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LINGERING AMONGST THE MYTHOLOGY OF A LONG REMEMBERED SMILE SAMPLE 1. New book by Emil West Borrow the entire book for free on a Kindle device with Amazon Prime. http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007SK1OUA#_
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“LINGERING AMONGST THE MYTHOLOGY OF A LONG REMEMBERED SMILE…”
EMIL WEST WWWG PRODUCTIONS LTD 2012
Kono Hana o Miya has the smell of an evil and untimely death conspired, compelled and as on that bright August morning; we are treated to the murmured cries of the lost souls, the sadly departed and those long forgotten
. Kono Hano o Miya means to look at the flower and to see the untraditional DeStijl‐like patterns and rhymes.
Some may feel that the nature of this volume steps backwards into the introverted seclusion that I would argue had never been further removed than a
step backwards… ‐ Emil West 2012
“Flowers of Edo” The sky was serene In sight of the inland sea Then a flash of light Screams shatter my broken heart The Lotus withers in death. Strangers at my home Weepers fill the empty streets Death stalks after me My echoes run in silence Hibakusha in shadows My steps now seem slow Sleepwalking in nightmare dreams A blind girl asks “raison d’etre” Miyajima, I am now!
“YOUNG BABY CRY NOT…” Young Baby Cry Not Sitting lost in childhood games Amongst brick rubble Repeating the rhymed Koan Slender Stamen bent under… Young Baby Cry Not Images in a Dark Shadow Staring out at him Dotting Surrounding brick walls Dancing around in hand Young Baby Cry Not Swinging, thrown in and about Holding Charred Hands Up into surreal skies Stamen clinched in his hands…
“GRIS‐GRIS” Standing up Crisp
Gris‐Gris lain in the grass
Shudder, as we pass
Voodoo Chants, wild echoes in dark
Dizzy, Liquored grog dreams.
Working girl’s grisette
Not in fine “gros de londres” Foolish Miss Deirdre
Diluted dreams lost in groans
Faded rosebuds look on down. Wild Voodoo rived rites
Sung out in Chantey rhyme schemes
Listless machetes
Gris‐Gris curse them who speak
Grasshopper banisters smile. (Kono Hano o Miya 1982)
“JIZO” Talking with the JIZO Jizo okagesama de Junshi at the dawn Saying “Shikat Aganai” Kono Hana o Miya…
“SATIN SHARI” Satin‐like Shari Wrapped around
Draped over you
Flowing downwards
Gracing Lovely Ankles Stained in Sarin
All Torn Apart From sarcous sarcomatosis
Lifted out of sight Saved in spite
Injected with norepinephrine
Impending doom
Waves come in crashing
Satin‐like Shari Forever now apart.
“WISH ME”
Wish me a wide grin
Pour me more rice wine
Wish me a wide grin
For soon, the dawn will come, Sending the jaded Jael in, Draw the curtains wide
And for the last time, Let the sun touch my cheeks Wish me a wide grin
Pour me more rice wine
Wish me a wide grin
For now, my courage wanes, The warfarin was a good touch, This deed must soon be done
My duty is clear, “ottamu” Young life, left incomplete.
GUIDE TO UNDERSTANDING Kono Hano o Miya = Look at the flower Junshi = Ritual Suicide Nisei = A man without qualities Mujo = Change Kaze = Wind No Eiyu = Hero of the …. Shikat Aganai = (Slang) cannot be helped Jode Shin = True pure Land (Heaven) No = on, of…on the…of the Urameshiya = I bear a grudge against Ottamu = Mourning Akirame = Resignation Jizo = A Buddha Deity, a small statue found by the side of the road;
throughout Japan to bless a traveler’s sojourn Okagesama = Under the Shadow Mondai = Problems Shin Wa Yasashii Hito…Kongo Okitai Shiteita noni… “A sweet‐hearted
person whom…I expected much, in the future.”
“ANTIPHON OF SHOPHAR”
Plukken by Plectrum Shalow swonos of the Shophar Apocrifa ascriben of Psilocin breuen Brims Ptoma Ruschen to piptein Pyralis embracened Fluidus mocion motet
Darvesh’s darsana at the gate. Ptolemikos deifien Anointen into the Kultur Kolnedra siddur Antiphon of Ashadia Huschened apostasie (Written with the original and/or
Mid‐Eastern Word spellings…1982)
“Diablos und Diamon” Diablos und Diamon
Promenade about my soul Swishing fichus tickle
Stepping over my head
In a fast moving half‐step. Diablos und Diamon
With the larceny of thimblerig
They swindled my soul Trapped me in this bottle
A “Slough of Despond” exile. Diablos und Diamon
Fanfaronade worded fantasies
Whispered by fanged into lubberly, A luscious lues, in search of Lustrum.
“Sometimes” Sometimes, I feel as if I were Fitzgerald; there at the bitter end, bound to bed but still in correspondents' with his dearest
Zelda…
Sometimes, I’m bold…I am a Hemmingway character branded by my foolish pride, huddled all together with all those who share
Hemmingway’s fear of the emptiness
of the night‐time hours…
Sometimes, I am left to my own devices and in need to create yet another adventure; out in the cold, wasted at small, seedy bar down by
the harbour…
Sometimes, I really don’t know who or what I have become; reflecting back upon all that I lost trying to be
another writer’s character.
“The Mystery in Me” The mystery of the sea has always
been…It has always drawn me to the sea. There is no mistaking that the mystery of the sea is like the mystery of all the thoughts that hide deep in me. It may all seem funny, it may even come across as rather odd or strange; but, only if, you have never
been…that you have never seen the wide expands of the empty beach sands.
Towards my half‐hearted effort to explain what I just said; I would be less than truthful than to look you in the eye and try to repeat what I just
wrote…As I write this down; there is no sense to this and thus no mysteries about the sea or to that
point, me…nothing that you would ever need be concerned with; other than to say that once upon a time; I went to Phuket and there down on
the beach…I reached the pinnacle of
my legacy…down upon the wide strands of empty beach sands; I had a
day dream…a Phuket Day
Dream…long was it lost to time, age and the sheer living of a pointless
life…the choices I made…the decisions towards this
dream…framed my very
being…blindly rejecting, turning away from options that might have served me far better than the path I
so freely followed…to me that is the real mystery.
“White Bottle Gin” White Bottled Gin
Slugged with a slight grin
Standing by seaside
Acting as first mate and friend Left marooned with the Marinates As you swam out towards deep waters
Waving out another final farewell Aboard the boat of giant sails
White Bottle Gin
Slugged with a slight grin
Away from the leeward island
Again collar turned
Standing by the quarter‐deck
The last ten years fade away
Captain, again, of a mighty rigger Your island home, memories locked away
A joke to be shared on a late, midnight watch
White Bottle Gin
Acting as first mate and friend
Left to his wits amongst the Marinates
White Bottle Gin Standing by seaside
Slugged with a slight grin…
“Written for you and left behind upon the walls of a long desert, beach front
home” While I was awaiting you, there at your old summer cottage, down by the lapping waves of the Phuket Sea Waiting for such a long time while enjoying the thought that you might be returning back soon While awaiting your return, I took it upon myself, to scribble an urgent message up upon your walls
I leave you this message, a mad, a crazy, a bent poem about sea monsters and the many wishes to be This message that I wrote, was meant for you, for your eyes alone, that you might be able to make some sense of what you now read. After I completed and corrected the grammar for errors; it dawned upon me that this was foolish and I had in urgent expedience created a mad poem; an act of vandalism that most common viewers would have declared it to be. But, somehow I knew that, at first sight, you would see and then
understand…you would discover the truths of love, longing and remorse. Somehow, it seemed plausible at least at that moment that you would know in my miswritten rhymed, aged verbiage; that I had awaited your return, here to your old summer cottage, down by the lapping waves of the Phuket Sea.
I waited for you with this mad crazy Phuket Day Dream about sea monsters and wishes that,
Sadly, would never be
meant to be…
“A Stormy Night Down by the Phuket Sea” Late it was into a dark rainy night and we huddled about in comradeship at the old coffee house overlooking the wide sand beaches of the Phuket Sea Scanning out into the empty expansions of the storm dark sea; out to the clusters of mighty lightning flashes that pebbled the open sea; drinking a warm Fanta Cola, the one coloured green, all collected, drawn to the Voice of American conducting a play‐by‐play of a coup d'etre off in the distant capital; as we all expressed the burning desire of all arm‐chaired generals to join and rally the loyal forces that were ordered to assemble upon the great plains of the Korat. Late into the rainy night and lost up into the excitement of a real revolution; did not fade memories of eating stale sweets, of waiting inside a deserted beach shack for the sudden rain to calm or the long walk down by
the water’s edge where the
fishermen’s family planned to cook, remember how they planned to roast a crab, as to how we were joined by the others who danced crazy in harmony with the advancing , dazzling display of lightning and
as to how the fisherman’s wife looked up and took in all these sights with a wide grin that made me feel at home. Late into the rainy night and most had returned back up to the school, I stood for a while rethinking the day, enjoying the whispering of the rain; and I watch a lonely, quite herd of water buffalos roaming the empty beaches as if out for an evening stole as I watched and
tried to find my own “raison d’etre.”
“Days Grown Short” There was a (not so distant or forgotten) age when a day would last for what would now seems to be a week, sometimes it could linger for almost a season in the waning twilight of a sun setting at almost nine in the evening, eastern standard time. These were times for all bold action plans, planning that could well, that would without doubt span entire decades of time with supplementary plans to be committed and vast quantities of resources to be squandered, frittered away. There was a time when all that and more was the expectation of what would be done. The sights, sounds and lusty adventures that were left to be embarked upon
as time had no meaning…no watches were needs and to those few we saw; we banished them out on to the outgoing tide. In this new, modern and bold age of time schedules, appointment and firm commitments to squander away what little time I have been able
to squirrel away, horde, to hide‐a‐way; it now seems that an entire generation can slip by me in what seems to be one short, lost senior moment. What has become of the opportunity to linger, to drink in and absorb the wealth of the single moment without falling two weeks behind on some meaningless report generated out of cubed, cubical in which I now fear I might expire without having even the time to notice.
“Two is as Three Might Be?”
I was standing down by the Phuket Sea, Standing down there waiting for them (a herd of passing water buffalo) to pass; a
little ditty call “Two is a Three Might Be” burst into my mind… This little tune was a very little know garage band number that I had heard only once or twice and it had been so many years gone pass since I had even thought of it; I was surprised
that it would come rushing back to me as I stood in a patient stand waiting the local water buffalo heard to finish their lunch. Even stranger to me was that without regards to who might be listening, I tried my best to carry a tune as I sang out as the water buffalos paraded past me, heading up the shore.. Standing there waiting, watching for them to pass; a little ditty call
“Two is as Three Might Be” was the tune that I chose to sing out
to them…it must have surely gave them pause to stop and
listen…which now seems strange and I am somewhat loss to justify why I now did it. Maybe you needed to be there to truly to get a glimpse of its
many, hidden agendas…the secret and inner meanings of insight that there might be lying
there to observe… but, WAIT! Maybe on a second or third reflection, it was a good, a lucky break that you were not there to
have heard me singing “Two is as Three Might Be” to a passing herd of innocent water buffalo.
Funny how such an abstract, lost moment can live on and still give pause as to what was I really thinking and to remind me better, allow all of my newly acquired, my recent addition of my more mature senses; to re‐enforce that I was really young once but, sadly, it does really illustrate the truth that even
then…I had a terrible sense of
what represented good music…
“A Wish for the Pookha” A Wish for the Pookha to come and take us away Off into another time, off to traveling into some far distant lands. Off to a kind place where it is always day, where the hour is forever young and it dares to
never conspires against or tries
to betray us…
A Wish for the Pookha, which most would deem nice, although the reasoned amongst us fear that it is only a myth, a passed on fable that was handed down to us by our ancient, distant fathers.
A Wish for the Pookha, I say is real as you are to me and as I am to you; without a doubt my friends, deeply hidden, encoded
in to our ancient one’s tale…there must be, there… is a means, a hidden methodology to allow us to call the Pookha forth to take us away.
A wish for the Pookha, picture
him as I do my friends…swaying far above us, looking down upon from on high, from his hidden spot, protected by the larger branches of his moss covered, Cyprus Tree Fort; swaying about from limb to branch and from branch to limb, endlessly lost in counting on his many fingers and then extending to out to his
equaled numbers of toes…living high amongst the leaves as in
such a manner I believe that is not so far removed from you and
me, to all of us – as we are his dutied responsibility and must be of his greatest concern and that gives him constant displeasure.
A Wish for the Pookha summoned up by the old men from the bar, down around the corner of thirty‐second and grand, standing out on the curb
after a long night’s deliverance and drinking…as their night
fades into morning’s twilight; they face out to darkened trees, whispering his name, calling out
loud…a wish for the Pookha to
come and take them away…
“Special Decks of Forty” Special coloured decks of 40 playing cards each, deeply illustrated with a rich mixture of images taken directly they say from the gleaming eye of Lady
Luck’s cunning and envisioned mythologies that it might, possibly take for someone to defeat her and the house.
Gambling all night at a crowded table, cautiously awaiting upon the dealer turning the colours as early in this game, one quickly learns to be betting anything other than to be betting with the banker was sure folly against Lady Luck, unless you secretly
wished to leave the tables early, poor and broken.
Special coloured decks of 40 playing cards each, out in a dusty, cantina bar, out on the very ragged edge of all known civilization, playing amongst local grave robbers and archeologist interns.
With all hidden cards now showing, face up upon the crowded table, In the corner of my eye, the reflecting beams of
the grave robber’s exposed knife blade could be seen
glowing…blinding Lady Luck’s eye…make her turn away for just that split moment and as if guided by an inner, a deeper Kismet, the Klepht Revolutionary Brothers (who had come late to the game) proceeded to hold one after another, of what seemed to be, it seemed to be a never ending stream of wining
hands…As death revels at the shot.
Special coloured decks of 40
playing cards each…Colours turned up wrong; something had gone so terribly wrong
The Banker’s bet was lost, our collective fortune mixed with the spoils of the now angry grave robbers was spent, transferred to these two strangers who fell out of the night and into our friendly little cantina bar, but as the Klephts bought another round; even the grave robbers warmed and temporal friendship formed, bought and paid for with the Klepht Brothers winnings of shinny Rhine Gold.
“Going My Way? I Heard Her
Say” Going my way?” I heard her say; Going your way? Well maybe I
said…My plans are not certain, I truly have not given it that much
thought…But, I am certain; that by your question that you have given it a lot was what I was thinking to say.
Going your way? It was a funny thing for you to have said. It seems now certain that you must have formulated some kind of plan and that is scary as I have
no plan(s)…I have no vision nor care to look that far on; my focus is upon the here, the now; to
future is too abstract…its frightfull and wrong to think too
much on…
Going my way? Well, Maybe, I said that is kind of a proposal, the forming of a committee, issues or a decision from some advisory board. I am afraid now to tell you; that it true, that I believe in faith instead of life being some big, corporate mandate.
Going your way? What on earth was your plan, what was the
reasoning…seems like all sense and judgment was banished, removed from the table before negotiations were resumed.
Going my way? Is a long road to hold, to be able to march inland after alighting our ships as they rested upon the shore is much easier said than done. Chortled choristers ride off ahead, heralding our reckless, speeded advance of to some future time and the end of the road.
Going your way? I say that we do need to put it up to a vote, form a coconscious, not to be tempted, not to lead a charge; take some time to ponder it and reflect upon the any real needs to share this road.
“Arose in the Blood” (Secrets of Omar 1982)
Arose in the blood, endowed with distress, fugitive of the arts, sedition ran deep, passions lamented in a parlando manner, branded assassins, hashish asphyxiate, teaching arspoetica, draped in bengaline as spoken in prophesy. Arose in the blood, deserted by the faithful, dialogues of Dharma, raised, reduced to ash, despairing pillage of hope, revised in rhapsody, heralded as miraculous, proclaimed, invested with the eyes of the prophet, prophesy, at last, fulfilled in the holy name of Silvia. Arose in the blood, the gravity of such purity, spoken in silent tones, with its corrupted cowl, dark, foretelling, foretokened in carnal imagery. Arose in the blood, so the miracle was recalled, by illustrated illusions, dashed dawn unto the rocks, executed with emulated zeal, was the son of the prophet.
“Wasting Away While
Cruising the Halls” Haunting, restless wasting away as we cruise the halls during study hall Strolling, running up and down the emptied halls, pass rows of deserted, empty lockers that once stored dreams and a wide assortment of dry goods; just marking time waiting for the bell to ring. Wasting Away While Cruising the Halls during study hall; all of my so carefully saved up, collected and stored, talented skills had started to wane, leaking out into greasy patterns of Rodrigue Patterns and finally, it summons up the will of its own and took a plan of action upon itself to shuddering zoom by me like my old 1948 Nash with a quick power upshifted roar, right
around me in a blinding
flash…man, I think that is when I saw it waving out a final goodbye to me just as it was hitting third
gear and busted out the school’s main lobby doors and soared down all of the triple rows of the
school’s front step entrance…rather
impressive…last that I saw of it
…it was quickly hailing a cab out to the airport and where a waiting one‐way ticket was its way out of this looser old town. Haunting, restless wasting away as we cruise the halls during study hall Days fade ever so fast, like this wasted page in which you took time to read and that you are now discovering is like this part‐time gig of a life; without talent, creativity is even a bigger bore than all the useless verbiage that you can find here hiding any true lines, smudged sighs of misunderstanding(s) and so, we are merely reduced to haunting, restless wasting away as we cruise the halls during study hall or being outrun by our own talent who beat us out of this old loser town.
“Phuket Day Dream” Over 30 years ago, I sat on a foggy, wide, sanded beach in a little beach town, early in the
morning…watching a buffalo herd out for their morning
walk…down from the school where I had been sent to teach games and songs at an English
Summer Camp…watching the
fishermen gather up their tools and cast their boats out into a
long day at sea…there off in a corner was a deserted beach home; long past its claim as a home to a young, couple lost in a summer love; sadly I now recall that desert shack and I now, I can understand its loss and it seems so intertwined into my Phuket Day Dream. All through my stay; this deserted, summer home shack was center stage in my
stay…looking out a stormy sky, a radio creakingly played the Voice of America while another Peace Corps Volunteer playing Al
Stewart’s “On the Border;” there out of the corner of my eye was yet another young couple making their way down to the beach and towards the shelter of this old, battered beach
shack…Then I understood, I
knew its reason for being…and at that very moment, I truly understood the mad poem that was scribbled, drawn in bold letters on its walls, colouring its halls with thoughts of sea monsters and a wish as to what was never to be.
“Ephors of Ephod” (Secrets of Omar 1982)
The morning blistered with an early winter’s cold The High Fayyum stood by the camp’s luring fire I dreaded even the slightest movement away from the warming
ambers of summer’s warmth The morning blister with an early winter’s cold The entire world laid deep with forboden snows and its icy mist that robbed even the bravest of courage and spunk The morning blistered with an early winter’s cold The last of the summer’s ambers turned black and wasted as the fire’s warmth waned and the cold began to seep in forcing me to upturn my woolen collar The morning blistered with an early winter’s cold The high Fayyum seeks out the village’s Afain Orcale Shaman and Healer who had forewarned omens of the coming rescue (Continued)
“Ephors of Ephod” (Secrets of Omar 1982)
(Continued)
The morning blistered with an early winter’s cold Scanning the horizons up from our military’s base camp along the quickly freezing banks of the great river that brings the murmur in the ranks that swept in and amongst the terror nerved, collective nightmare of the last barrier to the advancing Horde was about to be lost and with it the last line of our feeble defense.
The morning blistered with an early winter’s cold The Shaman lay crucified for the truths that he had foretold and to show his greater displeasure to such deviance, the High Fayyum had the archers dispatch him with an iron crossbow arrow that found the aged heart of the Shaman and then several more to ensure the
message of the High Fayyum’s displeasure. The morning blistered with an early winter’s cold The High Fayyum sees clearly, as do we, that all of the natural world is in revolt against our holy cause and has sent forth its own ghost army of ancient spirits, led by the swift horsemen of the blistering cold and
that seems destine to prove the Shaman’s predictions of an evil age of darkness that we are powerless to stop. The morning blisters with an early winter’s cold As its consuming might clearly and boldly conspires to favor our enemies that march now at the head of the great advancing army of the Mongol Horde Fear spondee served up on a golden spittoon taken from once warm homes we vacated in the dead of night, all along the frontiers, we now huddle for warmth along these freezing shores and dread what awaits
as the morning blisters with an early winter’s cold. The High Fayyum
quietly scans the horizon up from our military’s base camp.
“Memories Never Run
Short” (1987 Introduction)
A long time ago, I really made a smart choice and at a still young age; I set out to explore the world that my aunt and uncle had spent their entire life bookmarking and cataloging for the adventures that they never were able to realize or enjoy. Granted, I was land‐strummed and shanghaied long before I was able to complete the tour but never the less; it has left me with more than my share of exciting adventures and scary tales to entertain and make me seem much more interesting
than what I truly, that I am in reality. I can still feel the coolness of the midnight air in that lonely, Mexican bar out on the ragged edge of the tropic undergrowth in the Yucatan and I can still tell the tale with the passion, the heat of the moment of finding myself, as a young archeology student, in a bar full of Mayan Grave Robbers. I can still feel the heat of the Sudanese Desert and the high noon standard off with rebel troops while trying to escape over the border into the safety of Chad. While the list does extend far beyond this page and that does not include other adventures that I still do not share; I now have come to relish the retelling of these tales as a badge that I have not frittered my whole life away with nothing more to share than the bold, crazy store of the
“Great Copier Breakdown at the Office” in 1987.
“Constantinople” (From “Memories Never Run Short” 1987)
I came to Constantinople back in 1975 with two bags fully packed with all of my worldly positions, fleeing Assyrian Tugs that tried to rob me at the airport; up into the once golden gates of the city proper; I was relieved and again felt safe. I came to Constantinople seeking a quick passage to Tehran and the promise of a good job teaching job and the reprobation of the city as a Party Town that preceded it in those days. I came to Constantinople and my luck turned extremely bad having arrived in the city on the
outbreak of flu – which seemed more to be plague than a common cold. The sick soon fell all throughout the district were I secured my standard, cheap lodging, the death bells rang out, cries came from every side street and alley. It seemed that none were spared not even me and the group that I had come to Constantinople
with. One by one…we lost the
eldest (a survivor of the worst that Cairo had to offer), who fell sick on the first day that we arrived and promptly spoke of this as a form of punishment call
“Salzmann’s Revenge” that was handled down to all sinners, tourist and similar foul examples of human kind as a punish from our Christian God for traveling in the Arab World. Soon the flu had overcome the whole of the once great city, the city was laid quiet, and no sound was made except for an occasional, sick waiter or porter at the hotel. This Flu was ghostly, it comes unseen, waiting in the shadows and its victims never see it face to face. By the second week, the flu bell rang no more, no one was left, none who were, dared not to call
out the sick…except for
me…week now
myself…standing by the once golden gates watching for a taxi
to take me to the airport…