My Poems in 2015

why does the thinker from Hamangia sit in the window of a travel agency


now it was the time to sit propped on my elbows
upon my share of sky waiting for the end of the world
(everyone knows what this means) I and all the children of my age
with their parents
and axis mundi
and the hatchet chopping always something else
more or less barren

I still have my geographical atlas from gymnasium
back then we played the game of statues and we tickled stones
and the laughter
was gargling close to our ears
like the water of the sweet spring source
from which I was piously exhorted to drink
innocence/ silence/ eternal youth

it is more common to see people coming back from their death
than the man with his tight lips kissing
the wall of wails and gufaws
kissing the heart of the cross
that sometimes looks like a man propped in one leg
stuck into the ground with his life in other men’s scripts
with his large arms still bearing fruit

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the book in Esperanto


I always know for sure when it is full Sunday
by the way my viscera is folded and covered inside
the sun cannot be caught today it’s like a fearful hedgehog but
things still have a soft velvety shadow
Ophelia still sings lullabies for the garden snails in their shell
hiding behind wild raspberry and whitewashed walls healing sighs
that won’t yield their soul from the rib cage
Daniel still fights dreams and clutches the dragon’s horns
after all Heraclitus was not right
in my brain there’s a gold mine a thick vein searched over and over
by miners with lamps in their hands and mining helmets
always at the same foraging point

from all these in the end only love will be left
love as a pure ore for you – my wingless love good folks Samaritans
for every wound crossroads pathway all of them leading towards the sun
since a good age onward

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a thousand ways to say no


she was left for hours in the Tuileries Garden/ with the taste of too sweet pancakes filling her world for the years to come/ she waited near the public toilet in Schönbrunn Palace’s park/ she traveled with her knees squeezed on the economic bench in the non-ventilated tourist bus/ among the odds and ends of the western and central Europe/ exactly like her life was/ she found herself only in awkward postures with the window of the third grade hotel opened towards a blank wall/ a white and clean wall/ the back of another building that’s how everything was/ she still remembered because she had been reading book after book until the world became full of palimpsests/ each time she opened another roll the letters ran into one another

she still used to sing in her mind Norma’s aria/ she discovered that she could sing in her thought without words and finally she understood the mystery of composers deprived of hearing/ the secret scheme of naming the big city’s streets or naming different stars/ now that she could imagine the stages of a rose’s blooming like a time-lapse video

she saw herself in the ballroom with mirrors covering the ceiling/ by the arm of an engineer without musical hearing/ dancing tango perfectly and mechanically/ like the tiny wheels of a watch in God’s pocket/ she prepared her steps minutely as if a technical project yet she always made mistakes/ he held her tighter and tighter saying that all women have dancing in their blood

but she knew that it was not so

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iconography


of course The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci was for me that room with painting replicas printed on paper inside mother’s dowry house/ my grandparents raised buffaloes pigs horses and different chickens but they did not have yet a tv set in that room/ they still wore their old times folklore costumes on Sundays and on holidays/ on the road between my yesterday’s and my today’s eyes/ the masters’ paintings turned me back home after many years/ when I started to read art history and the past was like a museum/ mother this is your daughter/ the one who prefers now Fra Filippo Lippi and Pierro della Francesca/ the one who found by herself the mystery of The Flagellation of Christ before reading renowned critics’ opinions about it/ mother there are dark mists in your eyes/ look at me and please remember those icons and Easter postcards smeared with candle wax/ the icons that cry tears/ pearls of color layer after layer/ the icons with hieratic gestures from the times when you used to say how masterly are their hands painted/ you with your long fingers just like mine/ you who let gliding between us memories about future that you forgot afterwards/ the way the river flows in its bed and all the other rivers sewn on peasants’ shirts/ leave aside the flagellation of Christ mom/ let’s think together about your cheesecake spread with egg yolks and well colored up and maybe we will save some money for you to bake it at Easter time

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super-stitions


i fear
for the night hour when the clock’s second hand moves backwards one second
for the dreams of the child who counts how the old bed crackles three times
for all the flags or banners with three colors and for all those who say three two one go

yes i’m afraid
of rebellious numbers mad banshees amazons armed with arrows or eucalyptus candies
i fear that saint george won’t thrust his spear deep enough this year
i fear to throw pearls of wise fairy tales in front of those who don’t need stories
i measure the time honestly with the hour three a.m. still uncertain between night and day
through the heat left by poppies in the field
through the number of white stars in the hair of a lonely woman

i fear that i will pull out the silver jesus from the crucifix and i will sell it
as a legitimate part of the saint trinity
for a bit of bread or white soap

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