of seeing so far across the fields,
Of seeing so far into my self.
To age and grow tired of existence,
Is to suffer though the years alone,
Like a tiger that has had it’s paws rinsed,
Of blood from pray and is denied to roam,
Like Walking through colourless hallways,
Of self hatred and crippling despair,
Thats life with no love our world will say,
To walk alone looking to love but have no one to care,
But do we really need love from a companian,
It seems to be the reason for the blood in our veins
And the light from our systems glorious sun,
And the compensations for our suffering and pains,
But I once met an old women with an old heart,
Who had never a lover to her emotions,
And her smile was just as sane and smart,
As any with a significant other in love or fun,
And it may be true what most of the world says,
That to be contained in your own bottle of wine,
Is to be flawed even in anarchist days,
But you will never have to suffer as you dine.
Dark humour poetry on your hotel walls,
Scratch your neck with your red nails,
Love is yelling at you but you ignore its calls,
You’ll always be happy even if it all fails,
You like to talk all night on the telephone,
You like to watch art and violent films,
You never ever want to go home,
As your blue eyes and leopard print overwhelm,
You look at me like you hate me,
You talk to me like you love me,
I guess it all cancels out,
So we just talk and shout,
You like the night because everything lives,
You hate the day because you see whats coming,
You can see with more than eyes,
You know lies are just people running,
With nothing new on the T.V. screen,
You like to know all about our art,
You like to know about all our dreams,
You can see into all our hearts.
This is a poem I wrote a few years back, it was suppose to be a song but I never got around to finishing it.
My greatest friend, Sarajevo is still littered with cars turned on their sides to barricade the city. The buildings, the side walks, and the streets are still riddled with pieces of shrapnel and bullets; they no longer glow in the night sky with bright colours but lay dull and gray like the many people they killed, like Tito’s once great dream of a united Yugoslavia. Now that the war is over, we can move your grave to the countryside, we no longer have to fear the sniper’s unjust fire. My greatest friend, I feel ashamed to think this, but I feel like your death and Yugoslavia were all in vain, after all of Tito’s hard work, risks, and sacrifices, He forgot one thing, there can be no flag for Yugoslavia with out a star in the middle.
This is the last one, I hope everyone enjoyed them.
The funeral
It seemed the whole world was weeping on the day of Tito’s funeral, I remember being in a sea of people dressed in black, feeling the tension as I tried to keep myself in a controlled dignified pose as the people around me openly wept, struggling to touch the father’s coffin as the palm bearers carried him to his grave. The early morning sun was rising and cast a gentle light upon us, as if Tito was trying to comfort us from the afterlife. I remember feeling false hope as I saw foreign leaders from all around the world walking up to the grave and paying their respects, giving elegant bows, getting on their knees and praying, some of them even shed tears like blood from an open wound. All of this made me feel like Tito’s legacy would go on forever, and that we would not be devoured.
Tension was the Dawn
Tension was the dawn for civil war. The black boots that had never marched on foreign land would instead march on our soil, which would become fertile with the bodies of our fellow Yugoslavs. The guns, which never fired in foreign territory, would be turned inwards as our county became like the most desperate, hopeless, tortured soul. Tito’s death would start a chain of events more devastating then the next, inter ethnic marriages would become a thing of the past and graffiti aimed to spread hate would become a regular sight. This would then turn in to rocks being thrown, brutal street beatings, arsine, murder, and then civil war. The radio no longer spread messages of peace but lies disguised as scientific facts allied with events of our history. It took millions of deaths to unite us under one nationality, but only one death to divide us once again.
As our country got older so did the man who created it. In the cafés people would sit drinking their coffee and their tea, talking about the future. During a time of revolution in the west a time when different ethnic groups were beginning to experience equal right. We were beginning to fear for our own equality and peace. For although the areoplanes still flew through the sky spelling out Tito, we knew our father was dying. And unlike the disease that had spread through his generation and the generations before, this disease will not end with ingenious propaganda, message of brotherhood and equality. This disease will end, only with the death of our father with a death of a man, and will start an eternity of mourning.
We were once bitter and sick in our division from each other. But now, a new nationality has risen from our unification. We listen on the radio to speeches of freedom and brotherhood, and we realize that we are not alone in the cold war. So now together we march in our nations capital to show the world that we are united, that we are brothers. As we march we lift our knees up to our waist and then slam our black boots to the concrete making a rhythmic beat, a rhythmic beat that will never be heard in a foreign land. And at the call, we shift our guns, which rattle with enthusiasm, guns that will never be fired in a foreign land, and salutes to the old man our father. I remember looking into his eyes every time we marched and I would tell him thank you for the peace. But behind us, divisions of tanks screaming and whining like a novice violinist. A violinist whose fingers will be cut off by the past and whose ears will be deafened by the artillery shells of the future.
I once saw a television program about stars. I remember a scientist behind the screen was talking about how sometimes when a star dies it turns in to a black hole and will start to devourer anything that comes to close, even if it’s another star.
The cold war was especially cold for us, the brotherhood. But the old man’s, our father’s blanket kept us warm, It kept us from feeling the icy wind which blow over us from the U.S.S.R. and the western nations, the winds would met over our country and clash dropping ice upon us. But the old man, our father built us a roof and protected us from the danger. A man who stared in to Jasenova’s eyes of tar and stood in its shark like jaws was not going to let Stalin or the evils of capitalism make all of his risks, sacrifices, and hard work be in vain.
