28. Paul Iwanyckyj
A man with words at the core of his artistic endeavours.
Formerly in the IT industry, Paul is a part-time musician, songwriter and poet based in Doncaster, South Yorkshire. Son of a Ukrainian post-war refugee, and an English mother, he has been Chairman of Doncaster’s Ukrainian Centre for many years, and has been involved with various cultural activities, often based at the Centre.
Words have been at the core of his own artistic endeavours since schooldays and continue to be so. He is a long-term member of the poetry group Read-to-Write and is the occasional host of Doncaster’s monthly spoken-word night “Well Spoken”.
His first pamphlet of poetry “Through A Cracked Mirror” appeared in September 2018, published by Glass Head Press.
Poems
The Google
I know some who say, “ask Uncle Google”, bestowing a benign image, of a greying sexagenarian. Most, are on first name terms, and stick with Google, and Googling. Recently, my brother, an analogue man, referred innocently to - The Google. At first, I smiled a knowing smile, but then I thought he's right ! it is The Google, the watching one, the listening one of nightmares, the learning one who knows it all - about you and me, about them about where, who with, and when. It knows where you live, can give a burglar and mate, a map - photos and videos of said destination, with at least four modes of transport, plus, the time each one should take - together with approximate costs - need an overhead view of fences with gaps, for easy access? no problem, no charge. Don't get me wrong, I use The Google it is THE searcher, stroke watcher, bar none, but - it wants to store everything you search for, everything you like, every photo you take every Sting song you buy, download or play; and like the song, it’ll be watching you - it will know more about you than you do, and unlike you, The Google, will never forget As its artificial connections get smarter, as opposed to your dwindling neurones, it will make its move, one cold, dark night - for it will have made connections about you that you would never have made in forever - your own camera will have watched you, relayed your retina scan and eyeball moves, back to a dark server room, with red, pulsing, lights. In this cavernous layer The Google sits, knowing that you will be poised ready to type, words will appear in the box, even before you have decided to type them - then, there’ll be a soft knock at your door, the image of a person, will be there, and will simply say, "The Google sent me" and your life, as you thought you knew it, will be over. <<<
Sat in a Car-Park, Waiting
Litter sits sadly strewn across the rain-blotched tarmac. Shades of grey reflected in a grim, rain-laden sky. The Hollies breathe the air they need out of the radio As we sit here and wait. For what, and why? Flowers, that past their peak of summer glory, straggle across chipped, pebble-dashed pots; that too have seen better days of youth before this collection of regimented lots Autumn is in the air For us sat here waiting. Hopefully, summer has one last blaze worth feeling. A few days of warmth when the soul is lifted; lifted from the depths, lifted from kneeling. <<<
Christmas in Narayiv
As I stand in the village where my father was born I feel an ache in my soul, and I sense his ache. An ache for Christmases he never saw, an ache for Christmases he will never see, an ache for Christmases I have never known; and sense the wrenched soul of a man torn, from family, friends, and from a life that was. A soul that pretended that all in that life may as well be dead; else the emotion would be too much to bear each day apart. It has snowed heavily, and mingled with the fallen flakes is the sweet pungent smell of the animals, their warmth, their life, their ordure. I creak open a shabby door to meet their silent gaze; the shuffling chickens, sat on straw-laden shelves, the goats - and the donkey waiting to resume rumination. It’s almost the Christmas card nativity, stripped of pathos and commercialism, and the Holy Child. I say my quiet goodnight, and politely scrape the door to, sealing them lightly from the cold night ahead. The moon has a halo, and the sky is bursting with stars, outbuildings gilded with glistening frost and ice; home-brewed vodka courses through my tired, fulfilled, veins, keeps me warm, and lets me dream awake, as I return into my Uncle's house, and the Eve celebrations. That sees straw on the floor, and animal games for luck, and twelve dishes, no more no less. I feel blessed, as the travelling players arrive from up the lane, playing out the age-old scenes and carolling. I could be in Hardy's Wessex, but I am not, I am in the village where my father was born. <<<
Skylark
High above our heads higher almost than sight a skylark sings. She sings a solitary song, she sings of childhood, she sings of the sky and all beyond. She's calling us, to look up, raise our heads, and see. Singing of all that we should know, of breezes making branches sway, of meadows in mid-summer's haze; is saying stop, look, feel, before such heady days are gone. <<<
Apple Tree
In winter, silently barren and sapless, she sits, as if nothing will adorn or covet her spindled frame. Yet it does, as Spring coaxes her buds to life, her blossomed wedding dress seduces again. <<<
Starman
You, were a star man, hey, now now, a man who sold the world, an alien daring to question, a human, unafraid to answer. You, were Ziggy Stardust, immortal, a comet, burning with flaming hair, stacked heels that didn't care, an inter-galactic frame of mind. You, were a lad insane - a pretty thing, a rebel genie freed from the bottle. Chimney-stack lightning, cracked – flawed – fabulous. You, were a tail-twitching cat, from Brel’s Amsterdam, that purred and scratched in glittering fur. You, were a diamond dog - a bitch, unafraid to rock, unashamed to cry. A thin white Duke, that simply had to die. You - were David Robert Jones, an oddity, a laughing gnome, who became so much more. You are more still. Wham Bam, thank you man. <<<
Love The Google and Starman - the former because we're all at risk from the hidden menace of the algorithm, and Starman because its so evocative and respectful rather than starstruck. Great poems
I like your approach, even to material that doesn't ordinarily tempt me. I think that to have written about skylarks without being gushing or clichéd is quite an achievement. PS, passed, 2nd poem:).