the hours

fancy teeth. fancy smile
let me describe them

the best of me in the dark
the best of you. the best of the best of everything
in this particular order

enthusiasm
your body stores the past years
the hours of the sun
of many nights
the hours of children. of mirrors
nothing for God

you'll return here one day
the good music gone with its echo

shrieking sirens digging deep tunnels
in your downsized body

you would most certainly want to forget.
you would want to dance
then dance!
you resemble a cut lily with so little water
in a hand made vase.
a person loses control while dancing.
a string less dragon kite
up in the sky.
a drone gone missing behind the clouds

that silky yellow dress
bearly touching your knees
a folding fan

granite weaving

"if it rains tonight, will a raindrop be my cell?" (tom sleigh)

no one can do this
fire and ice coming out of her mouth.
in her pursuit to justify her own voice
she separates the sounds from the lyrics

the second half of her life would be so much different
easily mesmerized
bending her own rules
living while still alive

eyes so sharp
webbed with desire and lust

strange lips
craving to take the shape of the last meal
closed tight at night
shining granite weaving
following a kiss or a monstrous fight

Granite Weaving, 1988, by Jesus Morales

sonic poetry

selectie audio Era liniste si era bine

https://archive.org/details/voice-015_202005

I let go

this void playing its trumpets
my skin burnt
my eyes blinded by someone else's words
you've let me here like a ring of fire
to walk towards myself
no shortcuts
my own voice lecturing me:
you are you
plus your deliberate sadness you no longer can control
I'm holding my chin in my palms
then I let go. I'm drawing a circle
a paper plate
a perfect apple
(it won't go bad anymore)

another day draws to a close
the untouchable vista marching away
in this rusted silver nothingness

don't come empty handed

what should I do with this version of myself
where to take it from here
the sky so flimsy
the earth
so hard in the middle

my body resembles this city
no possessions no walls to defend

my memory talks back to me
no results found except a few magical
places

this game we call "game"

life we call living. talking. destroying
I suddenly shiver

what matters is to identify who's under that mask
love                      can you fill in the space
enough for a thunder
for one great song
don't come empty handed
it's almost late afternoon

when love looks at you, you never look back

break my soul at once do not delay it
shards of glass boneless fingers beating the tempo of death
my closed eyelids in the shape of your beautiful face
we've never been to Ravena
how come I remember
its victorian houses at dusk surrounded by gardens of roses
the hypnotizing lilac
a song never written
the endless wooden cross

God's no trespassing signs

don't forget to take your vita
mins
they taste of grass mixed with blood
now put your mouth to the gutters
drink

spare yourself
do not expect any miracles
love is a dead sparrow falling from the sky

I don't believe in stories with happy end
ings
I don't believe in stories of any kind

the wind feels great
I'm dreaming about dreaming
pale like I was
on that day of june '74
my parents looked at each other thinking that I was born
just to teach them
the best way of dying on your very own birthday
I heard God saying that he did not want
any legal custody over me
so I was sent back

today I'm putting blocks in between.
when I was asked
I told my kids that death is no
thing else but a squized lemon
at the bottom of the garbage bag
I couldn't find a better definition
I never tried

steps in the snow

look at me. I've ripped pages of my own diary
heavy with life
all those possessions
thoughts about death and its many sounds
on behalf of those
countless nights
you know where to go from here
unharmed
wanting to change what cannot be undone
gasping for a breath of fresh air.
your heart a ringleader of a circus
a convivial joke-teller
an absent servant.
perhaps today is your lucky day
in the right corner of your house
very soon the cherry tree will want to talk to us
I will invoke the same allergies to dust
it's middle of April
snow all around
one more line
one line for a good ending
a long, unwanted pause

goodbye to the lights

It's raining. I never thought something like this would be possible
today
I am having a taste of it
I' m having a taste of your brilliant mind.
is it worth waiting for the sun to appear?
to take off my coat
for if the sun would send its rays to a place like ours
the storms will dissapear
the rain drops will fall somewhere else
like a pot of tea boiling marbles.
today I will not make any stories about my armless body,
its glowing sadness
this hairy creature at the bottom of the sea
a sexy shrimp shacking its rear end
a hot engine going in circles
and sideways
a muscle car needing lots of repairs.
behind this reality we drink big glasses of pink lemonade
where is your dear friend?
where is mine?
let's hold hands and never look at our elbows since we are
over 40 years old.
this time of year the water is cold
the market empty
this time of year the church keys are hidden
we can't detect the smell coming from any bakery
in the other room there is somebody else waiting, somebody crying
you've already said goodbye to the lights
and to all the things that will never happen to you

Worlds Apart

silent in America

death has more stories than life. it will
multiply us as we are.
dont't feel too bad about your last round
of delicate lies.
we have lived like amateurs. we gambled.
we loved

what have you done to us, death?
do not antagonize me
not now. the streets are all yours
let's open this locked down book store
let's talk
I am an agent of myself. I can speak freely
and you know that I know
where is a bed, there is a night

hope, my essential travel kit from one room to another

for hope is gone missing. then hope is the shape of my heart.
my house.
its lights pulsing

I'm waiting for the night to fall
so I can start living.
I wanted to ask you if the ocean is freezing this time of year
if blood is changing its color
when sirens are passing swallowing the air

I found myself driving on the wrong side of the road
there were no signs to direct traffic
there was no traffic
there was no one.
no one at all
I made myself sure I was dreaming

we have enough toys left to teach them to dance
with each other
we have enough food in the pantry
to last us for an entire month.
we have strong vocal cords to soften our affection
enough time to teach our children
that art is the way of living.

oh silly me
to think that life before yesterday was slow in giving.

when death is singing, all glass shatter
this marvelous
unsettled blue light
bleeding

shifting sides

me, myself, I
who would start in such an unusual way?
all the things I don't really know
my unborn wishes
my last words

why don't you come back in a few years time
look for me in the same place
I heard you were a necessity not a luxury, dream

your business with yourself changes day to day
bring yourself a rootbeer, a mirror, a folded leaf, a rock,
an extraordinary thought.
make acquaintance to yourself
wait for yourself at the door for a tip
after all, you deserve a little consideration

promise yourself to make promises to yourself
to tell yourself stories. upgrade them to an ambient melody
a space themed song

empty yourself, make yourself rich
lock yourself with the others, accuse yourself, find yourself guilty
untie yourself, find a way out

do the trick you tought yourself
talk. well done. now talk again

hey, don't leave! come back, I tell you,
come back, you son of a bitch, don't leave me here
all by myself

among the action figures and dreams

how many of my dreams I told you so far?
you are the only one I can trust to enter this building
surrounded by high, invisible walls

a yellow tulip was sent to me
there was no card
no love message, no goodbye
and as it goes in life, it was the end of that

I swapped my old dream for a new one
I ran and ran on the same road
like a mouse in a trap
someone had caught me and shot me with a real gun
I could still taste the blood in my mouth

the war will find you if you close your eyes
don't close your eyes
please don't close your eyes

dreams have no catchy phrases
no heros, no saviours, no behind the scene lights

you meet strangers
highly intelligent parrots on their shoulders making the introductions
we smile
we talk so fast
filling the empty pots

go-to-link

https://antoneseiliviu.wordpress.com/2020/03/17/cercul-poetilor-aparuti-5-adela-rachi-magenta/

uncollected hours

guilty of today. of green eyes.
of uncollected hours
I have tried all of these. I was only successful
in holding my breath. hiding
the lack of dreams only means that dreaming has started
elsewhere

the only memory I have is filled
with the nightfall of my all-day words -
my own voice
expanding the walls of my chest
landscapes of hope
a mountain of water and blood
crispy and hot
a crescent moon. a tower of grass
the salt from an apple
a trap

this cold air

I wrote to you all night

darkness is getting ready

to separate itself from the light

strawberries. tongue on fire.

a foreign language: myself, I.

 

the sky is turning. I can hear the clouds.

I can hear Nothingness

in its shape of life.

its traces all over the windowpane

 

what did you leave for us, God?

the dust.

our parents' bones. their faces in oval frames

the letter openers.

false hopes

the narrow streets of Constantinople

this sudden desire to dance.

 

oh, what curse some words bear

 

what power

to replace love

 

our hearts

sponges soaked in blood.

 

a wound in the corners of my mouth, your absence

I will not apply ointment

nor cry.

 

this cold air caresses my hands like a holy shroud

Acolada no. 2 -February, 2020

Skara Brae

a house for the living
a house for the dead

in skara brae village
they found lovers' bones
unseparated for five thousand years
under their bed

imitating life
mocking death.

I won't give myself away
I will bury layers upon layers of my skin
all around -  a fertile air

a territory

please wait for me. tomorrow we'll celebrate
we'll claim that the wind brought us to life
only to hunt us down

a sacrifice for the only god that survived
the invisible one
the revengeful one.

I could see him smiling
picking us up from the crowds
like books from the shelves
judged by their covers
by the experienced hands of a blind man

this page that page

pairs of silenced lips screaming
we fight we kick

we'll never get used to the cage
we'll never escape.

hope shrinks
sadness drips
the end never ends

link de la L. Antonesei

https://antoneseiliviu.wordpress.com/2020/03/09/cercul-poetilor-aparuti-1-adela-rachi-era-liniste-si-era-bine/

The very eye of night lapis lazuli

https://gloveofbones.com/2020/03/08/the-very-eye-of-night-lapis-lazuli/

poster paul klee and me

two poems by Hilda Hilst, brazilian poet ( 1930-2004)

from “TEN OVERTURES TO THE BELOVED”

 

"If you find me nocturnal and flawed

Look again.  Because tonight

I looked at me as though you were looking.

And it was like water

Wanting

 

To slip its home from the river

Without even touching the bank.

 

I looked at you. I’ve known for so long

That I’m land.  For so long

I’ve prayed

Your body of water most fraternal

Would stretch out over mine.  Shepherd and sailor

 

Look again. Less loftiness.

More care."

(tr. Beatrice Bastos)

_____________________

Desire

"Because there is desire within me, everything glimmers.
Before, daily life was thinking of heights
Seeking Another decanted
Deaf to my human bark.
Sap and sweat, they never came to be.
Today, flesh and bones, laborious, lascivious
You take my body. And what rest you give me
After the readings. I dreamt of cliffs
When there was a garden by my side.
I thought of climbs where there were no signs.
Ecstatic, I fuck you
Instead of yapping at Nothingness."

(tr. Lavinia Saad)

piensa en mi

Hilda Hilst

Send me word, if you can,
"The moon is full, the house is clear."
Send me word, and paradise
Shall be nearer, and your uncertain face
Shall seem more recent.
Send for me if your day
Is as long as your night. If it's true
Without me you see nothing but monotony.
If you remember the gleam of tides
Some pale red fish
In certain seas
And my wet feet, send me word:
"It's a moonless night"
And dressed in light, I come to see you again.


---


I smile when I wonder
Where in your room
You keep my verse.
Away from your
Political books?
In the first drawer
Close to the window?
Do you smile when you read
Or are you tired of seeing
Such abandon
Amorous spark
On my ripened face?
Do I seem beautiful
Or am I to you, perhaps
Too much of a poet,
And not serious enough?
What does the man think
Of the poet? That there's no truth
In my drunkenness
And that you prefer
A friend more peaceful
And less adventurous?
That you simply cannot
Keep in your room
Worldly traces
Of my passionate words?
Do you see me as mad?
Do you see me as pure?
Do you see me as young?

Or is it true
That you never knew me?


(translated from the Portuguese by Beatriz Bastos)

Milk and honey

Landscape

"What is life but soft desires"*
but so is death.

The smell of earth
makes us love what is good to be loved

A burning log tells yet another story
someone was lying that there's no other
left to be told
where is the end
if no one was there?

We take over something
and make it better or worst
using watercolors
and words
the background
invisible
like the most secret thought

Poetry is my craddle
you write and I humm. I write and you sing
bending over when the powerfull sky passes

What is good to love?
the toenails of my kids
the May breeze
a kiss
a kiss
Li Po and Clarice
the stairs of my house
the blooming lilies
all living creatures in the nearby forest

the shoulders of the ocean
each goodbye that promise a return

the subtitles in my native language
clouds in a warm season

the last act of a drama
the dreamlike improvisations the twenty-eight Angels
and the mosaics of Venice
as painted by Klee

you
loving me

_______________________________________________
* the quoted verse - Alphra Behn (1640-1689)

still life with dove

în toate lucrările lui klee
lacrima e departe de ochi. izvorăște din altă parte
ochiul meu atât de aproape de ochiul tău.
un singur gând efemer le ține captive pe celelalte. au adunat
destul pentru un big party.
magenta un violet palid
sunt jumătate din umbra mea
undeva între furie și blândețe
mă înec în pieptul tău.
lichenii din inima mea îmi decorează trupul cu radiații.
dorința este forma poetică a celui mai ascuns gând
îi aduc ceai din plante și un scăunel confortabil.
adoarme

Nicola Porpora - Le limpid' onde

La multi ani, Oana!

" No one truly lives.  
My characters are my loss of sleep.  My homelessness. My fail.
I am a charlatan. I suppress them, I pity them. I leave them incomplete.
They become my everydayness.
My characters have no past, no future, no common sense. 
Their openness makes them shockingly rare.
I am the gaps between their words,
the Christmas lights when one of them is broke,
the lost and found...
It's the opening night.
My characters went looking for the dreamlike words,
and I am still alive."
(from the Literary Manifsto)

I could be happy

Dan Giosu "să mor frumos, să bată vîntul"

https://melidoniumm.wordpress.com/2012/07/08/dan-giosu-sa-mor-frumos-sa-bata-vintul-poezie/#

https://antoneseiliviu.wordpress.com/2020/01/21/cercul-poetilor-aparuti-6-adela-rachi-life-is-a-loaded-gun/

https://antoneseiliviu.wordpress.com/2020/01/21/cercul-poetilor-aparuti-6-adela-rachi-life-is-a-loaded-gun/

neighborhood

la adresa mea locuiește altcineva.
arată ca mine dar ar putea trece
drept oricare altă femeie. un azil. o margine de oraș.
un selfie. o pălărie. o sufragerie.
un vas.
o singură lacrimă te face more friendly with yourself.
nu ai avut vreodată forța
să dai starea asta pe-un urlet.
a renunța acum înseamnă a împărți
săruturi din scaunul electric
privitorilor de după sticlă.
casa vecinilor construită in anii '80 arde
cerul miroase
a nepăsare
și-a scrum.

I'm going in. Lhasa de Sela

Venim din aceeași moarte

Ești pe proprietatea inimii mele, pun candelabre de care se sparge întunericul și se prelinge printre picioarele dulapurilor. Toată noaptea vânez bufnițe mute, care prevestesc răul. încă există. Le las să-mi respire în ceafă.

Mă arunc în nimic să pot să revin. Îți zâmbesc complice.  Venim din aceeași moarte.

Nu avem loc într-un singur ceas de perete, cu mâinile rămase pe dinafară ne ținem de tâmple, ne ținem de cuvânt, ne înghițim faptele, mișcăm acele orelor. Așteptăm.  Miroase a gem de cireșe și-a nori. 

Ești filmul color care rulează de la mijloc, fără început și fără sfârșit. Împart bilete la intrare, nimeni nu cumpără. Mi le îndes în gură, le simt în plămâni. "the evening has landed"

Eminescu si vocea lui Petru Cretia

http://www.radio-arhive.ro/articol/petru-cretia-citeste-un-sonet-de-mihai-eminescu/2534471/5881/2?fbclid=IwAR2gj1wt1qGnu8rTX6_RSWs0MaLRCFXHI8Ye3eWjqGMYH_40stbZ9DGy-pA#.Xh7arlp1QFs.facebook

sleeping inside

Tenebrae, Paul Celan

"We are near, Lord,
near and at hand.

Handled already, Lord,
clawed and clawing as though
the body of each of us were
your body, Lord.

Pray, Lord,
pray to us,
we are near.

Wind-awry we went there,
went there to bend
over hollow and ditch.

To be watered we went there, Lord.

It was blood, it was
what you shed, Lord.

It gleamed.

It cast your image into our eyes, Lord.
Our eyes and our mouths are open and empty, Lord.

We have drunk, Lord.
The blood and the image that was in the blood, Lord.

Pray, Lord.
We are near."                     

Paul Celan, Praise of Distance (from Poppy and Memory)

"In the springs of your eyes

Live the Madsea fishermen’s nets.

In the spring of your eyes

the sea keeps its promise.

Here, as a heart

that abode among humans,

I throw off my clothes and the glare of an oath.

Blacker in black, am I more naked.

Apostate only am I true.

I am you, when I am I.

In the springs of your eyes

I drift on and dream of spoils.

A net snared a net:

embracing we sever.

In the springs of your eyes

a hanged man strangles the rope."

the American Chopin

cu multumiri, din nou

https://antoneseiliviu.wordpress.com/2019/12/10/cercul-poetilor-aparuti-6-adela-rachi-din-frumusete/

introducere

" The bad light is here and nothing is real" 
(Alejandra Pizarnik)

vezi cum se deschide prăpastia. nu înseamnă că vei afla dinainte
cine nu va mai fi aici mâine
se aud tunetele undeva pe-aproape 
stropii de ploaie
vor șterge din urme
să nu mai speri. spune-ți singură bună ziua. noapte bună. dragă.
spune-ți tot ce-ai vrea să auzi. fă o pauză. repetă.
te dor toți anii ăștia de fugă
închide ochii.

și muzica asta de unde?
ce-ai pus în pieptul meu Dumnezeule
și cine-o mai aude?

All night I hear the noise of water sobbing - Alejandra Pizarnik

"All night I hear the noise of water sobbing. All night I make night in me, I make the day that begins on my account, that sobs because day falls like water through night.

         All night I hear the voice of someone seeking me out. All night you abandon me slowly like the water that sobs slowly falling. All night I write luminous messages, messages of rain, all night someone checks for me and I check for someone.

         The noise of steps in the circle near this choleric light birthed from my insomnia. Steps of someone who no longer writhes, who no longer writes. All night someone holds back, then crosses the circle of bitter light.

         All night I drown in your eyes become my eyes. All night I prod myself on toward that squatter in the circle of my silence. All night I see something lurch toward my looking, something humid, contrived of silence launching the sound of someone sobbing.

         Absence blows grayly and night goes dense. Night, the shade of the eyelids of the dead, viscous night, exhaling some black oil that blows me forward and prompts me to search out an empty space without warmth, without cold. All night I flee from someone. I lead the chase, I lead the fugue. I sing a song of mourning. Black birds over black shrouds. My brain cries. Demented wind. I leave the tense and strained hand, I don’t want to know anything but this perpetual wailing, this clatter in the night, this delay, this infamy, this pursuit, this inexistence.

         All night I see that abandonment is me, that the sole sobbing voice is me. We can search with lanterns, cross the shadow’s lie. We can feel the heart thud in the thigh and water subside in the archaic site of the heart.

         All night I ask you why. All night you tell me no."

Nicolae Labiş

"Pentru ce-am plecat,
Unde mă îndrept?
S-au întunecat
Sensurile-n piept,
Dar o flacără
Mă cheamă acolo
Sub straturi de nea
Şi vreau să treacă
Liniştea mea."

All I have to do

mi and l'au - philosopher

Gertrud Kolmar

"You hear me speak.  But do you hear me feel?"

nu vom muri

nu vom muri nicicând am auzit
țipatul răniților mult după ce războiul s-a sfârșit
am văzut chipul

ratării de la mijlocul vieții
când pătuțurile copiilor au fost înlocuite
cu rafturi.
Baudelaire. albatroșii din gips.
Thomas Merton. plantele cățărătoare de cameră

an după an
creștem frunze mari de lămâi
semințele călătoresc adânc sub pământ

prin capul meu câteva cuvinte se vânează
între ele flămânde. nicio satisfacție în asta
nicio bucurie

parcă nici nu mai sunt
mă las pe genunchi
îmi privesc umbra ca pe un animal de pluș
plâng
plânge

mă înalț să te-ajung

erik satie

Passing to Where? by Richard Brautigan

"Sometimes I take out my passport,
look at the photograph of myself
     (not very good, etc.)


     just to see if I exist"
                 
Tokyo
June 12, 1976

words we rearrange

spune-le asta oamenilor din burundi

îți rămâne doar o secundă
cât îi ia ghilotinei să cadă ascuțit
să treacă prin oasele micuțe de la gât făcându-le praf
de la te-iubesc până
la nu-știu-ce-se-petrece-cu-mine-nici-cine-sunt-nu-mai-știu
și cazi
fără cale de întoarcere
aici e moartea cea mai frumoasă
aici să rămână

those beautiful changes

într-o noapte la început de noiembrie ți-ai dus mâna la inimă

singură te-ai întins sub lespedea aia
de unde nicio voce nu mai răzbate

aici sus ne sufocă tăcerea. nu ne permitem plânsul. nici iertarea

decojim portocale. preparăm ceaiuri. ridicăm mâinile
taxi! taxi! iubirile de aer

ne pregătim să scriem

cu gândul la those beautiful changes
partituri muzicale de mult uitate

o femeie vorbește din când în când cu mama ei

de dincolo de fereastră
îi piaptănă părul alb. îi mângâie obrazul

soarele slăbit se retrage. somnul vindecă încă o dată

pământul dispare.

back to james tate's poetry

http://danagioia.com/essays/reviews-and-authors-notes/james-tate-and-american-surrealism/

perseverăm

va veni o vreme 
când cuvintele tale vor fi singurul tău judecător
a venit

Caiete, Emil Cioran

"Artistul care caută extraordinarul cu orice preț și în chip constant plictisește repede, căci nimic nu este mai nesuferit decât monotonia insolitului.  Nu există artă veritabilă fără un minim, de fapt fără o bună doză de banalitate. Importantă în artă e necesitatea.  Trebuie să simți într-un chip absolut că o operă e necesară, altfel nu valorează nimic și plictisește.  Iar dacă ne dă, fie și pentru o clipă, impresia că poate fi înlocuită cu oricare alta, totul se prăbușește."

proiect M

în vârful picioarelor către niciodată
te-ai hrănit din propria-ți inocență
altceva n-ai încercat
ai pășit de două ori
de trei ori pe același drum
ți-ai spus voi mai merge încă o dată
cine a mers va mai merge
cine a fost lăsat să aștepte va aștepta în continuare
copacul rămas fără frunze
crede că e deja mort
ba mai mult crede că vântul e moartea
atunci când șuieră peste case
îți refuzi chipul acela de parcă nici nu există.
haide. să nu facem asta cât e ziua
de lungă. cât e noaptea.
ceasurile au stat.
am făcut tot ce era de făcut:
am iubit. am visat.
tresărirea asta
ține-o bine minte
undeva chiar acum apune soarele

not entirely prepared for this

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

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)

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

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."

Make it rain

How it is

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."

carte

"...Ce carte, un chip omenesc! "
( Julien Green, Jurnal, ed. Univers, Bucuresti, 1982, pg. 138)

itaca_nr._27

https://issuu.com/emanuelpope/docs/itaca_nr._27

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)

drumul spre casă

fugi de ploaie prin ploaie

când deja ești ud leoarcă

îți știi bine chipul. gesturile.

minciunile mici
din joacă
jumătățile de propoziții. lungimea unghiilor
cămașa de noapte. ciorapii din nylon
inima strânsă - un fruct trecut
reflecțiile sângerii ale paharului din cristal de bohemia
sunetul gâtuit al robinetului
de sub fereastră

am clipit. am clipit încă o dată

toți au plecat.
m-am scufundat.

un copil plânge de sete, un altul de frica viselor

privește în jur. acesta e visul

mergi
fără grabă.
imaginează-ți ziua & noaptea
oamenii
stelele.
ia plastilină în palmele tale micuțe
fă-i pe toți noi și frumoși
așa cum faci soldăței.

viața adevărată e visul

copilul se îndepărtează

neliniștit.

iar ție

ție nu am nimic să-ți mai spun

nimic despre frumusețea interioară

nimic despre drumul spre casă

să nu mai răspunzi la atâtea întrebări deodată
iată zilele vin către tine cu mâinile goale

ξενiτιά του έρωτα

quercus alba

exact acolo s-a retras după-amiaza
trage să moară ca un animal singur

treci pe lângă ea cu părul în flăcări
hotărâtă
să-ți găsești adăpost
inima ta un pat moale fără oase
fără umbre

copiii deschid dicționarul la pagina despre zâmbet
și-ți citesc de-acolo sentințe

scurte pe care numai tu
le poți înțelege

strada se lungește
se bifurcă
rădăcini de stejar alb

prinzi curaj. faci primul salt
ești la al doilea

Dove

I've died a hundred times

ai venit aici să plângi
fața ta seamănă cu o statuie 
în stradă
 
trecătorii caută emoția pură. piața e invadată
de oameni. plouă. adorm
în picioare

you've died a hundred times.
lumina
nu mai e la fel

dintre toate clopotele orașului
numai unul se roagă

dintre toate apele curgătoare 
numai una se agață de podul acesta în formă de brațe

nu va mai fi un alt sfârșit
l-ai trăit cu fiecare scrisoare
scrisă și apoi distrusă.

repetă după mine

din frumusețe am venit, acolo mă voi întoarce

and the stars, they look like little mice

Vera Pavlova

When the very last grief

deadens all our pain,

I will follow you there

on the very next train,

not because I lack strength 

to ponder the end result,

but maybe you forgot to bring

pills, a necktie, razor blades . . . 

Source: poetryfoundation.org

sfârșit de zi

în buzunar pietre șlefuite de apă.
silence remains trapped.
mă învârt pe loc.
one step off the curve.
baloanele de la detergentul de vase plutesc
ca ochișorii peștișorilor nou-născuți în acvariu.
muzica imită vântul. 

vântul imită neantul.
I'll upgrade it to a dream. to a laughter.
ochii dizolvă întunericul.
ne pierdem la "ce-ar fi fost dacă"

The Broken Mirror by David Berman

"My life is almost over; that's a fact

Statistically derived but simply true;

I look into the mirror, but it's cracked

And so reflects two, three, or more, that lack

Cohesion.  Which one's goal shall I pursue—

My life is almost over; that's a fact—

In time remaining?  Luggage largely packed,

Past boxed and crated, little left to do,

I look into the mirror, but it's cracked

And won't be fixed and always did refract

The one before it into at least two.

My life is almost over; that's a fact,

But life cannot be lived in the abstract

And begs for certainties that it once knew:

I look into the mirror, but it's cracked;

I look away in search of the exact;

Nights melt the shadow shrinking from my view;

I look into the mirror, but it's cracked.

My life is almost over; that's my fact."