(Bad days.)
Found a piece of poetry among artistic junk in my room.
Let's try and see what comes out of it:

We step into the rodeo

like soldiers, or an army.

But it's only papers that

we trade, not lands.

I've lost an emotion in the pages

of your bible.

Hard-cover,

covering a heart.

We are all monsters in a book,

hooked on the look

of a reader's misconception.

But the climax always lingers,

like a shadowy catharsis.

You can peel me.

Can you feel me?

Going undercover

to crack your hard-cover.

Our misconception

made me a lover.

© Barith Ball

Mother Nature Has a Fever

So I've finished my Fever Ray poem. Obviously inspired by that magnificent creature.

Not too pleased. Still have some work on it. 

Yes, many references to her lyrics there.

It's actually more about my desire for her to become my Muse, something I actually failed in, considering the fact that it's my first Fever Ray-inspired writing. 

But still, I know she lingers there somewhere, and I am pretty sure she isn't human.

That bullshit being said, here is the poem.

Mother Nature Has a Fever:

I should have eaten the berries

you sucked from the bushes.

Should have opened the box of my

human consciousness.

Your wilderness

migrated to the northernmost point,

where you sit and you knit.

(I’ve been here before)

And I walk close beside you,

but never close enough.

I think I know you from a heaven.

(You can’t possibly be human)

I should have taken what you offered,

instead my words crawl into dead endings.

But when a long night replaces

a longer day,

I'll keep the heart empty for you.

I’m down on my feet,

crying for you -

“There is no tomorrow”.

So let us stop here.

 _____

© Barith Ball

A double blast from the past

Two old, yet relevant, poems. Very old.

1) Relevant for my heart.

Elysian Fields:

We sail through Elysian Fields,
a scent of sacrificial romance in the air.
Our words have slipped into castaway nights.
These remaining silhouettes are only echoes.

We gathered skeletons in coffin closets;
(they kept murmuring even in death)
and we've become ghosts.
We're following ghosts, in Elysian Fields.

And I've noticed you from afar,
yet there are oceans between us,
breaking and reforming
like glaciers beneath neon sky.

And you've noticed me from afar,
yet there are endless tides between us,
rising and crashing
like pyroclastic flow upon volcanoes.

Love is poison and it dances in your blood;
I'm losing you in an ocean of ghosts,
in an ocean of lovers.
I've lost you to love, my love.

I cannot swim without you...
____

July, 2008.
Barith Ball


2) Relevant for the my country.

Pink Ribbon Armageddon:

A vivid explosion upon grey midnight sky
Is spiting colours like a brush thrown astray.
A drugged scientist thinks he's an artist,
Puts colours in bombs, in nuclear spray.

"What a beautiful rainbow!", shouting the girl,
"Waves upon waves of colourful ribbons.
Look, mommy, we can almost touch them.
Let's go swimming in a rainbow ocean."

But the angels above, smirking with madness,
Unveiling The Knell that'll fill us with darkness.
They're blowing kisses at every direction,
With their cherry lips and sarcastic elation.

"Oh mommy, who would have guessed,
That today, of all days, will bring us distress.
A death so colourful, but oh! What a mess!
Let's all just sing and drone -
It's pink ribbon Armageddon!"

"Pink ribbon Armageddon!"

And indeed they fanatically murmur
A sudden lament for the animated murder.

And all of the birds that sail in the sky,
The eagles, the pigeons, the gulls,
They turned into ravens - a web of stains
Around stars that look just like skulls.

And the monolith skyscrapers
That once ruled the heavens,
Are now smothered by lightnings.
The embrace of the cravens.

Still the girl strolling the streets,
She smiles and she laughs
At whoever she meets.

"Pink ribbon Armageddon!"

Coughing a blizzard,
A royal cyclone,
The little girl reveals the unknown.
She's merely a child, yet she stands upon
Her own pink Armageddon.
____

April, 2008.
Barith Ball

A home on papers.

I am writing. I have put thoughts to pen, pen to paper. The ink is red, the blood is hidden.

Words refresh the pages. I have lines and dots and spaces.

"There's no place like home".
We'll have to make it a home, first.
______________________________________

The Night is an Alcoholic

Lips move in slow motion

as if they were avoiding words.

Underneath a moon

we all look the same;

the streets crawl the same.

I swallowed the one song

that twists my heart.

(streetlights’ choreography

is remixing the flow.)

Drifting on wheels

were accidents meet

and ignite the loose ends

that we always

skip.

© Barith Ball, November 2012

Vi ses!

Before winter arrives.

Winter is said to be almost here. I'm still waiting for a few more rainy days.

Considering the way my life is at the moment (dull and "on-hold"), I should really write more, starting with this virgin blog.

The last month wasn't that good. Too much time spent with myself alone, too little interaction with people.
Way too many thoughts, but not many written words to go with them. Or so I've thought.
Apparently, I had more streams of thoughts written on my Galaxy notes than assumed. Some short, some longer. The thing is - they aren't too bad!
Suddenly I feel that familiar shiver, the one I get before turning an idea\metaphor\stanza into a poem.
Maybe I could write again...

Becoming even more nostalgic, I found myself swimming in the "Neo-folk\Neoclassic" music section.
I think I haven't been there for a couple of years.
That quick swim somehow became a Youtube hunt.
Again, a familiar feeling grabbed me, followed by encouraging warmth and innocence.

Who knows what will become of my lost words and stanzas.
In the meanwhile, I'll leave you with one of them:

Teach me how to
build a god,
so I'd know how to
destroy a World.

© Barith Ball

Cleaning....

I was wondering what should be the language of this blog.

My poems are always written in English. My mother tongue is Hebrew and I hail form Tel-Aviv (an unfortunate mistake, some say). But it would be silly to write in Hebrew. Let's go international.

Originally I wanted an online place for my poems. For they to sit and be read, be critisised. But I couldn't find free domains that seemed relevant. So we're back to Google. Surprise, surprise.

This "blog" will aim to provide me with a legitimate space for my poetry. That doesn't mean I'll just throw in some works. Thoughts, experiences, emotions, experiments, other artists, I'll blend it all and see where it goes.

Today I've done some cleaning in my computer, and also backups. Of course that brought me to the "Poetry" folder. Was a bit dusty, the cutie. 

I read through some of my stuff. Old, Older.

It's funny. The folder is divided into sub-folders, "2007"-"2012". As the years pass, less poems inhabit each folder. Yes, you can say that's quality over quantity, and it would be correct, but at a certain point it's lack of...something.

Anyway, it got me all poetic, well, more nostalgic than poetic, but that also worked, and I managed to write a bit. Hooray!

Nothing too exciting. Definitely not one of my best, but still.

Who the Fuck is Jenny:

I stroll upon lines of a parallel life

as though my own has a minimal meaning.

I've prescribed for myself

a narcissistic blend of simple words.

Behind my closed eyes

she breathes like fire

on frozen wood.

I sink into moments that I don't have

with her.

She's probably not even real,

just flesh and bones.

© Barith Ball