Three Superb Poems by Antonia Alexandra Klimenko

Worshiping the Lordship

 

Every day

I crawl to God

Every day on my knees 

I look for Him

Mostly I find Him

Sometimes not

 

Others seem to know exactly

where He is

and

where He is not

Many pretend

that He lives

somewhere between

heaven and earth

That He takes

the elevator to the sky

(linens on 3

absolution on 7)

That they have

misplaced His address

and left His cell at the office.

Most likely

they say

He was born

in the deep interior

of some mysterious country--

beyond the Beyond

There

swaddled in blankets of fog and ether,

He weaned Himself on riddles

like

How many light bulbs does it take

to change one person's mind?

or

If a man cries alone in the Universe

is he said to have made a sound

But   no one can solve the Mystery

of how He spent His time there

and how He spent His time here

all at the same time

 

Maybe                                                                      

He had a Father and a Mother

Maybe

they were going through a divorce

Maybe

He was a mistake

Maybe

He was unwanted.

Your government

your church

your lover--

they don't like riddles

they like to keep things Ship-shape

They have all the answers

they want

Besides

no one wants to hear

how God came from a broken home

how She was an orphan

how She was abandoned on our doorstep

how no one heard Her knocking

how She had to crawl to the altar

and pour Herself a glass of wine

and toast Her own bread

No one wants to hear

that

when She finally found Her place at the table

the table was too long

with Jesus way down at the other end

 

No one wants to hear

that

when She finally found Her place

they kept raising the rent--

so many mouths to feed

and the burden

of carrying all those mattresses on Her back

 

Right about now

I think She's thinking

of trading in the table

for a two by four

I find

She spends long hour

tweezing splinters from her elbows

and polishing her nails

Right about now                                                             

I'm thinking She's thinking

that soon   very soon

She may go for a pack of smokes

and then...who knows?

Your government

your church

your lover

they'll all weep openly

of course

they'll all tell you

they never wanted Her to leave

 

They never want anyone to leave.

They want to be able to find you

They want to be able to keep you

in your place

on your knees.

Polishing the Mirrors          

 

We are not exactly pretty people.   

We are all  rather  beautiful- 

ly flawed  like carpets they weave in the Middle East 

where they plant in each  on purpose  

an imperfection to give it a soul 

 

Soulful are the weeds that grow in my garden–  

some  not so pretty   I may have to plant and water 

just one flower there to make it less imperfect…   

I’m not exactly sure   I’m inexactly sure  

if that will make me any more beautiful 

but it should do a lot for the garden 

 

I plant myself before the looking glass  

gazing through eyes  

I must tend to every day   

Eyes that shrink  

before their own eyes   

Eyes that slowly turn 

as I gently rake away  

the grit and sand  

of illusion and disillusion— 

the dry seasons of regret  

that neither time nor prayer  

or moisture can restore 

 

Once   they were wide-eyed   almond shaped 

Matisse odalisque come-hither eyes 

with lids that closed and opened 

like silken petals in early dew 

Now   sunken in their horizons 

they hang shrouded in raw gauze--

veiled in their ancient mysteries  

whose roots remain unseen                 

             

Only the hands of my eyes remain visible--   

stems that I cannot silence   

hands that are everywhere 

They rub my eyes with a passion  

they rub my eyes with the fury of a Brillo pad 

they rub my eyes like they’re lottery tickets 

like there’s no tomorrow-- 

until they shine like mirrors 

until they cannot see

 

I am polishing the mirrors of my soul   I say--                  

tears beginning to pour like the miracle of rain 

But  I know better 

It is always those hands I cannot see  

that do most of the polishing.   

             

My tears and I…we  

just add a little spit    

to the shine.

Sp-eyes 

 

They are  everywhere--    

here   there 

in restaurants in schools in mosques  

your closet  

your bed  

your last paragraph--  

those curious question marks! 

 

Spies with eyes  

in the back of their head 

are tracking you  

like the CIA 

like a jealous lover   

like a digitalized number 

on an overnight package 

 

Big Brother  

surveillance cameras  

the eyes of your computer  

the eyes of strangers  

stalking you like a wet dream  

 

At the doctor’s office  

even the stethoscope  

knows your real name  

and where you live  

 

My own breath    holds its breath 

My walls cover their ears at night  

My lips are sealed  

with wet plaster and government staples  

My poor poems run for cover  

lest they be put on ICE 

 

Look what happened to Whatsisname !  

And remember Federico Garcia Lorca 

Dictators kill poets and journalists for less 

Assange  Snowden Manning 

Need I say more? 

 

Even the babysitter is a snoop  

Soon you will be tempted to bribe her with bubble gum  

or offer her a ride home   

And you can forget the dog   he already knows too much 

 

Who and where are they now    these spies  

or are they us ?  

disguised as ourselves  

our enemies our friends   fellow citizens                                               

wearing three-piece law-suits--                                                        

Insidious Conformity Corporate Greed and Guilt Inc--  

dark shadowy substances  

lurking invisibly 

with side-way glances  

 

I Spy with my little eye 

the eyes of spies 

Eyes observing  

through glass   under glass  

unblinking binoculars  

neighbours voyeurs Private Eyes  

eyes in your privates  

(Lovers are especially dangerous  

You can never tell them anything  

they don't already suspect)  

 

Secrets like lovers take oaths  

take prisoners   take pleasure 

are their own captive audience  

behind locked lips--  

double agents   Agent Provocateurs  

dangerous liaisons  

After all  

Enquiring minds want to know  

You want to know  

They want to know  

I want to know  

 

And conscience    sighhhh 

Conscience is the worst  

Conscience and God--  

They want to know Everything!  

Repeat after me:  

I will tell them nothing  

I will tell them nothing  

I will tell them nothing  

 

Remind me  won't you ?    

to write this all down  

in your little black book.

Antonia Alexandra Klimenko was first introduced on the BBC and to the literary world by the legendary James Meary Tambimuttu of Poetry London–-publisher of T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thoma, Henry Miller and Bob Dylan, to name a few.  his death, it was his friend, the late great Kathleen Raine, who took an interest in her writing and encouraged her to publish.  A former San Francisco Poetry Slam Champion, she is widely published. Her work has appeared in (among others) XXI Century World Literature (in which she represents France) and Maintenant : Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art archived at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. and New York’s Museum of Modern Art. She is the recipient of two grants: one from Poets in Need, of which Michael (100 Thousand Poets for Change) Rothenberg is a co-founder; the second—the 2018 Generosity Award bestowed on her by Kathleen Spivack and Joseph Murray for her outstanding service to international writers through SpokenWord Paris where she is Writer/ Poet in Residence.