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Brigitte Rahman


Dhaka, Bangladesh

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the Capuchins


Brigitte Rahman

At dusk, the capuchins
walk through the walls of silence
tripping over a ground made weak
by the burden of a prayer no longer
sang away by the opium-fed masses.

the chalice wears the roughest hair shirt
a mad race to humiliation, a trance lying
on three hard boards
Where are the sheep? Where is the wolf?

The weight of human ego broke
the existentialist wheel into a flat ground
four columns of monks to keep the roof
of a pagan ritual, vertical and haughty.

Ecstasies of the soul are left to fend for themselves
in a confessional omission.
cells of stones drowned in nihilism.
A bell keeps ringing deep in human conscience
the smelling salt of the sublime is few

Copyrighted Rahman,brigitte arlette



Brigitte Rahman

Brigitte a.k.a. Anataali:
Every now and then I drop my chains of passion and as often as I can. The small poem Chains of Passion was written when I was in great spiritual pain: It may sound odd to you all, and perhaps psy-common, but the pain had taken over my days and nights, when all of sudden I started hearing within me a wonderful ethereal music like a minuet, I heard for months, hours long, it was never boring, yet it was repetitive. It would overcome reality and I am convinced that Mozart was playing in my soul. I was very attentive to it when the music started, it would lift the pain, like gathering it in a chandelier and release notes of music like dazzles, bringing a kind of self-hypnosis in which I could perform reality task, keeping my soul intact, and sedated in a way. In a strange way, somehow the painter Paul Jaisini who seems to have in the imaginary world to have gone through the soul sedation process, the survival of the fittest in spiritual ground. The music brought me to the drums !
and not the silence between the notes. In his death throes, Mozart was desperate to finish a drum peace. Probably because he knew his corpse would be thrown in a mass grave. There it is: very candid explanation.