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A Lament for Europe
Land of the Setting Sun
Caldron simmering in hungering desperation
To regain the smacks of the Past.
You seek to lunge ahead
On the energy of Your logic
And hopes not yet lionized.
You call upon Your histories
To lend strength to Your phantasies.
You coil up hard on Your proud self
Wrinkled and weather-beaten.
You struggle to nurture new flowers
On the dry rot of Your haunted memories.
Your youth, sniffed upon by strapped canine squads,
Rape-hate in Your stadiums
Striped with electronic rejoinders
To press softly-pliant, gaily-tinged plastic buttons.
Your elderly curl their ways to bankrupt health ministries
Where physicians fool with forms
And fill in football pools.
Your neighbors to the East—
Brazen, sordid—
Yank towards You
Roughly extracting for exacting theirs craved for.
You, Europe, sit pickled—
Soused in the juices of Your scummy heretofore.
Your dabblers in politics set flags unfurled
And their powers shame—
Shame!—
This Our world.
Anthony St. John
Friday, February 27, 2009
Complainte pour L'Europe
Complainte pour L’Europe
Terre du Soleil Couchant
Grande chaudière bouillonnant en désespoir affamé
Pour retrouver les saveurs du Passé.
Tu essaies de Te projeter en avant
Sur l’énergie de Ta logique
Et d’espoirs pas encore idéalisés.
Tu invoques Ton histoire
Pour fortifier Tes fantaisies.
Tu t’accroches serrée à Ton orgueilleux moi
Gercé et corrodé par les intempéries.
Tu t’efforces de faire pousser de nouvelles fleurs
De la putréfaction de Tes mémoires tourmentées.
Tes jeunes, flairés par des équipes de chiens en laisse,
Violent-haïssent dans Tes stades
Trainés avec des allèchements électroniques
A presser de tendres et colorés boutons de plastique.
Tes vieux serpentent avec fatigue vers des ministères de la santé en ruine
Où les médecins s’amusent avec les formulaires
Et remplissent des fiches du loto sportif.
Tes voisins de l’Est—
Arrogants, sordides—
S’agrippent à Toi
En prétendant rudement ce qu’ils convoitent et leur dû.
Toi, Europe, tu es assise embaumée—
Imprégnée des jus de Ton méprisable temps qui fut.
Tes politiciens amateurs déplient des drapeaux
Et leurs pouvoirs font honte—
Font honte !—
A ce monde qui est Nôtre.
Anthony St. John
Terre du Soleil Couchant
Grande chaudière bouillonnant en désespoir affamé
Pour retrouver les saveurs du Passé.
Tu essaies de Te projeter en avant
Sur l’énergie de Ta logique
Et d’espoirs pas encore idéalisés.
Tu invoques Ton histoire
Pour fortifier Tes fantaisies.
Tu t’accroches serrée à Ton orgueilleux moi
Gercé et corrodé par les intempéries.
Tu t’efforces de faire pousser de nouvelles fleurs
De la putréfaction de Tes mémoires tourmentées.
Tes jeunes, flairés par des équipes de chiens en laisse,
Violent-haïssent dans Tes stades
Trainés avec des allèchements électroniques
A presser de tendres et colorés boutons de plastique.
Tes vieux serpentent avec fatigue vers des ministères de la santé en ruine
Où les médecins s’amusent avec les formulaires
Et remplissent des fiches du loto sportif.
Tes voisins de l’Est—
Arrogants, sordides—
S’agrippent à Toi
En prétendant rudement ce qu’ils convoitent et leur dû.
Toi, Europe, tu es assise embaumée—
Imprégnée des jus de Ton méprisable temps qui fut.
Tes politiciens amateurs déplient des drapeaux
Et leurs pouvoirs font honte—
Font honte !—
A ce monde qui est Nôtre.
Anthony St. John
Lamento per l'Europa
Lamento per L’Europa
Terra del Sole Calante
Calderone ribollente in famelica disperazione
Per ritrovare i sapori del Passato.
Tu cerchi di proiettarti in avanti
Sull’energia della Tua logica
E di speranze non ancora idealizzate.
Tu invochi la Tua storia
Per rinvigorire le Tue fantasie.
Ti avvinghi stretta al Tuo orgoglioso io
Screpolato e corroso dalle intemperie.
Ti sforzi di far crescere nuovi fiori
Dalla putredine delle Tue tormentate memorie.
I Tuoi giovani, annusati da squadre di cani al guinzaglio,
Violentano-odiano nei Tuoi stadi
Strisciati con allettamenti elettronici
A premere morbidi e colorati bottoni di plastica.
I Tuoi vecchi serpeggiano stancamente verso ministeri della sanità in rovina
Dove i medici si trastullano con i moduli
E riempiono schedine del totocalcio.
I Tuoi vicini dell’Est—
Arroganti, sordidi—
Si aggrappano a Te
Pretendendo rudemente ciò che bramano e credono dovuto.
Tu, Europa, siedi imbalsamata—
Impregnata dei succhi del Tuo spregevole tempo che fu.
I Tuoi politici dilettanti spiegano bandiere
E i loro poteri vergognano—
Vergognano!—
Questo Nostro mondo.
Anthony St. John
Terra del Sole Calante
Calderone ribollente in famelica disperazione
Per ritrovare i sapori del Passato.
Tu cerchi di proiettarti in avanti
Sull’energia della Tua logica
E di speranze non ancora idealizzate.
Tu invochi la Tua storia
Per rinvigorire le Tue fantasie.
Ti avvinghi stretta al Tuo orgoglioso io
Screpolato e corroso dalle intemperie.
Ti sforzi di far crescere nuovi fiori
Dalla putredine delle Tue tormentate memorie.
I Tuoi giovani, annusati da squadre di cani al guinzaglio,
Violentano-odiano nei Tuoi stadi
Strisciati con allettamenti elettronici
A premere morbidi e colorati bottoni di plastica.
I Tuoi vecchi serpeggiano stancamente verso ministeri della sanità in rovina
Dove i medici si trastullano con i moduli
E riempiono schedine del totocalcio.
I Tuoi vicini dell’Est—
Arroganti, sordidi—
Si aggrappano a Te
Pretendendo rudemente ciò che bramano e credono dovuto.
Tu, Europa, siedi imbalsamata—
Impregnata dei succhi del Tuo spregevole tempo che fu.
I Tuoi politici dilettanti spiegano bandiere
E i loro poteri vergognano—
Vergognano!—
Questo Nostro mondo.
Anthony St. John
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Poetry by Me, Anthony 10
The Death of a Friend
Paul is now dead;
Eats not his bread.
Worms in his head,
Churn to be fed.
Gas bloats his guts;
Ooze muffs his nuts.
Grubs suck his butt,
Down to a scut.
Slime chills his cist;
Stench cuts the mist.
Clenched are his fists;
Spent are his gists.
Paul was my friend;
Now it’s the end.
Sad is my life;
Life and its Strife!
He was to me,
That which was free.
He let me know,
How I should flow.
Paul’s not in sight;
That is my plight.
Even his fame,
Sets low my flame.
25 April 1989
Paul is now dead;
Eats not his bread.
Worms in his head,
Churn to be fed.
Gas bloats his guts;
Ooze muffs his nuts.
Grubs suck his butt,
Down to a scut.
Slime chills his cist;
Stench cuts the mist.
Clenched are his fists;
Spent are his gists.
Paul was my friend;
Now it’s the end.
Sad is my life;
Life and its Strife!
He was to me,
That which was free.
He let me know,
How I should flow.
Paul’s not in sight;
That is my plight.
Even his fame,
Sets low my flame.
25 April 1989
Poetry by Me, Anthony 9
Adidas ZX 600
A state of the art running shoe,
Absorbing stress as legs strike;
That tenders months of use so true,
And fine feelings nearly dovelike.
Synthetic suedes set the fashion,
And flex points ease curls in tendons;
Pre-moulded supports made of nylon;
Polyfibers clock shock absorptions.
Forefoots designed to give support,
To let the jogger feel comfort;
And padded collars with soft protect,
To offer top runs near perfect.
ADIDAS coils me, springs me tall!
High to the sky, down to the ground!
Zlip-zound, zlip-zound, zlip-zound, zlip-zound—
ZX Six-hundred heeds my call!
17 July 1987
A state of the art running shoe,
Absorbing stress as legs strike;
That tenders months of use so true,
And fine feelings nearly dovelike.
Synthetic suedes set the fashion,
And flex points ease curls in tendons;
Pre-moulded supports made of nylon;
Polyfibers clock shock absorptions.
Forefoots designed to give support,
To let the jogger feel comfort;
And padded collars with soft protect,
To offer top runs near perfect.
ADIDAS coils me, springs me tall!
High to the sky, down to the ground!
Zlip-zound, zlip-zound, zlip-zound, zlip-zound—
ZX Six-hundred heeds my call!
17 July 1987
Poetry by Me, Anthony 8
The Age of the Assassin
Oh pathetic Head of State!
There you faint with head poised straight.
“Superstar”—so you are,
Sober still ‘neath ev’ry star.
You wear the mask of strong emotion,
While causing no real great commotion.
God-like with the Atom Bomb;
Weak-kneed in a woman’s charm.
Perfectly potent is your pose;
Visibly shaken is your prose.
Fake vim stakes your foreign plank,
With hopes that foes clinch bull’s-eyes blank.
Red-faced top chief: The Apocalypse?
Pee-brained ally to Political Pimps.
Your signals set flags unfurled;
Your powers shame this our world.
15 July 1987
Oh pathetic Head of State!
There you faint with head poised straight.
“Superstar”—so you are,
Sober still ‘neath ev’ry star.
You wear the mask of strong emotion,
While causing no real great commotion.
God-like with the Atom Bomb;
Weak-kneed in a woman’s charm.
Perfectly potent is your pose;
Visibly shaken is your prose.
Fake vim stakes your foreign plank,
With hopes that foes clinch bull’s-eyes blank.
Red-faced top chief: The Apocalypse?
Pee-brained ally to Political Pimps.
Your signals set flags unfurled;
Your powers shame this our world.
15 July 1987
Poetry by Me, Anthony 7
Hip, Hip, Hurrah!
for C. K. Scott Moncrieff
Oh good grief!
Scott Moncrieff!
You raised to the heights
With your lush delights:
Worthy translations!
(Exultations mulled mushy with euphony!)
Wordy mutations!
(Transfigurations spiced with gentility!)
You had no easy chore in store
To cull sweet sense from vulgate forms,
Haughty in speech stretched forth galore;
Blatant high-soundings typed in swarms.
You jostled fashion in your joust
To find the right sound—le mot juste!
When deemed it so, you blue-penned “oust!”
To awkward false friends frank but soused.
From your toughed gut you howled high your roar
To loam firm this thought of Henry Moore:
At ease the soul sings out whole the score,
As knowing it very well before.
Oh good grief!
Scott Moncrieff!
10 July 1987
for C. K. Scott Moncrieff
Oh good grief!
Scott Moncrieff!
You raised to the heights
With your lush delights:
Worthy translations!
(Exultations mulled mushy with euphony!)
Wordy mutations!
(Transfigurations spiced with gentility!)
You had no easy chore in store
To cull sweet sense from vulgate forms,
Haughty in speech stretched forth galore;
Blatant high-soundings typed in swarms.
You jostled fashion in your joust
To find the right sound—le mot juste!
When deemed it so, you blue-penned “oust!”
To awkward false friends frank but soused.
From your toughed gut you howled high your roar
To loam firm this thought of Henry Moore:
At ease the soul sings out whole the score,
As knowing it very well before.
Oh good grief!
Scott Moncrieff!
10 July 1987
Poetry by Me, Anthony 6
Tame Tennis
Beer and Pretzels and Tennis
Loosen tense muscles and senses,
For all to enjoy
With oodles of joy,
Hours of “ping-ponging” sessions.
Conk…Conk…Conk…Conk!
Sets and Aces and Matches
Strengthen thin biceps and triceps,
For flights of delight
With thews oh so tight,
Yet sporting no cuts, no scratches.
Conk…Conk…Conk…Conk!
Nets and Chalked-lines and Outskirts
Contain vain outbursts and outcries,
For frivolous rows
With curtsies and bows,
This slugfest of introverts!
Conk…Conk…Conk…Conk!
Conk, conk!
3 July 1987
Beer and Pretzels and Tennis
Loosen tense muscles and senses,
For all to enjoy
With oodles of joy,
Hours of “ping-ponging” sessions.
Conk…Conk…Conk…Conk!
Sets and Aces and Matches
Strengthen thin biceps and triceps,
For flights of delight
With thews oh so tight,
Yet sporting no cuts, no scratches.
Conk…Conk…Conk…Conk!
Nets and Chalked-lines and Outskirts
Contain vain outbursts and outcries,
For frivolous rows
With curtsies and bows,
This slugfest of introverts!
Conk…Conk…Conk…Conk!
Conk, conk!
3 July 1987
Poetry by Me, Anthony 5
Dead Chickens
Put out your hat
For chicken’s fat
Then watch the cat
Piss where they sat
Hands at the vat
Dip deep, then scat
To bring loud chat
Slacked to a tat
To chrome-hooked racks
To plastic sacks
“Jolly” sad facts
Slip through pat slacks
10 May 1987
Put out your hat
For chicken’s fat
Then watch the cat
Piss where they sat
Hands at the vat
Dip deep, then scat
To bring loud chat
Slacked to a tat
To chrome-hooked racks
To plastic sacks
“Jolly” sad facts
Slip through pat slacks
10 May 1987
Poetry by Me, Anthony 4
Italian Charnel House
A cloud of gloom
Shrouds Dante’s tomb
And none too soon
Before the Boom
Of cancerous cysts
And psychotic fits
And computer lists
And polluted mists
3 June 1987
A cloud of gloom
Shrouds Dante’s tomb
And none too soon
Before the Boom
Of cancerous cysts
And psychotic fits
And computer lists
And polluted mists
3 June 1987
Poetry by Me, Anthony 3
Spring Sprung
Spring has sprung
Among the crud
Of concrete slabs
And slimy waterways
Green life pushes
Through the pall
Of gooey gook
Drooling gloomy
Blobbed globs
Spongy respiratory organs wheeze.
Blood-pumpers rattle on to a deep freeze.
Gray cells slush drugged on all sides at their ease.
2 May 1987
Spring has sprung
Among the crud
Of concrete slabs
And slimy waterways
Green life pushes
Through the pall
Of gooey gook
Drooling gloomy
Blobbed globs
Spongy respiratory organs wheeze.
Blood-pumpers rattle on to a deep freeze.
Gray cells slush drugged on all sides at their ease.
2 May 1987
Poetry by Me, Anthony 2
Sunday Morning
Oh! How I love to mount from my bed—
To move my feet
To stick my nose
To raise my head
In Sunday morning’s pompousness!
Oh! How I love to walk in the sun—
To see the birds
To smell the hay
To feel the fun
In Sunday morning’s gorgeousness!
Oh! How I love to wait on a line—
To eat my food
To break my bread
To drink my wine
In Sunday morning’s stateliness!
25 January 1987
Oh! How I love to mount from my bed—
To move my feet
To stick my nose
To raise my head
In Sunday morning’s pompousness!
Oh! How I love to walk in the sun—
To see the birds
To smell the hay
To feel the fun
In Sunday morning’s gorgeousness!
Oh! How I love to wait on a line—
To eat my food
To break my bread
To drink my wine
In Sunday morning’s stateliness!
25 January 1987
Poetry by Me, Anthony 1
Emollient Mounds of Flesh
under An Olive Tree
A pudgy pudendum
Sullied with ringlets of silky short black hairs
Blurts out its lush onto the grass.
Pounds of muscle and fat
In rounds and carnal lanknesses
Lay on green ovoid fruit stalks below the mass.
Yellowy greens.
Leathery leaves.
Oily sardines.
A syringe there.
A condom there.
A tissue there.
2 January 1987
under An Olive Tree
A pudgy pudendum
Sullied with ringlets of silky short black hairs
Blurts out its lush onto the grass.
Pounds of muscle and fat
In rounds and carnal lanknesses
Lay on green ovoid fruit stalks below the mass.
Yellowy greens.
Leathery leaves.
Oily sardines.
A syringe there.
A condom there.
A tissue there.
2 January 1987
Monday, February 16, 2009
COMUNICATO STAMPA: Candidatura Nuovo Ambasciatore USA in Italia
PRESS RELEASE: Candidancy of Anthony St. John to Fill Post of USA Ambassador in Italy
COMUNICATO STAMPA
Firenze, 16 febbraio 2009
Anthony St. John avanza la sua candidatura come nuovo
Ambasciatore USA in Italia.
Anthony St. John intende presentare la sua candidatura per il ruolo di prossimo ambasciatore USA in Italia. Nato a Brooklyn, New York nel 1944, Mr St John risiede nel nostro paese da più di 25 anni. Laureato in filosofia e specializzato in letteratura inglese e nord-americana ha lasciato gli States poco più che trentenne. Reduce del Vietnam vanta la conoscenza di molte lingue avendo vissuto per più di sei anni in Venezuela. Tra le sue occupazioni anche quella di giornalista, attualmente si dedica alla letteratura come scrittore, ad opere di traduzione ed all’insegnamento.
Presenta un piano programmatico diviso in dieci punti volti a ristrutturare profondamente l’organizzazione dell’apparato di Via Veneto, anche attraverso proposte provocatorie.
Di seguito il programma nelle parole del candidato:
I.
Ordinerei immediatamente—con il consenso del Presidente—a tutto il personale dell’ambasciata e dei consolati degli Stati Uniti in Italia di trasferirsi nell’ambasciata americana in Afghanistan.
II.
Esigerei da tutto il mio nuovo staff di parlare in lingua italiana per aprire un dialogo—in italiano, FINALMENTE!—con il popolo italiano.
III.
Domanderei immediatamente che tutti i membri del CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY operanti in Italia vengano rimandati a Washington per un controllo della loro intelligenza.
IV.
Stabilirei il mio ufficio di ambasciatore nello scompartimento di un treno delle FERROVIE DELLO STATO italiano e con questo mi sposterei attraverso l’Italia dal lunedì al venerdì.
V.
Creerei un programma televisivo “Un Pomeriggio con L’Ambasciatore degli Stati Uniti” in onda ogni sabato dalle 16:00 alle 18:00 con interventi telefonici in diretta e servizi culturali.
VI.
Vorrei chiedere scusa pubblicamente a tutti gli italiani per la stupidità dei precedenti ambasciatori americani in Italia, che non parlavano italiano e non comunicavano con il popolo italiano.
VII.
Vorrei creare L’Ambasciata degli Stati Uniti del Popolo italiano e del Popolo americano aperta a tutti
e non dovrà essere un club esclusivo solo per i rappresentanti che hanno interessi speciali.
VIII.
Vorrei che vivesse quotidianamente come un qualsiasi cittadino italiano.
IX.
Vorrei portare gli italiani e gli americani ad unirsi in uno spirito di amicizia e di rispetto.
X.
Cercherei di innalzare in tutto il mondo il ruolo di entrambi Italia e Stati Uniti d’America, come esempi di pace e buona volontà.
* * *
Ufficio Stampa
Anthony St. John
anthony.st.john1944@gmail.com
335-6047381
COMUNICATO STAMPA
Firenze, 16 febbraio 2009
Anthony St. John avanza la sua candidatura come nuovo
Ambasciatore USA in Italia.
Anthony St. John intende presentare la sua candidatura per il ruolo di prossimo ambasciatore USA in Italia. Nato a Brooklyn, New York nel 1944, Mr St John risiede nel nostro paese da più di 25 anni. Laureato in filosofia e specializzato in letteratura inglese e nord-americana ha lasciato gli States poco più che trentenne. Reduce del Vietnam vanta la conoscenza di molte lingue avendo vissuto per più di sei anni in Venezuela. Tra le sue occupazioni anche quella di giornalista, attualmente si dedica alla letteratura come scrittore, ad opere di traduzione ed all’insegnamento.
Presenta un piano programmatico diviso in dieci punti volti a ristrutturare profondamente l’organizzazione dell’apparato di Via Veneto, anche attraverso proposte provocatorie.
Di seguito il programma nelle parole del candidato:
I.
Ordinerei immediatamente—con il consenso del Presidente—a tutto il personale dell’ambasciata e dei consolati degli Stati Uniti in Italia di trasferirsi nell’ambasciata americana in Afghanistan.
II.
Esigerei da tutto il mio nuovo staff di parlare in lingua italiana per aprire un dialogo—in italiano, FINALMENTE!—con il popolo italiano.
III.
Domanderei immediatamente che tutti i membri del CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY operanti in Italia vengano rimandati a Washington per un controllo della loro intelligenza.
IV.
Stabilirei il mio ufficio di ambasciatore nello scompartimento di un treno delle FERROVIE DELLO STATO italiano e con questo mi sposterei attraverso l’Italia dal lunedì al venerdì.
V.
Creerei un programma televisivo “Un Pomeriggio con L’Ambasciatore degli Stati Uniti” in onda ogni sabato dalle 16:00 alle 18:00 con interventi telefonici in diretta e servizi culturali.
VI.
Vorrei chiedere scusa pubblicamente a tutti gli italiani per la stupidità dei precedenti ambasciatori americani in Italia, che non parlavano italiano e non comunicavano con il popolo italiano.
VII.
Vorrei creare L’Ambasciata degli Stati Uniti del Popolo italiano e del Popolo americano aperta a tutti
e non dovrà essere un club esclusivo solo per i rappresentanti che hanno interessi speciali.
VIII.
Vorrei che vivesse quotidianamente come un qualsiasi cittadino italiano.
IX.
Vorrei portare gli italiani e gli americani ad unirsi in uno spirito di amicizia e di rispetto.
X.
Cercherei di innalzare in tutto il mondo il ruolo di entrambi Italia e Stati Uniti d’America, come esempi di pace e buona volontà.
* * *
Ufficio Stampa
Anthony St. John
anthony.st.john1944@gmail.com
335-6047381
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