Valery Oisteanu

 

 

 

(USA)

 

 

Beat Angel Blues
to Harold Norse

 

The cosmic hustler is now a pure spirit
And so are the masters of the Dream-machine
Norse continues to whisper from the great beyond
Howling, and writing the story of his crazy karma
O! Hollow America! Hollow America
The harder one hits, the deeper the sound
In the passage underground
The virtual museum of the Beats
They who have forgotten you so soon
Omission accomplished
Tears drop as red petals off a rose
All roses cry: I wanna die! I wanna die!
The Beat Hotel in Paris is haunted
There are no degrees of separation
No reservation no confrontation
Between him and Ira Cohen
Between him and Lenard Cohen
Between Corso and Of course sir!
His ghost still haunts the island of Hydra
Sex and Marijuana evenings with Zina
Her spirit reincarnated in Harold
Where he performs in the Café Purgatory
For the hip elite of the Generation Beat.

 

 

 

 

Serenade for Sarane Alexandrian

 

Morning has died at the Library of the Alchemists
Collector of automatic ghosts of friends, asleep
Poet and his eyeglasses of apocalyptic catastrophes
Historian’s hand next to drawings by Victor Brauner
Next to Gherasim Luca’s writing pens and recordings
Unperturbed by asteroids landing in front of him
Cooled by the written breath of your poems

Last surr-gonaut in the boat across river Styx
Temporary presence: “Supérieur Inconnu “,
Exasperation of translation: it means
Unknown Superior, the surreal explorer
Sarane extreme, Sarane supreme
Brain for Andre Breton’s–fame

Expelled for Victor Brauner in ‘48
Pain from Bellmer’s tortured dolls
Rain for Ernst forest, got drunk on rain
Herold’s “mistreatment of art” as muse
Sarane Alexandrian, never forgotten
Forever remembered, even in total silence.

 

 

 

 

Without you, Leo!

For Alex-Leo Serban

 

Imploding humanity in a Kafkaesque banal existence,
Bleeding unforgettable existential narrative
Where the movies come alive, than die suddenly
Where Marilyn Monroe sings her sultry poetry
Where film-mafia meets the star-makers
A shy brainiak poet has passed away quietly
A four dimensional life folded, in a very hurry
Lost forever in the shadows in the immortality alley,
How can I watch a new flick without flinching?
Empty responses, empty feelings of loss
Bizarre dancers hanging with soldiers and sailors
We all had a laugh, but it suddenly stopped
Something is not right, “mon amie fatigue”
Mon Amie Fatigue, is it worth living without you
We are still lost in Purgatory searching for the exit
Is there a way to the Nirvana for the geniuses?
The world tilted, under the weight of assumption
Tempus fugit, litera scripta manet!
A life of an exceptional spirit traded for coupons,
Mon Amie Fatigue, no more dangerous critique
Only unfulfilled possibilities of short dreams
To travel with Fundoianu to Buenos Aires
Bohemian destiny? Aristocratic smile!
Mon amie fatique! Just pleasant remembrances
Surrealist glasses with tears on them
Alone, but not lonely, unbroken Romanian soul.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In search of the radical time past

 

I do vividly remember, Tuli
Selling books and cartoons on Spring str.
Tuli getting naked on rooftops
Reading with Tuli, my Soho-boho guru
Tuli, turning poems into revolution songs
Sarcastic-anarchic, pacifist poet on the spot
Full time beatnik, stand-up hobo-bohemian,
Tuli knew how to kiss the radical mind
How to fuck with the rebellious mind
“Teach Yourself Fucking” his latest book
Tuli turned absurd clichés into lotuses
He taught his Russian slippers rhythmical dance
We all crashed with him, that gravitational twirl
Jumping secretly off the Manhattan Bridge
Tuli scribbling and drawing anarchy cartoons
While Fugs were spreading the virus of freedom
For more than half of the century
Tuli singing, Tuli vocalizing, Tuli chanting
Tuli asking questions on cable TV
Tuli writing 53 poetry books
“The world oldest rock star” has gone
Tuli omnipresent in my memory
Tuli has kissed the hippy sky.

 

 

Ainsi parlait Tzara-truthra

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sir John of Ursuline Ducks
to John Evans (1932-2012)

 

I met the master artist in ’74 in New York
Ronald Feldman Gallery on 74th street
At the late Ray Johnson’s Paloma Picasso Fun Club
John scouted the apartment for my wife and me
Got married to Margaret on our wedding anniversary
Don’t shoot the ducks! They are quacking the art!
Collage after collage, mail art for the rusty lions
Every day a stamp, a rubberstamp, a coffee stain
John loved sending postcards to the world
Anthropology of the East Village streets
Ave B School of Art with me as a sole student
Writing about his collages in art-papers
Life slipped quietly away among the greats
Ray Johnson, May Wilson, Ed Plunkett, Tom Wirth
Twins India and Honor, married with children
The mating hawks dodging the bullets
Fishing in my memory, wondering where it’s all gone
John lives on my walls, in my poetry, in my letters
The life of an artist and of a special friend
John opened what was shut, no disguise for talent
A life worth living and remembering.

 

 

In memoriam

 

 

 

 

 

 

Simon Vinkenoog – the PSY Master

 

Just couple of nights ago I heard an angry voice
Of a mad master Sufi, extravagantly spinning upward
Expected-unexpected, Mokum Aleph is gone
The echo brought back his anarchistic laughter
Fast rolling Dutch slang with nasty optimism
Mellifluous smile in the face of sickness
The last historian of provos, provo himself
Machine-Ghan-di speech delivery
His psychedelic prophecy was like mushrooms after rain
In his small garden we are talking about poets
Traveling beyond his poetry, never in a hurry
Blowing the whistle, skating on thin ice
As a one legged bicyclist, against all odds
“Trust your inherent machinery!”
Dynamic Change, The Paradox of Chaos
Disappearing in a cloud of marihuana smoke
Leaving behind the revolution and Amsterdam
And all the islands of mortals
He is now the sound of stones
Rolling down the mountains into the sea.

 

 

Reflection on the art of Poetry

 

 

 

 

Global PSY-Dada
to Tristan Tzara (at 60th anniversary)

 

What is the future of surrealism?
100 years ago “Nude Descended a Staircase” at the Armory show
Duchamp, Picasso, Brancusi’s ghosts hiding among us
All burdened by their life-knowledge
Riding with incredible speed through discontent
No time for reflections, no time for questions
“Freedom” is what we call the way we feel
When we do what we are conditioned to do
The voice still has the power of dark invisible substance
Becoming insufficient dada, misoginistically not-funny
Suicide suggested as a solution to braniacs
“Global dada” a planetary family of Lettrists
A revolution within the College of Pataphisics
A perpetual reinvention in the Situationist movement
Neo-dadas using form over content, dancing on iron spikes
Inventing a universal psychedelic language
A code of creation, a spirituality of the Ayahuascan
Dreaming of exquisite corpses in flames, floating bleakly
Symbols of the inhumanity of wars
Suppressed desires extraverted as lame-revolution
The collective unconscious, sub-subconscious
Platonic revolution cubed, jazzoetry for people, shouting free jazz
The abolition of work and misery! Power to the new imagination!
The lighthouse of the future of mad-love is not what it is used to be
Eternal damnation: liberating the unconscious self through art

 

 

Manifeste visuoralistique

 

 

 

 

The Poet Writes no Matter What

 

A poet in the eye of a super-storm
In total darkness, reading by candle light
Writing near the edge of the roof
With a miners head-light on his forehead
On the side of a boat, with a gas-lamp
Beneath a bridge, next to a bonfire
He makes peace with the hurricanes
He calms the storms in the sea
Seeking the transparence of tigers at midnight
Making mushrooms grow under his pillow
While fungus creeps up and around the wall
A tsunami of meteorite showers in his heart
Clearly confused, with poems in his soul
Even when the sun bites and the cold hurts
When petrified clouds bend the light
Free of words, but a slave to feelings
Setting night birds and lovers on fire
Self-punishment, self-deprecation
The poetry’s brew is poisonous at times
Sleep-deprivation, speech-depravation
Can kill with irrational melancholia
Erecting temples of repressed memory
In the solitude, alone in front of death
Torn inside, scribbling imaginary sex
Stenciling slogans on a protester’s tent
He remembers verses in the back of an ambulance car
Recording it as if in solitary confinement
Suicide’s final draft, in total silence
To die alone and stay immortal
The poet must write no matter what,
Even in death….

 

 

Un pont s’écroule 

 (Texte: Valery Oisteanu, Voix: Tatiana-Eva Marie)

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Zen-Dada Cyborg was Born

(Notes on a three-scene opera)

 

In front of St. Marks Church on the Bowery
On an absurdly sunny October day
The anti-opera begins without an overture
But with a dramatic entrance and a tumble
Mr. Zen-dada, Bacchus of the East Village
Ready to take off, to fly vertically
Tripped by Peter Stuyvesant’s ghost
Nearly surreally unconscious
Suddenly something snaps, shrinks rapidly
Left humerus on a sidewalk, debrained horizontally
Falling like an old tree into a cloud
Installation by the station of the bone-cross
A Zen-dada-cyborg is born, a golem with a soul
Narcissus shatters his original self
I am the Large Broken Glass of the readymade of me
Voices of doctors ”locking proximal humerus plate”
Screams of poetic injury, metallic concerto ex-corporeal
Out of body experience, bird like prosthesis
A station of the cross: computation information
On the Upper East Side, Mount Sinai labyrinth
Wind hunters in burning carriages
But nothing seems to move as a procession
Except a wounded animal inside room 320
When it bleeds it feels like a hot drip with morphine
Incidentally something else snaps and keeps snapping
The never-ending East Village night time lightning
The noise of square wheels creeps into my ears
Pain around the other left side of the subliminal
America, I have given you the best years of my life!
For a metal plate in my arm, for lips empty of words
A self-defeated warrior with a cyborg shoulder
A sign of the beginning of the end?
Inferno dismembered unexpectedly
The veteran of dangerous Loisaida streets
Limp toward nothingness, layered between
The enlightment of the moment, in the moment
And a frail existence, of survival on the edge
Welcome back, my old new hand I need you
To compose jazzoetry – jazz-inflicted poetry
Will I ever play the violin-collage as I did before?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

____________________________________________

 

Valery Oisteanu is a writer and artist with international flavor. Born in Russia and educated in Romania. Immigrating to New York City in 1973, he has been writing in English for the past 40 years.

 

He is the author of 11 books of poetry, a book of short fiction and a book of essays:”The AVANT-GODS”(in progress). A new collection of poetry with collage illustrations titled   “Perks in Purgatory” appeared in” Fly by Night Press” New York, 2010.

 

For the past 10 years he is a columnist at New York Arts Magazine and art critic for Brooklyn Rail.

 

He is also a contributing writer for French, Spanish & Romanian art and literary magazines (La Page Blanche, Art.es, Viata Romaneasca, Observatorul Cultural etc.)

 

As an artist he exhibits collages and assemblages on a regular basses at the galleries in New York and also creates collages as covers and illustrations for books and magazines.

 

 

As a performer he does theater plays and musical collaborations with jazz musicians, sessions known as Jazzoetry!

 

http://zendadanyc.vpweb.com/About-Me.html

https://www.facebook.com/zendadanyc

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Valery_Oisteanu

 

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