User:Dr Silva

Prof. Dr. PAUL ADE SILVA
/My sandbox/ Between 2005 and now I’ve remained a Professor of Literary Arts, Theatre Studies and English with the Fundacion Dharma (group of Universities), Spain http://www.uie.edu.es/index2.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/École_supérieure_internationale_de_Bruxelles Sept 2007 - Aug 2008, I was Professor Dr. English at Fatih University, Istanbul and prior to that I was Professor Dr. English Language & Literature [Canakkale Onsekiz Mart University, Turkey].

CREATIVE WRITING
POETRY

Angles, Their Angels of Squares
They own the cities, stocks and squares, defiance to

failure. Defining themselves tall, they attempt to

compete with the sky. The short ones are unsteady,

large and bold like a cold. They measure schisms,

frescoes and times with The Dark Ages. Saintliness

was manufactured for feud as the Victorians, aided

purity too literally to embezzle their children's

faith. Jacobean Renaissance baffled

nightmares with misogyny. Distant voices

to the 'Next Doors' in high-rise buildings

blame poetry to twist sophistry, confusing

intonation with cough-decors, seizing

on shortages as historical dent; leaving

their angels to admire the vault which

was once the earth. Now their earth

is visiting their angels in the tallest,

fastest plastic cements. Mellowing out

their roughness with bold-sadness and

angles, their angels of squares

without correlation.

Paul Ade Silva

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva

In Its Rhetoric
In its rhetoric with the power of a drunk

In its drinking a well from a well-versed

Invasion, in its inversion of its phasing

Down the global dam from a damned

Mis-spelt name: democracy - demonstrating

Against State or individual's craze,

There! I looked

In its democratization of its other babies

Proud and strong like usurpers, hoards,

Loan sharks, I looked for you, you were lost

Lost to the brilliance of an age with its

Banality, its barrenness, its joy of endless

Games full of riddles

In its weeping for a 'quid' lost on sucks

Full of sulphur, armed to the teeth with

Corrosion, I, too, looked but I was lost,

Lost to myself.

Paul Ade Silva

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva

DAYBREAK WITH ANGELS
Slowly the town settles, and the last drunks expand

on their excitement in the night; their plaintive joy

joins the first cries of the seagulls. They all dream

of futures now and not their past. The sleeping

hold on to their lives, the leaves unfold from their own

shade until they almost appear.

In the circles of the light we see the rain reflect

the spreading ripple of the dawn; when we see the still puddle

before a car destroys it we can see

its own reflected world complete, a dawning

before the dawn arrives, that moment we all know

and cannot place for it cannot be measured like time,

that moment when the light is artificial and the rain

drops individually maintain in their rounded sides

the street lights and the night, that single window

and the curtain drawn. That moment when,

before the sun has been so much as hinted at,

the electric light that seeps out of the room is fading,

has lost its power to create its own small world

and shine on to the smooth sides of each rain drop,

has become a colour more than light; that moment will

always be known and undefined, as certain as

grappling with an angel.

1

Outside the shouts that spill through the windows

of the last parties have discovered a new tone, and the songs

that sustained another pool of late night revellers who

asserted that the night would never end, that they would

better it as they stumbled over the impediments, are now

reflecting on the cries that come when pleasure turns

to melancholy and like the ambiguity of seagulls

make a cry deprived, deprived.

And when the night is inevitably sucked away

like a tide turning and we know there is no holding back

the waters, with the dark night in the pools

black as the sea, even when there is a spread of darkness

that the moon illuminates, there is a hint of sun,

or not of sun exactly, but sun mitigated, not so much

sun as light, not so much light as that presence

which the light intends, when without self-consciousness

each of us is still because that moment when the world has

turned on itself and all the horror of the heart

is made as clear as wrestling with an angel.

The world outside is for a moment here. The sound

of waves hoeing shingle is replaced by the more sustained

shingling of a lorry streaming through the rain and turning

over the ripples of the water in the road and that slowly

fading pool of light the headlamps make is

becoming part of a larger life, no longer isolated

like the driver in his cab but making him into a need

to talk as well as listen, struggle with himself and other

people, no longer anonymous in his own light, but when the

night is almost over and the last gift is given and the traffic

noises its way along the seafront faster in its darkness

than the day would allow and other traffic could contain.

2

And all the sounds then, at that moment the sea

and the rain make similar, the patterning revolving

water on the shore or in the turning wheel in water until

the sounds are familiar but differently sustained

then it is the moment when the outside angel enters in

and with that change, that silence, comes the wrestling.

The light that has been centred in the room is then defused

and the turning ripples of the streets made the more like

shore for all their struggling, then it that most bleak

of long time hours that makes each know that tight terrible

moment when we do not know the day breaking from night,

we do not know which is more real. Here, inside, I

do not know if this angel is real although I struggle with her,

wrestle with what I would like to make more palpable

because if she’d stay she’d be more like people in the day

not like the ghosts of pleasure, the lost souls sleeping

after their long enterprise, and I would see what kind of

angel is next to me, try to understand as the day

begins a little more of what is dream and what is real.

Now, outside, the night is changing. It is at that moment

when the night is at its zenith, before all the changing

with the dawn, a new beginning, a new day daring to be born.

Cedric Cullingford

Copyright ©2009 Cedric Cullingford

Secret Mood of Dusk
Let me take you to where dawn breaks with

a smile, to the land of singing Sun setting

the gems of goodwill, to crystal voicing

birds starring on moon crescent. Let me

repay your generosity with subcutaneous

atoms giving them in marriage to cellular

particles in lavish ceremony. Let the dance

steps of joy outlive death, let us meet

again across the oceans of the seven earth

plates where your beauty was once lost to

tidal waves of reassurances; hanging your

portrait along my blood canal. Let me die

in you, asking that I wear your radiance as

glasses. Let your breasts entwine my lungs

to the fresh breath of trees like exquisite

ornaments too precious to display in ghettos

of pearls. Let me show you the secret mood

of dusk before the handshake with dawn

smitten with affection.

Paul Ade Silva

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva

DEAD MAN
Dead man

Trumps clarity

Speaking generally

With optimism, pretty flaws, non-responsive

Elaborate plans

With a secure video teleconferencing

Dead man has described a slow ratchet

A shuttle diplomacy, notorious for paralysis

Whose offices are six feet away full of statutes

Dead man is stubborn trying a better mould

Internecine

A Rumsfeld or Powell, then again maybe not

The house is full of insistence

Yet the secret is white

With deadpan insecurity and brightness

People are slaughtered in disastrous flops

But at a variance

Warfare clears dead man as an insurgent

Leaving dead man the error

To die another day

Paul Ade Silva

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva

NOT REALLY HELD DOWN
You speak tabloid

In scales and slides

You’re a dejavou in supermarkets

Showing you’re really held down

Really held down

Broadsheets are broad as scopes

Detailed miniscule, you are

Down to earth, cobbling

A meandering soul

Really held down

You’re not content to be a human being

You’re wings and flights conferencing

With simpleton for wisdom

You’re battling your own self-survival

Being really held down

I hear of the happenings and

Remembering on the bus

My eyes now believe my ears

That cobblers only mend soles

Not really held down.

Paul Ade Silva

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva

SHAKING HANDS WITH HITCHHIKERS
The trucks crossed the sea, soaked with oil

The desert shared a night

Pricing what was too little to pay

The trucks crossed the sea, soaked with oil

Shoulder to shoulder, they stood gulf for gulf

Shaking hands with hitchhikers

Having a ride

Shoulder to shoulder, they stood gulf for gulf

Their proud necks, walked into each other

With condensed smile

Protecting big stomachs

Their proud necks, walked into each other

A deflective sight retracted from light

Blind alley rushed through

Broken promises

A deflective sight retracted from light.

Paul Ade Silva

Copyright ©2009 Paul Ade Silva

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