Monday 29 October 2007

Warpath, by Ario Farin


Autumn comes late in the mountains.
The transmission cables connecting
the cottages and the farms,
the solitary skyscrapers and frozen churches,
are set ablaze for a day or two
by the singeing wings of scouting kestrels,
swallows flying below radar in the pink glow.
No one is injured, bunkers remain intact,
but we skulk in the furrows,
set trap after trap.

Then the renditions began, first from the cities,
chalky white cliffs in the first long night,
to Babylon, to Qom, to Amsterdam, to London:
Paris no longer exists it is said in the papers
that lie spread along the green hillsides
among the trumpet chanterels and the imploding toadstools.
Extraordinary scenes: canals luminous with ghosts,
the motorways silent for weeks except for
the rotating blades of military hovercraft,
cutting the empty road ahead into slices of routes.

Then, amid the last blue flash
of headlights, the fading glint
of a cat’s eye burrowed into the molten tarmac,
she dances, snapping her fingers
amid the flurry of fog and exhaust gases
from God knows where, she dances
to a delusional beat, half asleep
and half howling to a sonar beep,
falling like a raindrop
On a brown-red leaf.

I mentioned this poem, a couple of posts back, as the one that spurred me to look up 'The Horses', by Edwin Muir.

It was on a blog called Scribblings and Sketches, and is the work of one Ario Farin, who says:-

"My actual name is Arioborzine Farin. I was born in Isfahan in 1977 to a Dutch mother and Iranian father. I have lived in Iran, the Netherlands, the UK and now in Germany. English is not my native language. I am not sure I have one. My nationality is Dutch though. I work as an English teacher for adults and translator in Leipzig."

I, a native speaker of english can not write anything in any way as accomplished as this poem, yet Ario is almost apologetic about placing these poems before us, as if feeling them unworthy.

I asked permission to post this, when I posted 'Horses', The reply only just got to me, giving permission to do so. I was going to add it to the Edwin Muir post, but thought again.

The poem deserves a post of its own.

Please comment, you poetry readers and poets, I really would like to hear your views, lurkers, take a chance, step out of the shadows and speak, it won't hurt, I promise.

Click on the links, go visit Ario Farin at Scribblings and Sketches.

My meanderings on the internet have led me to many rewarding discoveries. So many self-publishing writers and poets, I feel humbled.

And jealous.