The Words of an Artist

I have always felt some magic about the spirits I met at the Burn afew years back.
Most of them at the time were in a Camp called EgoTrip. It had been many years since I had met a group like these spirits from San Diego. They made The Bunny and I feel so close to them.

Over the years, I find each one in the group special. Everytime I look, I see deeper and regain a good warm feeling about humanity. I have written about them and shared some of their words and images.

This morning I read some words that had been shared by an artist in this group. His name is Alex Cory Dikowski. He has been traveling in Europe and found himself in a quiet moment to write down a few words.

While asking for his permission to reprint his piece on my blog, I was reminded of myself as a young romantic poet, carrying my Smith-Corona and wearing a black beret, wandering European ancient streets in the 70’s and wrote a little on my own.

I wanted to share a thought with Alex that his words had reminded me about a scene from my past.

“During the night I had a short thought I wanted to share with you. I was in a hotel in Frankfurt in 77. I was a poet. I shared a room with 2 others. We came in drunk one night and one of the lads threw up out of a 4th floor window, right on the roof of the Hotel Owner below. He came up, kicked out the drunk Irishman. On his way out, he grabbed the poetry I had written that night.

The next day the now sober drunk showed up at breakfast and after a few minutes, he recited my poem back to the table of people gathered at our table word for word. I think it was the first time I was memorized and recited (at least in Europe!)

The words that follow are Alex’s and I thank his for the memory

******************************************************************
One of my favorite things to do in Europe is have a drink at a bar that’s hundreds of years old and imagine all the people who’ve been there before me. Wrote a drunk poem…

This tavern breathes
with a deep and creaking breath.
She’s tired from the footsteps
of four hundred years.
Though don’t mistake her silence for shyness –
she’s waiting for you to listen.
Wash down a dram,
for only then will she whisper.
In a voice sweet and slow like honey.
Of a night long ago,
under a crying sky,
when two strangers sought shelter
but found love instead.
In each others arms they’ve turned to dust,
but their spark,
in this tavern, still remains.
A second dram summons an unsavory voice,
who’s tart breath reeks of deceit.
A gambler – no, a swindler,
wagering coins he’ll never lose.
Between his fingers he bounces a blade on the bar.
Separating fools from their drinking money.
He cheated men,
but couldn’t cheat death –
and in his lonesome turned to dust.
His tap, tap, tap still raps in the air,
the tempo of this tavern.
A third dram gently coaxes
a deep voice from behind the bar.
A friend to all, foe to none –
who’s light heart and heavy pour
helped lift the weight of a thousand heartbreaks.
Though he spoke,
he mostly listened.
And now he rests, returned to dust,
but in this tavern he still listens.
Here I drink, a dram of four.
A thirsty rambler passing through.
I’ve yet to fall to death and dust,
but when I do, I also trust,
of all my stories, final and scattered,
a part will remain inside this tavern.

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