Franke Wednesday
Piya Italia
Poems of love, longing, and freedom — and the traces we leave behind.
LOVE · FREEDOM · MEMORY
Karmic Debris
Two voices. One restless era.
THE COLLECTION
Very alive.
And together.
It was a dynamic time in the late 1960s and 1970s, full of hope and freedom. Karmic Debris brings together two writers who were very alive — and together.
WHERE DO POETS GO…
What of the self
is not your own?
How to express your quest? Mouth vexed... vital?
Franke Wednesday · Marshfield, Massachusetts, 1971
Where do poets go…
If not back to their words,
not to someone else’s hidden meaning.
What of the self is not your own?
To live by the words, to stand by them...
Who will pay for that?
Yet, somehow, beneath it... hovering above,
lay an even more intense desire for the truth.
Franke Wednesday
Marshfield, Massachusetts · 1971
FROM THE PAGES
Fragments that stay with you.
01 · MEMORY
It was autumn of 1970
Two sweet souls, gathering wood...
on a windy beach
Two tiny specks, wandering, free...
in the omnipresent emptiness.
Franke Wednesday
02 · LOVE
Reassessments
You finally arrived via my early morning dream
kissing my temple, exclaiming its softness and
proclaiming your love.
Piya Italia
03 · MUSIC
The Drummer
I feel the native beat thanks to the drummer
with his music like a lonesome train.
He’s always dreaming of a song.
Piya Italia
READING ROOM
The complete pieces.
Take your time. Stay with the words.
IT WAS AUTUMN OF 1970
Piya and Franke were driving towards the Massachusetts coast, speeding south away from Quebec City... their 1963 Rambler flashed past small French-Canadian villages. They had a wad of cash, no constraints, and no plans, except... being together.
They finally came to rest... at a lonely blue house, on the edge of a salt marsh, with the ocean a short distance away, and the constant sound of the waves filling their subconscious.
It was getting cold; the seasons were turning. Their big red dog lay outside, guarding the door, his face into the wind... waiting for the eminent winter to arrive. And they heated the house with driftwood... blazing in the fireplace... with Piya’s whispers in the night. The two of them... inside, safe, secluded... in love.
It was there they melded together; there that a mystical dialogue began between them, both simultaneously being... and resisting. There, that their fates were forever sealed.
Two sweet souls, gathering wood... on a windy beach. Two tiny specks, wandering, free... in the omnipresent emptiness.
Franke Wednesday (Intro to The Narrow Path of Love)
Reassessments
You finally arrived via my early morning dream
kissing my temple, exclaiming its softness and
proclaiming your love. They get misdirected
or become disaffected.
I knew I was dreaming – the state
of another illusion, but I was reluctant
to chase away such a simple
demonstration of happiness,
and I allowed my body to
sink lower in the
sub... and you continued to
press your lips to my temple.
Suffocation –
Fast love
Piya Italia
Where do poets go…
If not back to their words,
not to someone else’s hidden meaning.
What of the self is not your own?
How to express your quest? Mouth vexed... vital?
Questions tetter on the edge of an awesome decravity.
To live by the words, to stand by them...
Who will pay for that?
To be the exact measure...not a mirror held up
when certain broad categories are represented.
How to be viable... but still be allowed the title... Poet.
One conscious iota makes you a liar.
The uncertainties don’t subside
They are like an infinite line of Persians popping up
on every rock at Marathon... nagging and intrusive.
There have been circular days and nights,
when the pressure of questions stabbed at sanity.
Yet, somehow, beneath it... hovering above,
lay an even more intense desire for the truth.
What is a poet’s life but purgatory?
Franke Wednesday/ Marshfield, Massachusetts 1971
The Drummer
I feel the native beat thanks to the drummer with his music like a lonesome train.
He’s always dreaming of a song.
Only me, in my lost world, listens to this drummer.
He never forgot my everlasting love.
An ache, a pain - alone
Piya Italia
LISTEN
Poetry, in the voice.
Looking for Pearls
Looking for Pearls uses: “A Far Away Place.” By Mathew Halsall and the Gondwana Orchestra, 2014
KARMIC DEBRIS
Carry the words with you.
A collection of poems by Franke Wednesday & Piya Italia.