My writings are inspired by many authors, poetry by others. To make a list would be fruitless. Names like Ezra Pound may never ring a bell, nor Joseph Capek. Franz Kafka short stories are almost never heard of nor are Edgar Allen Poes' delightful comic tales ...so the influence remains within.
A Forbidden Planet
By Richard Ozanne June 8th 2009..
When we look down from a rock in the Arizona desert, out onto the landscape to far away, and then focus our perception on a molten ant hill taking ourself down, down into their world, a foreign world we can often find a paradox...as above so below.
I look out to the rough and rugged territory with burning hills and the pinnacles of stone that adorn my domain. Up! The clouds are no more. The air is thin with dust and red sediment, choking and gagging as a wind storm picks up and leaves its cutting, prickly dust to cover the land parched with everything but nothing, wind twisting up and towards the scarred sky of a million vortex. It is here, right here that I find myself stalled in the middle of a dust covered road, midway upon lives journey with the seen and unseen gathering tension, a rudimentary course on how to visit the Moon and Mars, a lecture on what living in a vacuum is about. Of course it is not a vacuum, nor could this ever be, and this is a silly assumption...for I find myself in a colony among ants, among those caught in the debris of a fallen belief, and stumbling land where even depression has a high name and golden crown. For this road is the road well traveled, and those ants being blind never knew the flatness of this asphalt or that river that separates us as a highway or mission but leave me to my own shortcomings not being from the colony nor having a disposition to carry leaves or detritus from one point to another, dropping it off, and making a return venture some million times before this cruel road seems to collide with a stream and the sweet, odorous and divine smell of water, the perfume lead me, for the course of this road has lead me to a rough and wicked road of metaphors so deep as to be both heaven filled and tragic. The burning hills become metaphors, the little glass laden dust particulate make their registry, choking off my life and my mind to what is an environment that is deeply suited to the deep chasms of an ant hill, sublime made ridiculous, upside down, topsy turvy...a place for the omnivorous and indoctrinated, a residence for these little creatures that race to become but never do, where the mound meets the rock and that leave carried by my brother becomes a heavy burden, as my mind sinks down and further still to realization..I am a member of this mound.
This is the world of this hill, and many others which surround. I am here and only one queen to serve. I can never look up and question but look down and follow what is before me running helter skelter on a very important journey to retrieve and then carry back, and there is never a question as to why. Why is not a good enough reason. There is never a question as to reason because things are fixed here, the leaders are all followers and there is but one colony, blind and on a solo mission to gather. Conversation is not allowed, we don't have voice. Fraternization is not permitted among the ranks of "one hill'..one unit, and for one instant as I find this amazing that I am a visitor in some disguise to this forbidden place, I find it heavy and with some symbology "that as below...the same is above"! Once I, a philosopher looking down at this caldron of worthless ants wondering if a one looked up, and then a transformation, I as philosopher looking up to deities far beyond and in control, of a smack! simple step, one foot coming mindlessly down, our world our world, this forbidden world ends. As a philosopher once above I used to look for far greater destinations, and gods..but now only find one! A human foot dangling over..but what is this? If I question, my mind slowly absorbing such fluid that is slowing my senses, sensitivities as to become one thinking cell among units of these ants, the little unperceptive racing creatures that once lay below, that if there was a God above, when I was there below,I would remit a prayer to return, to have a soul once more, and return to my lonely and discouraging life as was before...but the transformation has occurred..and the last of my sensations breath their last sigh as I am down here now..looking up with the last gem of my mind and to come to a world upon and within the planet, this forbidden land of life without comment, a life as an ant.
The Broken Candelabra
By Richard Ozanne 2009 (3:45 Am March 16) A Nightmare!
Time and time again, somewhere along the road, a long path, one that winds and twists. There is a time when one knows that things are not right. Wrong cannot be used, because it smitten to worry and think hard and fast, and rather we would be most proper and positive in casual attire and say..."its all good, really good!", and then begin to learn to lie...this is the road where we find ourselves.
I remember the stories of ages ago, fleeing from the Prussian army when it came through, on horse drawn carriage, along with many down an estranged road with thousands, or was it a wrath laid in Prague where the German troops, their switch steps breaking the cobblestones, heavy and hardened-hoofed as a parade of death to come, to come to the edge of town, for us to run and hide...hide once again. In the back of a cart laid wrapped one candelabra, one lonely brazen' candelabra which spoke of it all. Watching at the houses were burned to ruin in the background as we fled, watching as the innocents were dragged by their hair, arms and legs screaming as we fled the terror by cart and then by ship to some far away land for safety, under arm a wrapped parcel, a candelabra in with a Star of David standing prominent against all odds, wraths that came upon us, and miracles that told a story of futures enlightened and enchanting.
The told us on the Brennen Fosser* (A Merchant Ship from the port of Koenigsberg, that later sank, carrying munitions and refugees as a ghost ship between Copenhagen and Gdansk, its name scratched out to lurk in dark war scalded waters) that we couldn't carry it. "Es ist diesen Sachen verboten! Dort gesetzt ihnen für die Königkriegmaschine"snapped the Honornerve directing his left hand down to a pile of metal taken from refugees "...Schnell!" (Quickly!) It took up too much room and such heavy brass would have to be given to the midshipmen for salvage to fight a Great War, but it was an old spittoon that they got in a clever handed trade that went for the brass heap to make the great guns and bullets that cost more lives...but this was still dear and precious, too precious to describe, this candelabra that saw it all!
It stood there! Right there across from Counts and Viscounts, Graff and Burgomaster, (yesterdays equivalent of CEO's, COO's and Executive Secretaries) on a shelf, that Star of David shining brightly, alone..untouched, virtuous in its own right. That was not pride. It illuminated the room where we ate, and slept and worked. When times were good it saw grandeur, but when times were bad it traveled, and traveled far, wrapped in a blanket, doily or old coat where no one knew and no one could see. That stood for a lot more than furniture, but a family that was fleeing and hoping to see yet another day. It saw poverty, that candelabra with its Star, still there to make shadows upon the wall of some shelter where people cowered facing fear, sheer terror of Russians, Prussians and Beige Coats. It was a light to read by, a light which illuminated the Bible in times of terror and pain beyond what most could know or tolerate. It was right there when the Germans invaded Poland, and there near the radio when the planes rolled over Nagasaki and the pride broke the silence of the new and ghastly. It was there during the depression, right there wrapped in a blanket to see the back of a truck loaded from San Francisco to yet another destination where life would start again...as it did so many times. That candelabra with its candle wax spilled over the elegant scroll heard sadness of many, and the joyful first crys of new life being born and then playing near it. It sat there when magnificent musicians, violinists and pianists were playing, every echo engraved somewhere within it till the family began to perish. One by one they died. The telegrams and letters...the knocks at the door and the pale faces at the other side announcing that a bell had been rung for a new saint passing. That candelabra stood right there. I heard the mournful sobbing tears of heartache and loss of my grandparents, the endearing tears of my mother and my father during times of calamity, as well as my own. It stood right there..the Star of David, still shining though the cups were empty from the old and used candles. And it was there when I alone sat thinking about futures impossible goals and lit it if only to call to some Great One as a call for salvation when times were dismal, so dismal that the candelabra became wrapped once more in old cloth and knotted hemp. It was there not on a horse drawn carriage, or underarm but in the back of my caravan. Another time where harvest met fierce and terrible drought as economies became the great Titanic of the day. Wrapped in cloth and pulled apart by the sheer stress of life the Candelabra speaks of long ago and of today, the here and now...the unfortunate chasm which sometimes means the long road, the lonely road where footsteps encounter sand and wind and where the fingers grow weak, long gnarly and unbecoming, holding on, just holding on.. among hoodlums, gansta's and Junk-ers* of our day to the contrast of a brass Candelabra with a Star of David shining brightly, and somewhat vividly of days that are bright that will someday come again.
* Junker (s), (pronounced Yoonker) were the new and insipidly wealthy in Germany prior to the second world war....I think the name has a haze on it since. I coin the word again to an age of waste and those who perpetrate this type of thinking as “Junk-er “ or one who wastes all things or precipitates loss for aspects gain.
The Man on the Street
Richard Ozanne 1999 (Prague)
A Man on the street, the everyman that walks here, and there. and crosses the boulevards on the proper signal, what laude is given to him? The earning man, hard working diligent man, who owes the grace of gods to his tie well kept and his collar starched, chin stretched out proud as his hand clenches his briefcase, dissolved in the words of Corporation, Incorporated, soulfully indistinguishable from the next man that steps next in line as he moves quickly to work, watching the clock over the course of his life to sell and manage, and bring papers to people and take them to the office and back again. This is the man on the street, a Giacometti sketch pulled to life moving, and making responsible each line that has content, without diversion and under strict rule and guidance of his master..time if you wish to please him. (Continued 15 pages)
A Hill and a Rosary
Richard Ozanne c.1998 (Prague)
A Hill of many hills, yet taller than most, and there more pronounced than the rolling landscape that had motion, preserving the matrimonial breasts of nature, vivid and longing following the rhythms and course of a river where that hill stood, a large procession of cypress making a path to her top and weeping willows blowing ever so softly in the afternoon of that day when she was soon discovered, that hill upon where a thousand fingers pointed, and ten thousand lay legend as little specks of granite and marble glistened in the flickering light of afternoon as the Ides of March came and passed..as Spring was calling and beckoning...come forth. (Continued 5 Pages)
The Single Stringed Violin
Richard Ozanne 2004 (An Unreasonable Time)
Whom is the master of single stringed violin, with a long neck and famous French marking? Surely I hoped to find the owner as I saw this unusual piece hung precariously in a junk shop high over head, its brothers beckoning here, a rusted Trumpet, and broken clarinet to save an empty hook.
"What do you want that fer" the store owner asked,"It aint no ordinary violin, got only one string...and er long neck, figurin on playin' aint worth a tarp, got them or' dare!"
I looked at it, held it in my hands and noticed its character, a long necked violin, one string long and lonely still remaining a tension...a cause to one note. "Hundred dollar.." The storekeeper smacked, teeth false, jaw clenched as he looked at me with jewels of green in his eyes. "Give ya fifty..." I returned. "A violin aint it? Play pretty well one note" he gestured grabbing the instrument and plucking the one string over and over....."Hundred, he smacked....
The Mask in the Wall
Richard Ozanne (Prague Sept 2000)
(File Attached from the painting 20X40 in Oil of "The Mask in the Wall" by Richard Ozanne from cover of Prague Review-International Journal of Bohemia's writers)
Once in a while we have visions of things to come. No one knows exactly why this is. Even science questions this. Is it ESP, Perceptive Phenomenon, The "Third" Eye? One gypsy in Bohemia I talked to explained their knowledge of this unknown, "Never ask this question...for it is not for us to know or explain.." In the spirit of Guy d' Maupessant-
There came the visions that Broadrich had just before dusk... Each evening in his study Broadrich would continue his journal, making entries of daily life and work. He had lived in Zlata Koruna (a small town in Central Europe in a region near Austria) for most of his life....
It was early in September 7th, The visions became more intense as the late evening sky turned a dense yellow color.
What sunsets are we having! Gold and that yellow, a putrid yellow that seems to consume all. It reflects over the river giving it a color of dense soup, and just like before I fall onto the table and have the dreams that are so intense that I awake and cannot even remember my own name or where I am...It getting to be terrible! I am beginning to see fire in the sky, and people many people being tossed about by a giant Siren. What dreams! What dreams can I write here or are they visions! I can tell no one.
The day is___. I do not recollect the day, how silly of me, yet I sit here at precisely the same time every evening. The river and the fog. I swore it was fog because it had been storming for days now, and this evening it stopped completely. The air was very dry outside. Too dry! It gave me an eerie feeling. And then I looked out the window and there was some sort of fog, again a putrid color of green that just sat right on the river...(then), I cant remember anything but the vision...how horrible! It was the same, a calamity...and a number 2 that came flashing so quickly at me. There was a face of a beautiful woman who turned and melted like wax before me..and then to write, write that vision! God help me, for whatever it is I feel is coming off the river like a pair of geese with fire set to their feathers...tail feather, yes with fire attached! As if a match was set to kindling, and vapour, like I see on the river raising and spiraling upward!
I went to the church and prayed...it was lonely there. I prayed for the vision of what I had seen, gross and incarnate. I prayed to Mother Mary to keep me safe from the hellish inequity that was coming! I looked up to see the face of Jesus on the altar, that statue made of plaster and gold, as a giant before me, one tear...one giant tear came dropping from his eye onto my forehead, and I knew what I had seen was a future to come!