Nadio Granata's Personal Blog

Context: Flying from Cairo to Milan for a family wedding after cycling from Huddersfield to southern Egypt. Incomplete.

14th March 1987

In one foul swop we sail away
Onboard our hearts and minds they play.
In the bosom of man’s playbird we drink
Of our times past, we sit and we think.

A land of beauty and ancient craft
With columns of gold reflecting the facts.
Our tales with Pharaohs are bound to lie
For they are the voice from out of a land so dry.

21/4/87
And when we stop to say a prayer or two,
To thank our Gods for their blessings on view
Forever to Egypt our hearts will return
Hers is the torch of beauty we burn.

Her people are Arabs, not always a fault
But without mercy, I’m sure their wounds we will salt.
Their lies and their pleasures, to us no game
Many would go hungry and yet we would feel no shame.

One day we might venture to return a while ….. (incomplete)

Context: Written whilst leaving Cairo for a wedding in Milan and heading back home after approx 10 months cycling to southern Egypt
Date: 22nd of February 1987

As time has passed and the seasons have changed
The cold has long gone through the breeze remains
To tell the story of our travel so far
Is a toil too heavy, the distance is too far
Our minds, they hunger, our thirst not quenched
Our vision is not over, still not quite drenched.

To tell the story about our travels so far
At times so clear but sometimes so dark
The lands we have crossed on the seas we have sailed
The horizon is a beauty both bright and pale
Those mountains and valleys and roads that roll
Have not all been pleasure, the hay not always so gold.

As the waves break and caress the sand
My mind is deep and it’s waves transcend
They have a burden, a distant twinkle of a star,
Keeps asking me to tell of our travels so far
A tale of hunger from knowledge and times of joy
Of people and places, thoughts we will never destroy.

The rains have come, the snow we have skied
At times have been varied on you pleasures we feed
The sun has the dins but now does burn
And with new health and vitality return
The story is onwards tomorrow a new start
And that is the essence of our travels so far!

“Jump” … said the rock to the snail with the bitten nails and an escalope for its tail knowing full well that it’s ship had already sailed.
And with a leap of faith and a heart of cake he reached for the stars of marzipan and the Kenneth Clark-like moon deep in space.
“Splash” screamed the pond with an indignant look of angry tamarind sprinkled with essence of effervescent and incandescence topped with marshmallow soaked in nepotism.
“Splash indeed” mocked the snail as he sank to the abyss rather painfully and thoroughly pissed.

Chronicles of Chaos
8/2/2020

Vanity is to profanity
As insanity is to vein.
Proximity is to taxonomy as destiny is to remain.
Myopicy and biopsy, trigonometry and Timbuktu…
Totology and friganometry and pythonomy is all but true.

Dexterity is to meritoxity
As purility is to pain.
Extremities and tanacities, spontanaties and calamities,
Purilities poking fun at verilities
And serenities misguide those who remain.

Poem
1/9/19

A silence is never without sense. Acoustically amazing or painfully intense. A good silence is often sought after and celebrated like an icon from the past or a vision to behold whilst holding one’s breath.
A bad silence is torturous in a sea of words not spent. It’s an affront to the ears at a time that makes no sense. It’s a punishment beyond any misdemeanour short of the gravest and even then it’s the silence that hurts more than any time spent. To kill with silence is to pierce deeper than any sword and leaves no trace, no scar … nothing at all.

Poem

Lake Maggiore

“Let’s start a tectonic revolution” said the china side plate to the muscle-bound dinner plate. “We can change the world …” was the phrase that stuck in the mind of General Teacup as he amassed his army of teaspoons and mobilised the Sugar Lump Army.
“Take no prisoners” they yelled as they fought the Diabetic Army across the fatty plains of the Western Dining Table whilst the rest of the set remained hidden in their cupboards and drawers, pretending not to notice …

Poem
11/2/2020

“Spot on” said Delirium to Mr Assertive in the library whilst stirring his cup of elixir with his worn out candlestick.

“Genosicle pesticide and herbaceous fractulation is all that’s left to save this Nation of incumbent turbines and coefficient co-signs”.

Such was the influence of my friend Delirium that the Nation prementioned took heed and conventioned a retention in a State of perpetual intervention.

My friend Delirium …. is funny. Fucking funny. Delirium is his name. But that’s not what makes him funny.
Del ir ium …
poem

Synonyms and acronyms and postulations too.
Fantasies and heresies and democracies who rule.
Memories and testimonies and deliberations we knew.
Intestate and aggravate and postulate for the few.
Gesticulate and remonstrate and extrapolate the fume.
Transpire or expire and fumigate the queue.
Translate or migrate, exterminate the new.
Hypocrisies and autonomies in times of synchronomies too.
Extremities and perplexities of words to do describe me, not you.

Poem

This is no poem. Perhaps a soliloquy or transcript of what’s in my head. To be poetic right now would be to mask the thoughts that crumble in my bed. No. This is no poem. It’s a plea. An ask. An absolute requirement. A condition of conditions. A demand without the threat … a realisation that maybe this book is misread. Like the Diary found underneath the tree, our relationship was not meant. For you.
Sorry, that was from me.

Vanity is to profanity
As insanity is to vein.
Proximity is to taxonomy as destiny is to remain.
Myopicy and biopsy, trigonometry and Timbuktu…
Totology and friganometry and pythonomy is all but true.

Dexterity is to meritoxity
As purility is to pain.
Extremities and tanacities, spontanaties and calamities,
Purilities poking fun at verilities
And serenities misguide the few.

Poem
1/9/19