The digital cave walls are never full and as such poets persist to glow the internet thickets with literary candlelight’s and glim our COVID 19 laden red- clay earth with poetic lanterns. Poet Michael Dickel writes heaves philosophical verses from within the inner troughs of his heart box. PASSION. His pen spits mind provoking historical -cultural anthropology and the symbolism is identity, belonging and longing. His poetry DNA is presence, emotion and prowess. The spiritual reverence writings concocted with lyrical dexterity are a balanced diet his ever willing readership. Porcupine Quill presents Poetry Chef Michael Dickel, an internationally revered Scholar, distinguished Educationist and a widely published Poet with his nerve grilling verses. EPIC - PorCuPineQuill eDitor.
RETURN FROM POMPEII
i I write this from storm clouds tumbling over a mountain like ghostly echoes of its famous volcanic eruption. I saw them whip by the train’s window and decided to ride them, slipping out of the passenger car unnoticed just when you stopped my heart. The rain of sound would form meaning with lightning and thunder if I had not fallen under the spell
of this place that is not formed.
ii Ashes fell down from the sky, cinders, molten rock. The living lay, buried there. Their corpses eventually dried out, ashes to ashes and dust to dust transcribed literally, without translation. In a millennium and a half, a little longer, the empty spaces left behind become molds, the dead become casts of cement.
So it is with the dead.
iii The memories of living fall around the lives once lived, leave a hole in the pumice. The emptiness fills with words— narrative and song. That is why I write with rain drops on your windows as the train speeds by the valleys indifferently. That is why the ghosts do not speak to me or to you. That is why no one noticed
as I left the train again.
SILENT POETRY, APRIL 21, 1988
The dark blue wind of early autumn ran on the early autumn sky… —Robert Frost, “Sleep Impression
i Dust blasted in the wind dries my mouth and words fall away, autumn’s leaves scraping pavement on their way to being caught in grass filament.
I don’t know what to say to you about distances, money, crackling leaves and filtered dust, white sand that has not been said before, fast and easy.
I do not know what to say to you about silence— because I don’t know it, but it pushes me like the wind into the soft green tendrils of your arms.
I drift on the lake bottom, with the white sand, and on the surface with the dry leaves, soaking up water but not able to fathom the distance between us.
ii Silence outside of your door, inside your room, falls across the floor, a dark shadow. I reach to touch your olive skin, you asleep in the dark night, illumined by the strobe flash of the mute TV.
Your breath whispers in the silence—a regular, quiet plea—never singing out to fill the shadows with the light of your holy passion.
I cannot feel you anymore, the space has become so huge, and your once throbbing body breathes so deeply, it fades into shadow. I turn the TV off, walk downstairs. Night birds call and I answer.
iii Dusk, and clouds obscure evening heat lightning across the river and miles away— I wish it was the bright moon, that odd dream- shade opposite to the midnight-sun and blue-dawn color that surrounded it outside my window early this morning. The orange circle stunned me so that I woke you up and asked you to witness the world—the orange circle a sun deep beneath a perfect sea, heat lightning cooled and purified and poured into coin. I wish my silence was that cool moon, encompassed by its complement blue. I wish it would wake you up, dark blue wind. I wish it would wake you up and you would say, “How beautiful!”
NOTHING REMEMBERS
where in our times we these rocks piled into buildings that fell down a thousand years ago dis(re)membered from war or earthquake raised and razed again into where nothing recalls again the warm day anemones bloom hollyhocks poppies forget no one and another rain day another dry day pass hot and cold while an orvani drops blue feathers in flight a hawk sits calmly on a fencepost and flocks of egrets traipse toward the sea no cattle no grains all harvested in this place we would call holy land nothing left to it but conflict with the passing of her life that tried so hard to hang onto one moment many moments missed so many more empty echoes a difficult way to say goodbye to a mother watching her evaporate like rain in the desert her mind dust that dries lips her droned words faded as warmth from a midnight rock meaning what the layers of history these rocks un-piled reveal sepia photos a couple of tin-types dust school reports cards newspaper holes the shells of bugs raised and razed again and again into our times where nothing remembers
MICHAEL (Dickel) DEKEL has authored six published books and chapbooks (pamphlets) of poetry and short fiction, and published over 200 individually published poems, short stories, and non-fiction pieces, in addition to book-reviews and academic articles—under his birth name, Michael Dickel. His next book will come out summer 2019 from Finishing Line Press (https://tinyurl.com/y3684acu). For Fisher Features, Ltd, he wrote a successful NEH film-development grant and the script for a documentary film on Yiddish theatre. He works as a freelance editor for publishers and individual authors, co-edited Voices Israel Vol. 36 (2010), and served or continues to serve as an editor of one sort or another for several print and online literary periodicals. He has taught writing, literature, and English language in higher education in both the U.S. and Israel. Michael publishes an online blog-Zine (https://MichaelDickel.info/). He is the past chair of the Israel Association of Writers in English. He holds a Bachelor's in psychology, a Master's Degree in Creative Writing (Fiction and Poetry concentrations), and a Doctorate in English(Profile, Courtesy of Poets and Writers).
PorCuPineQuill is authored and edited by Mbizo CHIRASHA.
Mbizo CHIRASHA the Founder and Author of the Time of the Poet.Freedom of Speech Fellow toPEN- Zentrum Deutschland,Germany.Alumni of the International Human Rights Arts Festival in New-York, USA.Literary Arts Activism Diplomatie. Globaly Certified Arts Mediums Curator and Influencer. Internationally Published Page and Spoken Word Poet. Writer in Residence. Arts for Human Rights Catalyst. Core Team Member of the Bezine Arts and Humanities Project. His illustrious poetry , hybrid writings , political commentary ,short fiction , book reviews and Arts Features are published in more than 400 spaces notably the Monk Arts and Soul in Magazine in United Kingdom. Atunis Poetry.com in Belgium. Demer press poetry series in Netherlands. World Poetry Almanac in Mongolia.Poesia journal inSlovenia. Bezine Arts and Humanities Webzine in USA. The Poet a Day in Brooklyn ,USA. Litnet Writers Journal in South Africa. African Crayons in Nigeria. Poetry Bulawayo in Zimbabwe. Pulp-pit USA.the FictionalCafe international Journal, Texas USA