Wednesday, October 30, 2019
în noapte
în noapte
sângele meu se înalță ca un balaur
ce casă frumoasă
aici de ce nu locuiește nimeni?
suflă peste acoperiș și-l distruge
rămânem
descoperiți
pentru o lungă călătorie
pândește cât pândește cea mai mică mișcare.
trezește-te! aveai înainte o viață.
luna își dezvăluie coridoarele lungi și înguste
casele se reconstruiesc cu străini
dimineața
ne trezim
goi
vulnerabili
și triști
Dumnezeu împarte semne
- știm cum să facem și singuri
cel puțin pentru azi alung prima emoție
primul gând
- știm cum să facem și singuri (strig din nou fără cuvinte)
tăcerea e bună
numai atunci când e cea mai adâncă
nu-mi mai trimite semne doamne
du-te de la mine ca de la unul care nimic nu mai știe
cum noaptea știe
numai să fie
Sunday, October 27, 2019
Sylvia
"Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens" (Sylvia Plath)
Saturday, October 26, 2019
I belong to no one
am ploaia aici. las-o să cadă
nu știai?
copacii sunt mai mândri de rădăcinile lor decât de rugina violentă din frunze
drumul - de capătul lui
lumina coagulată. ochii care plâng
Dumnezeu multiplicat în fiecare om singur
mai rămân
excesele
furtuna
și restul cuvintelor
în care nu mai cred
nu știai?
copacii sunt mai mândri de rădăcinile lor decât de rugina violentă din frunze
drumul - de capătul lui
lumina coagulată. ochii care plâng
Dumnezeu multiplicat în fiecare om singur
mai rămân
excesele
furtuna
și restul cuvintelor
în care nu mai cred
Mark Strand, Dark Harbor #10
"It is a dreadful cry that rises up,
Hoping to be heard, that comes to you
As you wake, so your day will be spent
In the futile correction of a distant longing.
All those voices calling from the depths of elsewhere,
From the abyss of an August night, from the misery
Of a northern winter, from a ship going down in the Baltic
From heartache, from wherever you wish, calling to be saved.
And you have no choice but to follow their prompting,
Saving something of that sound, urging the harsh syllables
Of disaster into music. You stare out the window,
Watching the build-up of clouds, and the wind whipping
The branches of a willow, sending a rain of leaves
To the ground. How do you turn pain
Into its own memorial, how do you write it down,
Turning it into itself as witnessed
Through pleasure, so it can be known, even loved,
As it lives in what it could not be."
Hoping to be heard, that comes to you
As you wake, so your day will be spent
In the futile correction of a distant longing.
All those voices calling from the depths of elsewhere,
From the abyss of an August night, from the misery
Of a northern winter, from a ship going down in the Baltic
From heartache, from wherever you wish, calling to be saved.
And you have no choice but to follow their prompting,
Saving something of that sound, urging the harsh syllables
Of disaster into music. You stare out the window,
Watching the build-up of clouds, and the wind whipping
The branches of a willow, sending a rain of leaves
To the ground. How do you turn pain
Into its own memorial, how do you write it down,
Turning it into itself as witnessed
Through pleasure, so it can be known, even loved,
As it lives in what it could not be."
Monday, October 21, 2019
Monday, October 14, 2019
Sunday, October 6, 2019
Letter to a Mute, Thomas James
"If I could reach you now, in any way
At all, I would say this to you:
This afternoon I walked into a thicket
Of gold flowers that had no idea
What they were after. They couldn't hear a thing.
I walked among a million small, deaf ears
Breaking their gold into the afternoon.
I think they were like you, golden, golden,
Unable to express a single thing.
I walked among them, thinking of you,
Thinking of what it would be like
To be completely solitary. Once I was alone like that.
All the field was humming, brimming
With some brazen kind of song, and I
Thought that somehow I could disappear
Into the empty hall of your right ear,
Wandering through the slender bones of you.
But I knew that I could never let you know
That it is lame summer here, that I
Can hear the crickets every evening
Hollowing out the darkness at my window,
That you have vanished into a dark tunnel
Where I have tried to reach you with my mouth
Till my mouth ran gold, spilling over everything.
Tonight I looked into your face, tenderly,
Tenderly, but I can never find you there.
I can only touch your quiet lips.
If I could stick my pen into your tongue,
Making it run with gold, making
it speak entirely to me, letting the truth
Slide out of it, I could not be alone.
I wouldn't even touch you, for I know
How you are locked away from me forever.
Tonight I go out looking for you everywhere
As the moon slips out, a slender petal
Offering all its gold to me for nothing."
At all, I would say this to you:
This afternoon I walked into a thicket
Of gold flowers that had no idea
What they were after. They couldn't hear a thing.
I walked among a million small, deaf ears
Breaking their gold into the afternoon.
I think they were like you, golden, golden,
Unable to express a single thing.
I walked among them, thinking of you,
Thinking of what it would be like
To be completely solitary. Once I was alone like that.
All the field was humming, brimming
With some brazen kind of song, and I
Thought that somehow I could disappear
Into the empty hall of your right ear,
Wandering through the slender bones of you.
But I knew that I could never let you know
That it is lame summer here, that I
Can hear the crickets every evening
Hollowing out the darkness at my window,
That you have vanished into a dark tunnel
Where I have tried to reach you with my mouth
Till my mouth ran gold, spilling over everything.
Tonight I looked into your face, tenderly,
Tenderly, but I can never find you there.
I can only touch your quiet lips.
If I could stick my pen into your tongue,
Making it run with gold, making
it speak entirely to me, letting the truth
Slide out of it, I could not be alone.
I wouldn't even touch you, for I know
How you are locked away from me forever.
Tonight I go out looking for you everywhere
As the moon slips out, a slender petal
Offering all its gold to me for nothing."
Saturday, October 5, 2019
carte
"...Ce carte, un chip omenesc! "
( Julien Green, Jurnal, ed. Univers, Bucuresti, 1982, pg. 138)
( Julien Green, Jurnal, ed. Univers, Bucuresti, 1982, pg. 138)
Wednesday, October 2, 2019
Tuesday, October 1, 2019
concession, bukowski
"did you ever see a horse with
a broken leg
trying to stand on that
leg?
I don't have the guts to watch, I
have to look away up into the
grand-stand and there another terrible
sight awaits me, all those human faces
and I have to look away again as
the darkness descends and you
become aware of your heart, your
throat, your despair, your mind and
what's left of your spirit, that's
when you know that you've never
accomplished anything worthwhile-so
cart the horse away, nuke the humans
and the cities, trash history,
just leave standing there my shoes, untied,
the left one upright, the right one on
its side, there like that, frozen
in time, empty forever."
(Charles Bukowski, Slouching Toward Nirvana)
a broken leg
trying to stand on that
leg?
I don't have the guts to watch, I
have to look away up into the
grand-stand and there another terrible
sight awaits me, all those human faces
and I have to look away again as
the darkness descends and you
become aware of your heart, your
throat, your despair, your mind and
what's left of your spirit, that's
when you know that you've never
accomplished anything worthwhile-so
cart the horse away, nuke the humans
and the cities, trash history,
just leave standing there my shoes, untied,
the left one upright, the right one on
its side, there like that, frozen
in time, empty forever."
(Charles Bukowski, Slouching Toward Nirvana)
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