-A Poem from a New Book by David B. Axelrod

von am 25. März 2021 um 19:44
Veröffentlicht in: Poetry

 

 

A Poem from a New Book by David B. Axelrod

 

WHY I CUT MY BARBER

 

 I’ve been going to a father
and son shop where, lately,
the eighty-six year old dad
doesn’t see too well, so I sit
down for his errant son whom£
dad once told me, “shows up
late but does know how
to cut good.” As Sonny starts,
he asks, “What do you think
of the Deep State trying to
destroy America? They stole
an election.” Dummy that
I am, I tell a man holding
a sharp object next to me,
“OMG, are you still stuck
on that?  Get over it.” He
quickly concludes the haircut—
barely having done a thing.

Poems © Copyright 2021 David B. Axelrod

 

 

-Shooting Up the Place

von am 25. März 2021 um 19:29
Veröffentlicht in: Polemics, Politics

Shooting Up the Place

 

The Don’s’ moniker for Corona is “Kung Flu,”
and he repatedly refers to the “China Virus.”

Who would deny that the birthplace
of this scourge is the “People’s Republic?”

So, if you are stuck with “a sex addiction,”
and are “deeply religious” to boot,
and are having “a bad day,”
and there’s an assault weapon at your disposal,
why head for a massage parlor and shoot up the place?

And if you’re just mad at the world,
any location will do.

 

Spokesman for the Weapons Lobby

There have been massacres in schools,
college campuses, shopping malls, movie theaters, churches
and even in an army fort.

People must be able to protect themselves.
The only answer is arms.

Now, you are right to assert that a pistol is no match
for a man in body armor who totes an assault weapon.

What’s the answer? As Spokesman for the” Weapons” Lobby,
I say that there has to be a security guard armed with a bazooka
at every outdoor and indoor public place.

 

– Herbert Kuhner

-The Golden Anniversary of the Annexation

von am 22. März 2021 um 15:25
Veröffentlicht in: Poetry, Text

The Golden Anniversary of the Annexation

At the unveiling of the monument commemorating the victims of the Holocaust, s
peeches of regret were read by political luminaries, Church dignitaries, public figures
and high-ranking military men. Poets read epics about the slaughter of the victims and an oratorio
was played and sung for the occasion. While those present vowed that what had happened must never happen again,
a Jew was beaten by thugs in the midst of the ceremony. No one could hear the blows or his cries due to the chorus of raised voices.
Nor could the beating be seen since the bystanders’ sight was blurry from the tears that were being shed.

“It is incomprehensible to me how any Jew could ever return
to the killing grounds. You chose to go to Hell
and then you complain that the landscape is littered with devils.”
– Cynthia Ozick, writer, USA

 

Dancing

You can’t dance on graves.
There are no graves,
no gravestones for flowers
or stones. No graves to kneel
in front of or stand next to.

That cemetery is boundless.
The dead are all interred on high.

No, there’s no dancing on graves.
There’s only dancing under graves.
And there’s no lack of dancers.
There are dancers galore!

An Icy Wind

An icy wind
does not make you giddy
like a sirocco.
It aims at your heart
and blows at high speed
to get at that organ.

Better to take cover
when that wind
has you in its path.
If you stand fast
it will cut you to the quick.

 

 

„Es ist mir völlig unverständlich,
wie ein Jude zu den Tötungsgebieten zurückkehren konnte.
Sie haben sich für die Hölle entschlossen, und dann wundern Sie sich,
daß die Landschaft voller Teufel ist.“
– Cynthia Ozick, Schriftstellerin, USA.

Ein halbes Jahrhundert nach dem Anschluß

Bei der Enthüllung des Denkmals für die Opfer des Nationalsozialismus gab es Reden von Politikern,
Kirchenfürsten und anderen distinguierten Bürgern. Dichter lasen Epen über die Opfer,
nd man führte ein Oratorium zu ihren Ehren auf. Während alle schwuren, daß das, was geschehen war,
nie wieder geschehen dürfe, schlug man einen Juden neben der Bühne nieder.
Niemand hörte die Schläge oder seine Schreie, weil der feierliche Schwur lauter war. Und niemand sah,
was geschah, weil die Danebenstehenden feuchte Augen hatten, die ihre Blicke trübten.

 

Tänzer

Man kann auf diesen Gräbern nicht tanzen.
Es gibt keine Gräber,
keine Grabsteine
für Blumen oder Steine.
Man kann nicht davor
oder daneben knien oder stehen.

Dieser Friedhof ist grenzenlos.
Die Toten sind alle in der Höhe
beigesetzt.

Auf diesen Gräbern kann man nicht
tanzen. Man kann nur darunter tanzen.
Und es gibt jede Menge Tänzer!

Ein Eisiger Wind

Ein eisiger Wind
macht dich nicht schwindlig
wie ein Schirokko.
Es zielt auf dein Herz
und bläst mit hoher Geschwindigkeit
an diesen Körperteil.

Gehe in Deckung
wenn dieser Wind
gegen Dich bläst.
Wenn du nicht in Deckung gehst
wird er dich in zwei schneiden.

-A Day in the Park

von am 28. Februar 2021 um 13:25
Veröffentlicht in: Text

A Day in the Park

There had been nothing, eventful in my life. Just school and then college. I had been an average student. Not bad to look at. Not that my looks were extraordinary. Of course there had been dreams. Romantic dreams. The kind that girls have. Then the day came when nightmare became reality.

I walked home from classes through the park as I always did. It was autumn and a bit chilly. Grey weather. The trees had been stripped of most of their leaves. They lay in piles on the ground like broken crust. A dismal day.

Suddenly I found myself in a grip. I couldn’t scream. My mouth was covered by a hand. I struggled but couldn’t free myself. I was in terror. I was dragged until there was nothing around me but bushes. If only I could scream, someone would come. Someone had to help me. It couldn’t happen. But 1 knew that no one and nothing could help. It would happen.

I was thrust down. I tried to defend myself with teeth, nails and knees. I was struck several times open-handed across the face. I gasped my breath in and tried to scream but something was roughly stuffed into my mouth. I felt my clothes being ripped.

I was burned open.

I saw red, then black.

When I came to, someone was leaning over me. I saw a handsome bearded face. Someone had come to help, but it was too late. I was ashamed. My clothes were torn. I tried to put them in order as best I could. My hands trembled so. He told me to lie there, that he would get help. I noticed that his clothes were disheveled. He must have fought with my assailant. But why hadn’t he come sooner? Why hadn’t he come soon enough to prevent it?

I told him not to go, not to leave me alone. He stayed and helped me up. My feet were unsteady, and it was hard for me to stand, but instead of holding me, he knelt down in front of me.

He asked me to forgive him. He started to sob. He was lower than an animal. Nothing could rectify what he had done. He said that I should spit on him. I could kick him if I wanted to.

I had been shattered inside, broken into small pieces. I was no longer afraid. What else could happen to me? I was too weak to do anything but lean on him. The creature that had raped me, I despised him. But what could I do? I didn’t have the strength to break away and run. We just remained in that ridiculous position: I with my torn dress and he groveling at my feet.

It was he who suggested that I report him to the police. But I was too weak to do so. He finally got up and put his arm around me to support me. Like, that we walked away. We left the lonely spot where it had happened. And we were among people again. The people who had mindlessly gone about doing what they were doing while it had happened. They were just as I had been
before I had been attacked.

When we saw a policeman, I expected the rapist to let go of me and run. But he remained at my side. We approached-the policeman. I didn’t know how to tell him. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The rapist came to my aid. He told the officer what had happened. The policeman looked at us in disbelief. He removed his cap and scratched his head. We must have been a sight, the two of us, rapist and raped, standing side by side. Rapist supporting raped. I, bruised with my dress ripped, he, his shirt ripped and red streaks where I had scratched him.
The rest was agony. The police station with the staring policemen. I was a corpse they were viewing. The unmentionable had happened to me, I had been successfully attacked in broad daylight. But the corpse was alive and I had to live with my shame.

There were the questions. The rapist was charged and placed in a cell.

The ambulance came and I was taken to the hospital, Then more of the same, except my inquisitors wore white instead of police uniforms. There were intimate questions and intimate examinations. The coal clean sheets. The top sheet lifted aside. The wound displayed for all to see. The wound handled and swabbed. Why hadn’t he killed me?

It went on, The discreet lawyer. The embarrassed visits of my family. My discharge from the hospital. The trial. My appearance on the witness stand and the horrible questions. Although my assailant pleaded guilty, they had to determine whether I had enticed my assailant and whether I enjoyed it or not. And more staring. The satisfaction. It had been me and not them. Then finally he was found guilty. The sentence was passed and it was over.

But now it had only started.

I was pregnant. Naturally I wanted to have an abortion. To have the trace of the shame removed. I begged and pleaded for it. But it was denied to me. They gave me consolation, but no abortion. I was told that it wasn’t allowed. They sent a priest and he confirmed it. I was to be brave. It was my sacred duty to bring the child into the world. I was to do God’s bidding.

I cried, lashed out threw myself onto the floor. They gathered me up and again placed me in a cool clean bed. I was forced to remain in it. I hoped that my pregnancy would be interrupted or that I would bear a stillborn child. But in spite of my wishes, after causing me great pain, the child was born.

What was I to do? They told me that I could have the child adopted. But it was mine and I decided to keep it. After all, it hadn’t had anything to do with the cause of its birth. It was only a child.

That’s when I began to get the letters. The return address was the penitentiary. They came from him. He begged for forgiveness. He inquired about the child. Continued to ask about it, His letters were not what one would have expected. Not uncultivated. At first I left them unanswered. Then coldly wrote of the horror I had experienced. Finally I gave him the information he requested.

My family and friends had changed toward me. They were kind all right – too kind. I was treated
solemnly. They never joked or laughed in my presence. In truth they wanted to avoid me as if I were a cripple. But his letters kept coming.

He asked me to visit him in prison. It took much persuasion before I went. But I did go on visitor’s day. He behaved differently than one would imagine. He was a rapist, a convict in prison. Yet seeing him there, it was hard to believe, but I know that it was true. When he asked me to come with the child, his child, I refused. But at my next visit, he asked me again. I hesitated, but did as he asked. I fulfilled his wish.

He was a model prisoner and it did not take long before he was paroled. I met him after he was released from prison. Always in the afternoon. And in a public place. My fears were unfounded. He never as much reached for my hand.

I wasn’t surprised when he asked me to marry him. He wanted to atone for what he had done. He promised to be a good husband and father. He said that he was happy to be the first man in my life.

 

– Herbert Kuhner

 

–Harry`s Film Impressions (35)

von am 16. Februar 2021 um 13:21
Veröffentlicht in: Film, Polemics

Christian Hoffmann Concerning Patricia Highsmith

Jenseits der Moral von Christian Hoffmann, Wiener Zeitung extra, Page 35
16/17 January, 2021

Christian Hoffmann, in his brilliant review, has brought my attention to an essential aspect of Patricia Highsmith’s novels. Her characters move in a bourgeois society, in which crime is an anomaly. They are ordinary people who decide to engage in the criminal act of murder.

In Strangers on a Train, a film version of a Highsmith novel, directed by Alfred Hitchcock in 1951, two men meet on a train and converse. Both want their spouses to be done in and decide to murder each other’s wives. Thus each “murder participant” would deflect suspicion from himself.

Raymond Chandler was hired to do the script but withdrew. He was replaced by Czenzi Ormonde.

Apparently, Chandler could not fathom such a “murder situation. Here’s the rub! His characters move in run-down neighborhoods and are either black or white. Philip Marlowe, the private eye, may, indeed be a bit grey (due to being on the seedy side), but he is the “good guy” who tracks down the “bad guys,” who are pitch-black out-and-out gangsters.

Chandler’s literary world consists of the dingy offices of his private eyes and the hangouts and cheap eateries of his gangsters. His heroes are incorporated by such “tough guys” as Humphrey Bogart and Alan Ladd. Chandler’s film noir works live from the black and white atmosphere of his mostly Los Angles slum locations.

Add the fact that Chandler was a constant complainer. (When he had the ideal film duo of Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake in The Blue Dahlia, he referred to Veronica as “Moronica.”)

The bourgeois world of Guy Haines and Bruno Anthony, the exchange-murderers, is one unfamiliar and incomprehensible to Chandler. Apparently he did not have a key to murder in suburbia.

In Purple Moon (Plein Soleil) directed by René Clement based The Talented Mr. Ripley, Tom Ripley gets his comeuppance. However, Highsmith was “practical,” as far as this character was concerned. Perhaps she lets him get with murder in order to continue using him in future books.

Afterthought: Both Highsmith and Chandler were, in my view, skilled novelists, who like many of their American contemporaries, are located No-Man’s Land between literature and pulp fiction.

*Films featuring the Ladd-Lake duo: This Gun for Hire, The Glass Key, Saigon, The Blue Dahlia

Patricia Highsmith

 

A Personal Encounter with Hitch

 

Carol and I were in both Quebec in 1952 while Alfred Hitchcock was shooting I Confess with Montgomery Clift and Ann Baxter. Although Carol and I were there at the same time, we had not yet met. Later she would tell me about her encounter with Hitchcock.

Hitchcock

Quebec is the most European city on the American continent and perhaps even in Europe.

As I film buff, I saw all of Hitchcock’s films, although I must say I was never really a fan.
I found the plots a bit on the banal side, although I had to admit certain sequences were well-filmed.

Hitchcock had trouble with Clift since he often insisted on having certain scenes explained instead of just doing what the director directed.

This irritated Hitchcock and inspired him to declare: “All actors are cattle!”

One night when we were together, Carole said that she had dinner Le Panache, she saw Hitchcock sitting at another table with what was obviously a film team. She could not help staring. Suddenly he placed his napkin on the table, got up and approached her and said: “Young lady, if you were as ugly as I am, people would stare at you.”

Guess the great director was not the nicest of men.

Quebec

 

Tom Ripley Dies and Lives

In Purple Noon magnificently directed by René Clément, Tom Ripley, magnifiucently played by Alan Delon, doesn’t get away with murder.

Patricia Highsmith was full of praise, save for the dénouement.

Clément didn’t have plans for sequels. Highsmith let Ripley live so that she could use him again and again.

René Clément

 

Forbidden Games

Refugees are fleeing on a country road in France. Luftwaffee fighter planes fly above. They strafe the refugees. Little Paulette’s parents are killed, and her little dog is hit. It trembles beside her. The dog is dying. It dies and a woman refugee throws it in a creek.

I hope that René Clément didn’t have this dog killed for this scene. Was cruelty engaged in to show the cruelty of the Nazis?

I had a dog as a boy. He died tragically.

As an octogenarian, I still mourn him.

I am secular, but I say:
“When things go red and then turn black,
and I hear barking, I’ll know there’s an Afterlife.”

– Herbert Kuhner