Monthly Archives: September 2012

Blazing White

It was snowing too insistently,
snowflakes almost as big as the eye,
over nostrils, over half-open lips,
over the white lace shawl from my grandmother,
exactly when I was not supposed to wear it.
I had the profile of a porcelain statue
like a Russian girl proud of her kokoshnik.

After a while I started to breathe now and then,
choked first while crying, then while sighing
and finally while hiccuping.
Maybe because of cold and bewilderment,
or because of the strange story about mulled wine with cinnamon.
How could he possibly hide in my blood then
when I had grown up with bitter cherries and wild sorrel leaves,
when I had sipped the milk foam my whole childhood
without crying on the blanket made of rough sheep wool?

How could that man travel through my heart’s mill stones
without being ground down completely?
Now only tears are sticking over nostrils, over half-open eyelids
like a glue from a sour cherry bark wound.
Not a single barrier, not a single one way sign,
not a single red traffic light
or at least a church with saint relics.

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Fiat Lux

on the corridor without light
every proprietor has his door
behind which he repairs
floors walls windows
he sharpens blunt knives
chops food for dogs
parsley leaves for soup

have you seen somehow nobody
I’m asking the closed doors
with the back still straight
in this wonderland nobody is crying
the others are blind for autumn colors
they place eyelid over eyelid
lightly like leaf upon leaf
heaps of eyes without eyeballs
without opening

I can still see to knock on doors
stretching forth the charity box
in the dark
hopes are thin fingers
touching lightly the globe
a toy that doesn’t turn
and yet it staggers

the sun shows up beyond the clouds
every time silence is here

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The Wagon with Planks

the horse drawn wagon with a wooden heart
climbs slowly without border planks
the old man drives his horse at the walk
as if he were counting in his mind

each tree has a heart
young ones answer with a faint voice
the poll of the axe strikes to test them
sometimes a stronger echo from the other trees
it’s a sign the axe will strike deeper
right in the heart with scarce sap
and all wood poles will go down tied to the wagon
as long as dew shines in the fields

now there’s only one road left
slowly in the wagon with its planks raised up
the old man lies tied at his ankles
behind the wagon small spiders are jumping
tired of all that sunlight and dust
searching for shadows under planks
and red carnations will fall from children’s arms
as long as tears are in the eyes

from time to time the others’ echo
is answering stronger
like a single heart in a forest

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sculpture in a living wood (experimental prose poem)

i still fear heavy furniture particularly that made of black polished rotten wood … i wouldn’t visit anymore museums or antiquity houses even if they had no mirrors a sad song for a blue heart grows between me and the round burnt clay … i don’t admire anymore clavichords with encrusted roses the two inherited paintings are blaming me for everything i couldn’t forget … one day the furniture started to crackle as if it were a mad crickets’ song in full sunshine … with my heart bumping from stop to stop i ran in the street but the clouds didn’t come to let me run barefooted in the rain to fall like a discharged lightning in the gutter’s mud …

so many ant hills and so many wild beehives were built in my marrow … i stay underneath sighing heavily and i see i feel through my fingertips their march from corner to corner … i never got along with insects it is my fault … except for the summertime butterflies and at most dragonflies weddings or autumn ladybugs … lately i found i can speak the language of mites i wake up at night when one of them climbs over my bed i can predict every newcomer regardless of its size … maybe my blood is like old wine now and my heart measures the time along with the insects until the earth takes a rest in winter … and in march even if it is on annunciation day the same cross will weigh on our backs the same chain of wild weaknesses ties us to the living forest where trees fall on their feet …

i understood late that between me and the moon there is only one acrobatic vault in a spider’s web … much too late …

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I lay on the narrow bed
with my mouth open
a mosquito bites my tongue
just when I was dreaming to speak

something about the last war
or the long lasting peace without borders
pointing with the machine-gun
to the insect fallen in a moon’s crater

I wake up with bloody lips
because of too much silence
and words lost on the front
without question marks
like apples of Discord sliced with the axe
like a black box of a guillotined pilot

thrusting deep the champagne cork
to avoid an explosion
I drink only sweet water from a spring
consecrated at day break

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