Poezii de Richard Weissman

foto credit Maria Draghici

foto credit Maria Draghici

A Portrait From Dante’s Inferno

Within this vast frozen wasteland
lies prisoned deceivers
their doomed eyes
are fated to wander these dim icy paths
envious of my movement through
this lowest of all realms
as again my mind turns to Beatrice.

Onward we trudge
beyond Caina’s greedy motives
past traitors to homeland
and even to closest friends
through Judecca’s deafening silence
where traitors against God
stand sentry as immobile, distorted ice statues.

Beyond all these he towers trapped
midst God’s frozen hell center,
condemned for committing arch-treachery,
ever tortured by proud memories
of once being the fairest of all angels
before he pridefully proclaimed his own fate,

„Better to reign in Hell,
than to serve in Heaven.”

Now this giant, terrifying beast
stands ever trapped
waist-deep in ice of his own conjuring,
impotent, ignorant and writhing with hate
his three faces are blood red, pale yellow, and black
all six wings flap dark, bat-like and futile
manifesting an icy wind
from their ceaseless beating
ensuring his continued imprisonment in this frozen lake.
All six of his eyes weep,
and his tears mix with bloody froth and pus
as they pour down from his three chins
each mouth is stuffed with a traitor… Brutus, Cassius
and yes, midst that central black mouth lies Judas Iscariot,
whose head is ever gnawed by grey fangs
while his back is eternally skinned and shredded
by Lucifer’s razored claws.

Inspired by Canto XXXIII and XXXIV of Dante’s, „Inferno”.


Into the shape of the carriageless horse
whose intestines drool towards ascension
within blood-sucking vessels of elitism
and without its barren back which eliminates
in fecal toned majesties the dove, a fish with head,
now its body revealed – lay bare
its internal structure redeemed in fossil of decompositions,
then decay into pictures painting
impossible entrail of woman in beauty,
of paraphrased illusion
of flightless scales emitting stale fragrance
of rotting decomposures,
painting the sky in impossible smokestacked questioning
as it reveals a piano wired twisting,
now tightening round the neck,
the eye punched shapeless
‘til bottles of boilermaking elephant neckties (Colombian)
turn shapeless idioms
cowheaded bleat utterance
and questioning with tusks shaping abscessed pain of feet worn russellings and respite with a headless mount.
Now into
dreamtime alleyways garnished flies,
vermin on the canvas with death angel twisting whispers,
opening doors to dream-like illusion
and from such dreams confirming rings –
lead with child in hand onto rooftop to
void with blooded shapenings for there’s the
sword as she’s freshly torn white streams crimson
hacked to pieces.

While I, her husband with child in hand
make for unreachable door,
she fast approaching Hell’s motion,
her blooded hysteria can ne’er be quenched
though somewhere the raven is painted,
somewhere above white city muted in flames,
beyond horizon to question beyond canvas
as I twist doorknob and though unhinged,
my door shall not open,
I remain forever locked mid that grasping moment,
never escaping from nightingale in death,
questioning the dream, encapsulated on Dada,
the canvas

Excerpted from „Silent Echo” (1994).

Chaos: Headstone for Twenty-First Century Poets

Welcome to life without limits,
to monk cloaked religious order of twenty-first christed chaos
neon blinking celluloid visions
lost silver-screened dreamers
from anointed palace kingdoms
like East Lost Angels is – where no one’s ever dreamed,
like Bed-Sty gang-dead lifelessness
not anal retentive nine-to-fiving yuppied new aging
believing chaotic, formless nonsense is poetry.
Bring back white bloodless orderly slaughterhouses of Mein Kampf
brown shirted
McCarthy witching nightmares.
Not nothing for no one
nothing but
unpredictable, unfashionable, unlovable, unwanted, unasked
uncalled for chaos
not good, original, beautiful or beautifully ugly
it’s a cliched tattoo
inked eagle screaming only ‘cause at the time
I was drunk
now I’m horse needle stuck
mid sober hell nightmare of
unstoppable, unquenchable, abortionless chaos
is birthed
is born
wooden rules desecrated
thanks to desolation’s god
now chaotically free to write anything, everything, nothing
to and for
no one
all starched, stiff-collared 101 ivy league mentors can crucify
these nonsensical, non-lyrical fragmented verses
throaty whispers,
Is it writing?
My black, shadow drenched
egotistical ranting lay naked before sense-seeking eyes
turn back with Blakian certainty,
‘cause chaos poetry is birthed,
crucified and on the third day
like all false gods preceding it
and forgotten
cold movement beginning, flourishing, ending
within prison walls of a single twentieth century poem,
all God’s words are repeating now
now chaos poetry is birthed,
is born,
is deconstructing
is finished.

Who has eyes

From, „Voices of the Dark” (1991)