Ivy Monte has been a literary translator for many years before starting to write her own poetry, flash fiction, short stories and creative nonfiction. She comes from Latvia /a small country on the Baltic coast in the northern Europe/, but she tries to go to Monmartre/Paris, her place of inspiration, as often as possible.
Cut Short triggered off by a notice in the newspaper)
No one could predict That a pleasant Sunday promenade Might turn into a nightmare, Something nobody ought to come across – Too tragic and unfair; Abandoned car on the side of the road, Close to the wood, The dog instantly alert, Rushes forward, Barks excitedly at the boot; Discovery makes one`s blood freeze, Sends shivers down the spine, Young woman`s body – Used and abused, Her face smashed beyond recognition, Tied up, squeezed into the boot of her car, Left to suffocate... A young life that`s just started, Cut short so abruptly, so viciously By cruel hands Now marked with indelible sign of death.
The skies are crying tonight,
They weep over the soul
For which the time is right
To leave the body, be bold,
As that way it can`t last anymore;
Enough with lies and deceit,
Betrayal, disdain, conceit,
Enough with fallacious conviction –
Supreme being – that`s all-powerful me.
The skies are crying tonight,
They know it is not right:
The world now is inhabited
With one more – “Feelings Limited”.
I`m Still Able
Sometimes I feel like an endangered species
That`s doomed soon to become extinct,
Or like in linguistics the word “beauty”
That seems to have lost its original meaning
Altogether, quite a long time ago.
Sometimes I feel as if brought back to life
After lethargic sleep for many decades,
Maybe even centuries,
From the times
When white was still white And the night without light,
When no one was trying
To smother your mind with nonsense,
To make you believe that
White could be also gray,
And the Sun – King of the Night,
The ugly is nice, it`s cool,
But stupidity – put on the throne,
When the piercing noise is called music
And careless strokes of the brush – art,
When the stage is inhabited by naked bodies
And poetry – dumped in the waste,
Finally: the lies, in fact,
The very basic truth.
Yes indeed, I may be a relic,
A treasure from the past,
But I won`t change,
Won`t give in to the fashion of the day,
I still have my brains
Able to judge,
I still have my eyes
Able to see,
All senses still safe and sound,
And ability to filter follies, lies, pretence,
As well as barefaced impudence.
Consider hell instead of haven
But keep your lips tight
Or else indeed all hell will break loose,
Some people faces would look similar
To that of Munch`s “The Scream”
In their outrage,
Some fingers would be tapping foreheads –
There could be those
Looking for a particularly nasty stone
To do away with this blasphemer.
Whatever threats, still I insist
I`d choose the hell
Thus ridding myself free from
Tepidity and moderation,
Monotony and meekness –
Instead of passion and desire,
Fulfilment, satisfaction –
Free from those who cheated at the gate.
I don`t belong to people
Who turn their other cheek for blows
Nor am I willing to forgive
Anyone and for everything.
So much revealed and said
There comes the truth:
Will either turn to dust
Or else go up in smoke.
Memories From the Youth (Episode 1) The Blues Club
This place of escape
From the clutches of the State,
Vicious and evil,
With lies encountered on every step,
With haughty ruling,
Intolerant attitude towards the free thought,
Independent action –
Be it right or wrong;
But people are born to make own decisions,
To pay for their faults,
To live their own lives
Free from repressions,
Free from the tyranny,
Even if hidden,
From the false and stupid ideas;
There is no excuse
For the State abuse.
The Blues Club
Was led very efficiently
By a sole man
No one knew much about,
Except that his wishes and demands
Were to be obeyed without loud commands;
Thus he managed to keep us sound,
Only, there was a favor,
A price to be paid
For the safety and protection
We could rely upon;
This favor – left for the girls-dancers…
Was it right or was it wrong,
Or is it in need to be considered deeper?
Why to be driven to find the escape,
Why feel as if your self can break?
What state can be thought normal
Under the circumstances
It chose to keep its people
Suffocated and mute, stupefied and weak,
With no initial spark, with no individual thought?