Deucalion una cum Pyrrha coniuge fua, Themidis uatis oraculum, de reparando Mortaliu genere confuluit…


-          Ovid


when we are throwing stones,

if they could fall to the earth

and turn to beautiful bones.

which spring forth birth.

like Deucalion and Pyrrha’s work.


spared Jupiter’s wrath as the water came

they went to the hills and called Themis’ name.

as their virtue and love true was felt

the goddess blessed them as they knelt.


the rocks they gathered and sent off

turned soft and nimble like silken cloth.

but wait, then human form appeared

and the couple’s hearts no longer feared.


for because their passion and souls were real

the nymphs and oracles this could feel.

despite changing force of ocean and sky

this pair made heaven and spirit again fly.


so my darling I ask you this

could we breathe such life

with just one kiss?


or do the boulders simply turn

and gather moss

as our fears burn?


will stones we throw

keep breeding strife,

instead of bringing

forth sweet life?



The words I wish to hear

you say to me :

the same Deucalion

sang sweet to Pyrrha


“if the sea had you, I would follow you, and the sea would have me too.”


-          Michele Mician, June 2003





Name-calling is more devastating for children's self-confidence than physical bullying, a study suggests.

 – BBC News, April 16, 2003



I would rather have sticks and stones

there was the social manipulation,

 “no one else will want you,”

I think Olweus knows what I go through with you

It is criminal, it is brutal.





In the winter of my indecisioin
there are flakes of conciensce
that strike me on the nose
as if to give me sense
and then comes reason
drifting over me in a drift
of icy peculiarities that
are billions of different
patterns wide and the birth
of my beginning comes
three hundred and twenty seven lunar cycles
later than my mother's initial incarnation

Feeling as lovelorn and ragged as a Papusza
and just as famished for understanding
with a nom de guerre like ruza
I may travel across seas, finally landing
in Madagascar or Prussia - I sail.
Long and rough nights and dazing
For what seems like eternity - I wail.
I stop eating, while other madly grazing
get their fill an digest with ease.
Hoping for a reason, for a yes, for a no.
Without confirmation I still do as I please
and plot the next escape, the next go.

i cling to madness for comfort