Your verses are sickle spikes of truth, their marrow is satire and their bones are metaphor. The DNA is dexterity carved on the plaque of literary prowess. The skull spanking lines profoundly sparkle like porcupine barbs from the resilient glint of sun rays. Antonia, your poems bury rags of misery, red- eyes of nostalgia, pricking thorns of quandary and grinding stones of grief in deep belly pit emotional parody and mind tilting word play comics. Poet Antonia Alexandra Klimenko uses the lyrical vintage and verbal bravado to speak history, death, loss, identity, pain and belonging. Her philosophical verses are socially, spiritually and politically fulfilling. Her poesy is original, confessional and is born out of a labyrinth of highly psychic charged thought processes. Another unique nutrient in your writing is that they are hybrid, they have of both symptoms of spoken word and page poetry. The depth in meaning and flexibility of reason qualifies the poems to be adapted into bestselling short films, cinematographic poetry . Reading Antonia Alexandra Klimenko is a lifetime achievement, you get fulfilled with the art-tainment within and infotainment abound, you might want to beat an African djembe for ritual poetry dance. Antonia Alexandra Klimenko is a multi award winning spoken word artist and an international acclaimed page poet. She is the current Poet/ Writer in Residence of Spoken Word Paris , an illustrious poetry reading and performance organization in Paris, France. TIME OF THE POET REPUBLIC is wholesomely proud to publish Antonia Alexandra Klimenko, our first legendary poetry artist from France to grace our TIME OF THE REPUBLIC space. We continue to promote a diversity of ideas, tolerance, creativity, inclusivity and exclusivity. ALUTA CONTINUA– (Blurb by Mbizo CHIRASHA).
Heart’s Compass
You pass through me
like windows on a train–
freeze-framed in Winter
my shattered Spring
I look for you
in all the compartments
of my heart
groping blindly
at flashes of reflection
(Why did you pull out? I ask
At which stop did you finally exit?)
knowing full well
I have swallowed you
the night before
swallowed you
as I have the sun the moon
and all the dead stars–
light years of your grief
passing through me now
I the cavity of Paris
compass without a needle–
my arteries stretching like roadmaps
across the universe of my heart
How I let you slip through me
I will never know
why
I sent you
to your own dark eclipse
your delirium of narcotic bliss
engraved on the head of a needle
What is it we hold in our hands
that slips through our fingers–
this human landscape of blood and tears
How do we hold onto heart’s needle
this compass of compassion
this shining star
this point of reference–
hold onto light lost in a City of Light
hold onto that one magnet that pulls us
to a place where we belong
One day new stanza
we may lose true North
lose our way
lose this moment
lose whole continents
of ourselves
like refugees
with nowhere to turn
like I lost you
you who once took refuge
deep inside of me
I still hold South
between my thighs
still wait for you to move me
like the earth
like this engine pumping blood
this train pumping iron
like Night and hydrangeas
exploding into the ecstasy
of novas and constellations
tunneling the black hole of me
the deep blossoming throat of me–
you my heart’s needle-
a singing meteor
that passes through me as light
that hums in me like Spring–
the one place I cannot get to
I am the cavity of Paris
that lovers once poured into–
my heart a weeping sieve
Milky Ways oozing from
the swirling globes of my eyes and breasts–
the trickling cum of humanity
peeling Time from my lips like a mask
At night alone in my bed
I marry the sacred dark of you
I marry the souls of all your dead planets
all the sweet amnesias of heaven
that live inside my head
I curse myself and heavy-lidded Night
that slumbers through the day
I dragging the moon
like my flesh behind me
while Dark goes on and on
like the bottomless sky
with no ending or beginning
Dark knows we are afraid of it new stanza
wants only to be loved
I swallow it
as I do my tears
I kiss it
like I drink in air
I stuff the shame of guilt
back into my horizon
praying that light will find me
I am the cavity of Paris
that lovers once poured into–
my heart a weeping sieve
Deep inside myself
inside the shadows I cannot contain-
statues and monuments to the dead–
a whole city of shimmering possibility
rises as smoke above a skyline of ancient syllables
quivering on the tip of my tongue
The pallbearer of my own dead poems
bereft of words divine direction or
a satin box to lay my aching compass
I drift
alone in the dark
alone with you and the breath of Winter
erased by a night that forgives
That Cat Named Bird
Charlie “Bird“ Parker, jazz legend, 1920-1955
He could have squeezed the living daylights out of Hell
And so he did And at his very leisure
His euphoric appetite for bright pain and dulled pleasures–
hip-hopping be-bopping jamming slammin
pumping iron and ironic in metaphoric basements
where swinging trumpets blow– was legendary
His valves those brass knuckles of brute sound
opened like delicate testicles (ah…the swell of it)
under the pressure of his well-manicured hand
Sometimes out of hand But then that was Birdland
He lived for…Oh, what he’d give for:
whole notes suspended from jazz-stained ceilings
ripping renting warbling squealing A yardbird
desperate to fill the uncompromising space
His face a black hole where stars exploding
collapsed into fusion replaced glass windows
shattered like melting mirrors from the Ice Age
Nineteen was a nice age The kid had class
His Cherokee in B flat—pure synergy—
(unsurpassed) peeled poems off of every wall
drove a silk fist with a twist through blood knowledge
stripped down to the quick Once he heard the call…
no one could keep that horn in its cage
Dawn and neon merging together echoed
his interpolations Muted shades of strobing rhythms–
he was a language of collisions–a free fall
of featherless wings Icarus caught in the wailing gale
the chromatic scale of stark illusion penetrating confusion
soft callused lips cut from the equinox of tonal
depth and fragile power The cryptic
and unspoken lodged in his bill–a shuttered
windowsill opening into a symphony an epiphany
a sunflower smiling wide in the ache of his throat
The dark chords of his vocabulary—stuttering nocturnal–
perched, now in treetops pronouncing his return
Melodies rose up through rampant leaves of invention
Green summer ferns potted plants rotted plants
April in Paris Bird Gets the Worm Ornithology (no apologies)
Thirty-four years of unearthly episodic breakups breakdowns
a narcotic intervention gave him pause but no rest
Melodies rose up through visions of greatness stanza continued
sketches of Miles Monk and Dizzy
burnt bulbs eclipsing distant strains mixing chaotic
in fresh saxophonic, kaleidoscopic dimension
Pneumonia in half breaths a heartfelt diminuendo
What was he thinking? This is it maybe
This is the moment this is the tone
this is the one sound I can really bring home
No more hot-lining liner notes for the final crescendo
Play me the sudden death of midnights Baby!
Play me the jazz-beaked Bird that old deaf fool
Play me that one impossible screech of a cosmic sage
Blue on ebony arpeggio of dreaming
No one could keep that horn in its cage!
And in one hush of morning Destiny brushed
his dry parting lips his unfettered hips
the suicidal longing of his cold wet drool
The wick of his short flame lit an interval higher
in a sky of blazing burnout—his fame gone cool
That formless ghost of his haunting moan–
his feathers clipped nothing lost nothing wanting
His music out the window his notes off the page
no one could keep that bird in his cage!
Somewhere
There’s a place for us, somewhere a place for us
West Side Story—Leonard Bernstein
No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark
–Warsan Shire
When the morning paper hands you Syria
with her throat slashed
headlines dripping
with the blood of children from South Africa–
schools of flailing thrashing fish
in baskets in cardboard cradles pulled from the sea
when you read your own obituary in the Unwanted Classifieds
when your passport has expired and you’re now officially dead
when the death toll has reached you posthumously–
just ignore the front page entirely
head straight for the comics
pull up an easy-chair before it too floats away
and heads down the river for the jaws of the Unknown
The mouths of the Innocent
are begging for mercy
are longing for freedom
are gasping for breath
from their own stench behind a barbed wire fence
and you give me a banal dirty look and ask me where I am from
I who have torn off my limbs who have grown gills and fins
to slip through the eye of your needle your narrow canal
I who cross my own self every day and pray
I will make it to the other side!
Doesn’t everyone come from another place?
Doesn’t everyone want to get somewhere?
Even standing still Nothing stands still
Stars need a space to turn a space to burn for
a little grace
Even Heaven needs a place to yearn for
There are mansions in the sky
black holes in the homeless terrain
there are people who will never
know their own worth the origin of their birth
who dissolve like refuse in the ocean
who are recycled in the center of the earth
who dissolve in the rain or unfathomable emotion
becoming something else again and again
We are all In the process of becoming new stanza
something else someone new some other place
Dark shadows that once wore a human face
at the bottom of the sea and those deeper waters still
that no one can replace– who tried to make the crossing
or whose blood spilled and left no trace
Some who waded through their own fears
who waded through their own tears
Others who learned to drink them
while still others tried to sink them
No one
wants to leave a place they call home
No one
wants to give up everything
At night I dream of cities
with thousands of windows like mirrors
and children being thrown out of them–
thousands of doors opening and closing
But there are no floors on which to stand
or take refuge in a bottomless sea
with thousands of empty shoes
thousands of empty shoes
and no souls left to fill them
Every night
I toss in uncertain seas uncertainties
Every night
I cling to my modesty cling to my dreams like a raft
while the draft of your political wind
chills to the bone triggers terror in my eyes
Where are you from? Blackie!
What would you expect me to say?–
I’m shedding old skin and the new feels like home?
I who have torn off my limbs
who have grown gills and fins
to cross the sea of no return
I who cross my own self every day and pray
I will make it to the other side !
I am my own country my own floating I’land
this side of the rainbow somewhere I do not know
I carry the sacred past in my faith for a future–
the known to the unknown the dead to the living
I’m in the business of forgiving forgiving forgiving FORGIVING!
while you retire in your easy-chair
and sigh This is living !
What are you afraid of? you who turn away in silence– new stanza
that I occupy a thought on the outskirts of your mind?
seek asylum in your smile? take refuge in your kindness?
Who knows…one day I may migrate to your heart
I sing songs to the Invisible as a whale or a dolphin
I sing songs of remembrance sing songs in the dark–
write poems for lost prayers in blind halls of oppression–
tortured cries of the abused haunting pleas of the unheard
How long can we live with this malignant repression–
the absurd unfairness of the privileged few
No one wants to stay in a place that doesn’t want them
No one wants to be in a place that feels untrue
One day I shall return to the sanctity of there–ness
I pray one day I won’t have to pray for you
Antonia Alexandra Klimenko was first introduced on the BBC and to the literary world by the legendary Tambimuttu of Poetry London–-publisher of T.S. Eliot, Henry Miller and Bob Dylan, to name a few. After his death, it was his friend the late great Kathleen Raine who took an interest in her writing and encouraged her to publish. Although her manuscript was orphaned upon ‘Tambi’s passing, her poems and correspondence have been included in his Special Collections at Northwestern University. A former San Francisco Poetry Slam Champion and devotee of Spoken Word, she has read and performed at various venues including S.F.’s renowned Purple Onion and The Intersection for the Arts. Her sold-out one-woman show Where the Blue Begins was presented in conjunction with Sonoma’s performing art series Women on the Edge. More recently she has presented her work at Shakespeare & Company, participated in four présentations hosted by Three Rooms Press as well as performed at 100 Thousand Poets for Change here in Paris. She also placed second in the 2015 Poetry Slam hosted by Paris Lit Up. Klimenko’s works are widely published in journals and anthologies, among them. CounterPunch, The Rumpus, Atlanta Review, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear Anthology, Big Bridge, Ragged Lion Press, Levure Litteraire, Writing for Peace, Strangers in Paris—New Writing Inspired by the City of Light, Paris Lit Up, Vox Populi, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Criterion International Literary Journal, Occupy Poetry (in which she is distinguished as an American Poet) XXI Century World Literature (in which she represents France) and Maintenant : Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art archived at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. and New York’s Museum of Modern Art. Her collages have been exhibited in galleries, the DIFFA (Design Industry Foundation for Aids) Showhouse in San Francisco and featured in Home and Garden Magazine. She is the recipient of two grants: one from Poets in Need, of which Michael (100 Thousand Poets for Change) Rothenberg is a co-founder; the second—the 2018 Generosity Award bestowed on her by Kathleen Spivack and Joseph Murray for her outstanding service to international writers through SpokenWord Paris where she is Writer/ Poet in Residence. Her collected poems On the Way to Invisible, will be forthcoming in Spring of 2021.
MEET TIME OF THE POET REPUBLIC CURATOR
Mbizo CHIRASHA, UNESCO-RILA Affiliate Artist. Freedom of Speech Fellow to PEN- Zentrum Deutschland,Germany. Alumni of the International Human Rights Arts Festival in New-York, USA. Literary Arts Activism Diplomatie. Globally Certified Arts Mediums Curator and Influencer. Internationally Published Page and Spoken Word Poet. Writer in Residence. Arts for Human Rights Catalyst. Core Team Member of the Bezine Arts and Humanities Project. His illustrious poetry, hybrid writings, political commentary, short fiction, book reviews and Arts Features are published in more than 400 spaces notably the Monk Arts and Soul in Magazine in United Kingdom. Atunis Poetry.com in Belgium. Demer press poetry series in Netherlands. World Poetry Almanac in Mongolia. Poesia journal in Slovenia. Bezine Arts and Humanities Webzine in USA. The Poet a Day in Brooklyn, USA. Litnet Writers Journal in South Africa. African Crayons in Nigeria. Poetry Bulawayo in Zimbabwe. Pulp-pit USA. The FictionalCafe international Journal, Texas USA. Best New African Poetry series in Zimbabwe, Zimbolicious Poetry Collections in Zimbabwe. Co-edited Street Voices International Publications with Andreas Weiland in Germany. Co-Edited Silent Voices Anthology, a Tribute to Chinua Achebe. Co-Edited the Corpses of Unity, solidarity collection to victimized Cameroonians with Nsah Mala. Curated and Edited the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry, Inside Digraceland speaking poetic truth to the Mugabe regime and other bad regimes. He owns the Time of the Poet blog zine, MIOMBOPUBLISHING that published the #GlobalCallforPeaceProject titled the Second of EARTH is Peace. A LETTER to the PRESIDENT his experimental resistance poetry collection was released in August 2019 by Mwanaka and Media Publishing. Co- Authored Whispering Woes of Ganges and Zambezi with Sweta Vikram in India. Good Morning President his first poetry collection was published in 2011 by Zimbabwean published based in United Kingdom, Diaspora Publishers.COVID 19 Satansdeadly fart is forthcoming. Chirasha is Founder and the Chief Editor of Brave Voices Poetry Journal, https://bravevoicespress.home.blog/ and WOMAWORDS LITERARY PRESS,https://womawordsliterarypress.home.blog/
MORE INFORMATION visit, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mbizo_Chirasha
TIME OF THE POET REPUBLIC- An Internet based Writers Center, Archiving Theme based Digital Poetry Anthologies and publishing Iconic Poets ,Writers and Artists from around the globe. TIME OF POET REPUBLIC was founded by UNESCO-RILA Affliate ARTIST. Freedom of SPEECH Fellow PEN-Zentrum Deutschland.2019 African FELLOW ihraf.org and Acclaimed Literary Arts Diplomatie,Mbizo CHIRASHA