The Searcher
He rode on bus to the Andes
Villagers burnt tyres at the road
They brandished menacing axes
Fear made the pavement corrode.
He sailed the rivers of the Congo
Dreaming about his tender lady’s heart
She played Schubert on the piano
Yet Babylon waited with a dart.
He walked the streets of Moscow
Burning with desire for her embrace
Fiery lava streaming from a volcano
But his lady vanished without trace.
Trouble found him in the port of Rio
Exhausted he was but tried to relax
Times were better in Ontario
The beer foamier in Halifax.
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poem by Paul Hartal
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Atheism Compliments God
Since God does not exist,
He could not create the world,
Said the atheist.
Then who created it?
The poet asked.
Well, the world just came into being
By itself, she replied.
Well, in that case
This is indeed a great compliment
For God, the poet said.
She gave him a surprised look.
And why is that? She asked.
Imagine that a book, for example,
Could write itself without the author,
Would not be it a fantastic miracle?
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poem by Paul Hartal
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Past and Present
Bygone days silently curl
Fold in airy yesteryears
They retreat to hide
Behind the elliptic orbits
Of the revolving planets
The days become nights
And they change
Like caterpillars
Or like gelatinous eggs
Of some toads
That detect vibrations
And then they quietly sail
With the solar wind
To distant places in space
To remote galaxies
Filled with shimmering stars.
But in the uncurved spheres
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poem by Paul Hartal
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For Miklós Radnóti
Your verse is so magical,
Written so well,
I still adore its music
And drink from its well.
After the war your town
Gave my grammar school
The honour of your name,
Yet history is cruel
It ignored your fame.
Your woman waited years
For your return in vain
And you dreamt she stood
At the russet hedge again.
And like in the old days,
You wished to marvel
On her leg above the ankle
At the delicate blue vein.
My teacher told me
That buried underground
Your notebook of poems
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poem by Paul Hartal
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Fear
Life is often dreadful
Full of fright and panic
A strange stride in the dark
The world became so toxic.
I told her all this
But she said:
The sear of fear
Is real
Deep like the sea
Look into its eyes
And invite him
To a cup of tea.
Yet the arrow of time
Is laden with sickness
Death awaits each mortal being
Both commoner and princess.
I told her all this
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poem by Paul Hartal
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Slanted Eyes (Yeux Bridés)
In a red coat she walked on black high heel shoes
In a crowded street between men with neckties
As we passed by she cast a casual glance at me
And I admired her radiant almond eyes.
Once on a sunny afternoon in late August
I saw her again in a park under blue skies
The wind moved gently lacy cirrus clouds
And I adored her graceful Asian eyes.
My ancestors did not build the Great Wall
Nor did they belong to ranks of Samurais
But when the Moon rises west of the Silk Road
I dream about the girl with comely oblique eyes.
As the years slip by and we grow old together
We walk hand in hand on fields of butterflies
Why do you love me? She asks and I tell her:
For your beautiful soul and your slanted eyes.
poem by Paul Hartal
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The Sobbing God
It was 1942 in the Warsaw Ghetto
And Rabbi Kalonymos Shapiro posed a question:
Did the God of Israel abandon his people?
And then he heard the voice of Jeremiah:
“My soul shall weep in secret places
And my eye shall weep sore and run down with tears
Because the Lord’s flock is carried away captive.”
As the dark days descended on the earth
And the flames engulfed the ghetto
The Lord bitterly sobbed,
Mourned in agony the innocent souls.
But God hid his tears in inner chambers.
He wept lonely in solitude
He concealed his immeasurable sorrow.
For, the Lord loves the world immensely
He suffers silently with his infinite pain.
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poem by Paul Hartal
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Her Kiss
He steers hurriedly the hardened handlebar
The light dims out in a cozy red chamber
A door of dreams opens with a moan ajar
A want of breeze lays layer upon layer.
Her dress is colorful but simple and modest
Her jasper hair falls on her white shoulders
He enters her cave beneath the jade forest
An old book on the shelf silently moulders.
Her skin is velvety silk, delicate and smooth
Her eyes brightly glisten, the pearls of Atlantis
One cannot find such jewels in any booth,
Her breasts pomegranates, sweeter than raisins.
Forgive me, he says, for not kissing your mouth
And she smiles and agrees yet somewhat amiss
Then he moves to the door turning to the south
But before he leaves she kisses him on the lips.
poem by Paul Hartal
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Poem for a Right Angle
The summer sun at noon shines bright
And you are always everywhere
Underneath and at immense height
On the ground and in the air.
Your birth place is unknown to me
But your angle is always right
A vertical perpendicular, carefree,
To a horizontal line, firm and tight.
Marked by an elegant small square,
Your own cute symbol, neither acute
Nor obtuse, ninety degrees of a stair,
A skyscraper's desire to salute.
A quarter-turn of a full circle,
Three hours on an antique time piece,
Go Angulus Rectus, ride your bicycle,
The wheels rotate in patterned caprice.
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poem by Paul Hartal
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The World Has Changed
The world has changed
Because you left it
I feel your presence
But where are you now?
I know that you are alive
Memories do not descend to the grave
I touch a flower and touch your soul
I talk to you
And you return at dreamtimes.
You are in heaven now
You are in paradise
But where is paradise
My angel, my darling?
Some say the Garden of Eden
Was an island in ancient seas
In Bahrain or Babylon
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poem by Paul Hartal
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