Sunday, December 08, 2013

Candle lit note

[...]

this is not a confession
it's a singing lesson for the deaf
where my demons
sitting pretty 
on the white fluffy rug
play scrabble
with yours

Photo by I Must be Dead Photography

Monday, December 02, 2013

Dearest Virginia





(reply)


I, too, am certain that it is harder and harder to stay afloat. The water is fast and deep and my pockets full of stones. I feel I have surrendered to a life I cannot breathe or bare or wake up to any more. I tried like you tried and failed like you failed and without you I would have thought that hope is still a pear waiting to be picked in a Sussex garden. I feel I did not understand this until you asked Mrs Dalloway to visit and she brought cake and we had tea and spoke about parties and vegetables. I'm afraid I've been buying the flowers myself for far too long or so the voices say. They are carnations and hydrangeas and perhaps lilies and sometimes I'm not certain which ones to choose, at all. I wanted to thank you for the other day when I heard the Big Ben chimes and remembered what you once said to me in London: *"The leaden circles dissolve in the air”. They did and I cried for no reason, no reason at all, because there was no reason left to cry for. If anyone could have saved me it wouldn't have been you. You opened my eyes and now, on sunny, monotone afternoons, I can even make up the face these hands are firmly holding under the surface.


C




*excerpt from Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Hmmm?




what is this tip toe dance I’m doing
around a purple room
without me moving a limb?
this pursing of lips and
imaginary fingers catching their kiss
at the other end

and this song?
I know this song
 the sounds climbing my frame
up and down, up and down
from pianissimo to forte to pianissimo
why sing it now,  in my dressing gown
smiling in front of a mirror like a dumb man
staring at his feet in a summer puddle

a child is blowing soap bubbles through a straw
in my head
and while my hat is still on
and no one can see a thing
I’m going to corner him
I’m going to catch him
I’m going to grab him by the hand and ask him:

what is this? what is this?

Monday, November 11, 2013

Pseudo (non-identity)




acestui nume mic îi vom da încă unul
şi încă unul şi încă unul
pînă la ultimul
posteritatea îl va descoperi singur, mumificat
într-un colţ de grotă
o stalactită atîrnînd şui din tavanul alfabetului mort

prima vocală-i va fi şi ultima
consoana - sufocată în faşă
de iedera suindă pe minciuna propriei cruci
marele cuvînt va fi bolborosit în neştire 
în limba tăcerii

şi cînd ne vom aduna cu toţii, în blănuri de animale la gura peşterii
trecîndu-ne mîinile prin păr, prin foc şi pietre
ca un lup alb, sideral
de printre nori se va-ntrupa brusc luna
[auzi cum îi trozneşte-n fălci lumina?]
ea vine, ea pleacă, ea urlă
ea vede şi ştie

să ascultăm deci, să privim şi să ne rugăm
să hăituim aceşti pereţi
în puncte puncte
cu dalta





Sunday, October 20, 2013

a.m.

dezlipeşte-ţi frunzele de pe nas, cască lung
 unge-ţi încheieturile cu bale de melc
şi fă-mi un ceai cu lămîie si miere
întinde-mi turturele pe sîrmă şi lasă-le să-şi fîlfîie trilul degeaba
în ochiul meu trîntor, nemişcător

prosteşte-mă cu o veste bună , scurtă, neadevarată
cu o orhidee înflorită în şanţ, cu un val nespart de ţărm
 încuie uşa şi-nghite cheia ca pe-o felie de măr
dă-te aproape, aici, pe pat,  lîngă mine

aşază-mi un şal din caşmir pe umeri
o mînă de bărbat pe genunchi
şi citeşte-mi un articol banal din ziarul de ieri
lumea e un demon rătăcit prin coridoarele raiului
cîţi morti, atîţia vii, şi-o singura ramă
din care trebuie să zîmbim cu toţii

pune-mi un Bach
lasă-mi draperiile trase ca un capac de cosciug
nu-mi arăta ceasul cu limba, nu-mi scoate capul din căpiţa cu nori
şi nu mă întreba ce-am facut aseară

dimineaţo, de nu mă laşi să termin poemul ăsta
jur  că mă urc pe tine şi


Sunday, October 13, 2013

I do


do you follow rainbows to the end of the road
and pretend they end there with a screech of the breaks
or perhaps you miss the train and convince yourself that
you were on the wrong platform or you were there just
waving someone goodbye
or do you receive flowers from people you never loved
and your ‘thank you’ is the discorded key of a piano
 in the middle of a concert
do you make someone cry and comforting them is a trembling hand
a surgeon never shows the world
do you etcetera your list of to do’s into a painted oblivion
and never ever want to admit
that your blues are not just a shade of angry skies
do you talk too much so you can never hear
the voice of your loneliness
bouncing of the walls of your room
do you read tones of recommended books  
to help you catch another day
while tomorrow comes and discards you into yesterday
without a word of apology
do you stumble across true love and wish you broke a leg
rather than a heart


do you think this poem is nothing to do with you

Saturday, October 05, 2013

Apucîndu-l de falcă



ridică-te
ridică-te şi umblă îţi zic
ori vrei să fi cărat cu roaba la groapa cu ceilalţi
ce-mi stai chircit între pături cu pumnii la gură
în noptile albe şi reci, ca-n pian clapele
te scoală , blegule bleg
vrei  lapte? struguri? lego?
vrei  trup de bărbat? inimă de copil?
ai tras după tine un tanc peste carne şi oase
şi-acum te culci peste ele
le pipăi, le pupi şi le mîngîi pe cap
hai, mişcă un deget
spală un geam, udă un ficus
fă viaţă în jur
Merde! arăţi ca o ploaie de vară-n găleată
pune-ţi bigudiuri, caută-ţi rujul, fă piruete-n vitrină,
umbră de femeie nebună
ţi-am adus Rumi şi Lulu şi un braţ de buline
degeaba-ţi rozi unghiile cu nasul în zid şi genunchii la piept
degeaba mori, degeaba iubeşti
sufleţel, de n-ai fi al meu aş rîde de tine
pînă mi–ar crăpa faţa

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Monday, September 16, 2013

The last straw...



No. It is not his birthday, or the anniversary of his death.
In fact there is no reason for this post apart from the obvious one (known by many by now): Bukowski is a poet. And this is a good reason to commemorate him and his work as often as time allows it. (He would so laugh at these words if he was still alive)

I asked myself many times why love his work? Why obsess with a guy that drunk, cursed and used women instead of tissues.Why bother buying another poetry book signed by him? Why even planning to go visit his grave some time in the future?

And I bet there are a few more other questions out there my subconscious has not as yet processed.

Hank was a hater of people, a hater of poetry readings, a hater of conventionality. Yes, he loved his alcohol, his classical music, his gambling on horses and I believe he loved the idea of love - which may or may not be anything to do with the women he encountered.

Who cares?

 The thing that keeps me hooked is his cunning ability to be honest, brutally open about taboo and totally exposed to the waves of pain and deception life throws at any given time.

The link will take you to the last public reading he ever made, the last straw...






Tuesday, September 03, 2013

Hemoragii

Hemoragii


e smoală cu crini şi pericol iubite
castroane  cu stele se sparg sus de cer
şi palmele noastre alintă cuţite
şi lumea se plimbă cu paşi de-ofiţer

duminica ţipă la vrăbii şi-nghite
plăcinte cu măr, praf de puşcă şi gin
şi lanţuri ne trag înapoi zornăite
şi-n parcuri cresc tei cu miros de pelin

la şoapte ne luăm şi murim din cuvinte
ce nimeni nu ştie cînd/ cum/ cît le-am spus
şi gloanţe de frică ne-aleargă prin minte
şi plîngem cotoare de soare apus

ei rîd şi ne-arată cu mîna-nainte
noi poftim şi tîrîm setea  goală prin spini
şi mă strigi şi te-aud şi tăcerea-i fierbinte
şi aş vrea şi te-ntorci şi-i mereu şi suspini

e linişte-n noapte,-i răpciune iubite
castroane cu stele se sparg sus de cer
şi lumea se culcă pe cant de cuţite
şi inima bate ca un pas de-ofiţer