Bob Dylan, Blowin' in the Wind

BOB DYLAN
Blowin' In The Wind

How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?
The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

Yes, how many years can a mountain exist
Before it's washed to the sea?
Yes, how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
Yes, how many times can a man turn his head
Pretending he just doesn't see?
The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

Yes, how many times must a man look up
Before he can really see the sky?
Yes, how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.


εικόνα
blowin' in the windεικαστικό του Βασίλη Πολύζου
2012

Μνήμη Peter O'Toole / 1. Μακμπέθ / 2. Συζήτηση με τον Orson Welles

 

Βασίλης Πολύζος / a poem a riddle a fiddle

a poem a riddle a fiddle
                                            
                                       a contribution by V. Polyzos
                                   to World Poetry Day 2014

fill in the blanks of your ghosts
before I read you
inverted verses
or inverted comatose lives
a riddle or a fiddle

or a poem

mute morning
toothless
eyeless
helpless
21 circles old

so many disabled moons
crying for mercy
so many dislocated days
days for the sackcloth and the ashes
dust to dust you say
mothballs to mothballs

and poems to poems

you read their footprints
on the muddy myths
you read their fingerprints
on evasive legends
you guess their breath
on the mirror’s marshy surface
you see their blinking iridescence
in your stanzas’ photo finish
you pity their eyes glued
on rainbeaten windowpanes
you guess their agony hidden|
in low banks of clouds
you feel weak at the knees
fear seeping  through your pores

and they say unto you
these ghosts
your skinny guests
alas poor Yorick
part your dreams with your arms
and the nightmares will appear

and they say unto you
call the Court to order please
the verdict  shall be given in heroic verse
as a riddle or a fiddle

unless you let the light live at noon
at night you’ll  hear a poem lamenting over
the dead moon

©Βασίλης Πολύζος 21.3.2014

εικόνα
V.P
a photo by Helen

Inca Spirit / Drum Song