Posts Tagged With: death

the wisdom of the ground


you are not worth yet the price of a mustard seed
you lived neither 7 years of drought nor 3 nights without a day
through the core of your eyes you let inside a hurry-scurry
of swarming cherry petals flocks of crowned swans sunrises with a purple mantle

and all the vain beauty of this world

the gray nun’s outfit is so straightly cut
and the vestment of the nightingale is so poor
so do listen my friend to the deaf-mute mother swaying her sleeping baby
listen to the wordless and powerful silence in the last communion

yet it is still too much

I saw once a woman in a funerary cortege, the other women cried aloud or wept along the way, only she lagged behind like a sluggish stone she hardly breathed when the road suddenly climbed and the funeral banner fell at the graveyard’s gate, she was still silent like the earth, some people said that she was a witch or evil because she did not speak, but she looked gently towards them with pure and sparkling eyes

I met once a man who loved his child and gave him a beautiful fairy tale to be read every night, after many years the child deserted him and did not come back, but the old man looked at the child’s picture with the same love in his eyes, when he died people said that he was a bad man because he kept silent and thus the rats ate him in his grave, but after a few more years his child became silent too looking at others like his father did once

you are not worth yet the price of a mustard seed and neither do I

Categories: My poems in 2016 | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

the law of the lid


all of them are striving and straining
all of them are writhing like fishing worms in a jar
and I still wonder why
all of them try hard to bite one more morsel
from the good ones who died young
from the too good who died very old
from me the one still lively
depending on the sun and moon errands

the more I look closely the more I see clearly
beyond clouds and imagined rainbows
beyond the supersonic flight or the anti-gravitational force
beyond the white weapons and the red crosses
the more they think that it is exactly me head over heels
while they are are only striving hard
like turbines through my living blood

all of us slaves belonging to two masters
slaves for the seen and the unseen
slaves for concessional cemetery plots
unlike the earth that can be stolen or bought
and can be lost
that is too heavy
and silent

Categories: My poems in 2016 | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

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

Categories: My Poems in 2015 | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

Memini Meminisse


That day I entered the corpse’s room. As it is customary, the mirror was covered. But I thought to myself: here are so many other yet uncovered mirrors, the eyes of those staying at wake are opened and in each eye you can find the neighbors’ eyes mirrored. Sometimes a teardrop mirrors in itself the image of funeral candles. Mirrors are endless, they grow one within the other, like deep wells inside other wells. Other things have precise borders in space, I can see there is an edge of the rain, an edge of my voice or an edge of the hearing of those who listen to me. If those people wanted to hide all mirrors in the room they should have entered there blindfolded.

And what is time? Does it have a border like all the rest? How much does it take until the light reaches the mirror and comes back to my eye? Do I see my future or my past? Do I really exist or I exist only as far as my senses are processed in some amount of time by my brain’s utilities? People break mirrors or they break up time in tiny pieces that resonate like the clock ticking in their ears or eventually like objects through the touch sense for the deaf. Did you know that hearing is considered to be the last sense lost before parting from this world? But the dead one, once he had lost all his senses, does he live now only in the living memory? Could it be true that our life is only memini meminisse? And is it memory itself a mere mirror? In our brain there is an area named Ammon’s Horn, with significance for the consolidation of human memory. Its name is a reminder of the sun god Amun-Ra, identified subsequently with Zeus for the Greeks, an antique source for a partly monotheist vision of the universe. Since we appear in this world we are prisoners of centennial memories, because the human embryo evolves through different stages, similar to some characteristics found in different other adult beings, from amphibians to primates.

Meanwhile, people gather round the coffin, touching each other and singing the song of the eternal peace and remembrance. It is the circle of senses of those alive close to the departed one, the circle of hearts pumping warm blood, the circle that is still pulsating and alive. I believe that eternity exists, and the moment is only an illusion.

Categories: My Poems in 2015, prose, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

Black Pines Alley


maybe too close from my house
maybe above or
maybe below
up to the small window there grew hunks of rotted flesh
eyes molding without eyelids hearts over hearts bitten by rats
grinning skulls with black tongues smiles eaten by mites
red spiders instead of lips
and i started to scream in a whisper swifter and swifter
because i was drunk from so much death
and i was lost
wondering why all these/ how did they get like this/
/what do you hold against me/
after all
i can’t depart for another star

here lies a saint as pure as the driven snow/ there a sinless virgin/
on the other side those dead in the name of justice/
everywhere all the innocent ones
only worms and yellow rats with swollen bellies
and above it all not a single flower

keep silent/ i can’t listen to you any longer/ i don’t want to/
let solely the rain fall/ to wash out/
all my memories are flesh from my flesh/
the angels’ dreams are the wings of my dreams/
barely i understood that they too are the same
that all of them my lord were so clean/ so good and white/
they were just people
for they rotted easier/ faster than the leper’s flesh
and their bones were cleansed like autumn trees
of falling leaves

Categories: My Poems in 2015, Uncategorized | Tags: | Leave a comment

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