Rain, come again,
full of promise & truth.
0Endless onslaughts on my garden
have damaged the trees of light,
destroying my butterflies in dark.
Death was my private thing,
moon, come again.
Deep in my throat
a cuckoo sings for a queen of darkness,
to invite the mists & clouds,
I cannot speak for now.
Ancient history is repeating the story.
At dawn the shadows are gone.
From unknown to unknown
a thought moves
impinging the landmarks.
I pick up the nameless pebbles.
Time crashes, death and life play a game,
memories wear the grey
costumes of fear & pain.
In the Whirlwind is a poetic storm that frees history from the cages of corruption and puts it in the hands of everyday people. Words are weaved into a new fashion statement that has nothing to do with runways but everything to do with projects!
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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