Always struck by infinity,
I was searching a center,
and time was walking through me mutely.
Covered in tremors I was ready to abdicate
the flavours of life.
Exhausted, wearing rags of knowledge
I discovered the finite in hostile virtues.
This was a manic dance full of foggy dreams
scaling the impossible insomnia
and silence was falling like snow flakes.
Silhouette of death hovers around the praying lips,
we pocket the coins of memories
and forget the bitter past.
Perpetual stress breaks the neck
awfully engraving the pain.
I stammer for a barometer.
I perceive you my ghost, a reminder
of my frightened childhood, when I lost my home
in the labyrinth of mirrors.
Cannot stop it, the dark now spreading in the eyes,
My kids won’t understand my hushed withdrawl.
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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