Posts Tagged With: memories

imago materna


the maiden with black eyes and uneven bangs
lived near the Episcopalian hill
somewhere on the street of the Muses
she understood the difference between good and bad on her own
somewhere between youth and old age
in the times of the last gypsy caravans and hand-weaving shuttles
swifter than the shifting summer constellations

how much did I love you mother
how much I loved you when you put on your towel bathrobe
short just above your knees
strange how you had so many things in pairs and half of them you gave to me
women’s suits swimwear berets sleeping gowns ruby gold rings

it’s only memories my mother nothing more
sometimes life was havoc and woe amid so many Muses
moreover amid the masters of astronomic calculus
which one of us was a comet even I cannot tell
you shared with both hands and took back the same way
in fact the time that can be measured only by the wisest
the time that shook off both of us
as if we were two ripe golden apples in the unguarded garden

some stars have frozen hearts some stars still burn within their heart
and there is also the awe-inspiring nothing
or the little magnetic angel stuck on your fridge
the dreams with our dead ones angry upon us or upon this sinful world
and the crucifix hanging in the most sober and white corner of the house
where you my mother are living

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

3 paintings


3 watercolors of mine after Renoir’s paintings, originally painted in the years 2000-2001, scanned and digitally remastered, because now they are depleted of colors.

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fingerprints and stains


the most sorry I feel for my plate with a shepherdess
she cries after the lost black little sheep
stepping in her scarlet boots with bowed laces
with her crooked staff like white and red lollipop

those were things like an out-of-date passport
the mark left by grandma’s doily on the night table
the unfinished game in father’s pocket chess set
things handled by people with whom I used the same serving spoons
until they were taken away over the chairs

I would climb down from the attic with old things
I would open a book with fables in a new revised edition
because I have a flock of memories running through my fingers
I get up the courage to dial 911 then I mingle the figures purposely
today is my lucky day

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

rituals


let it be a white and round little house as if carved in a big pumpkin
so there is room enough for both grandpa and grandma
and for all my memories
the Naumann sewing machine the cuckoo clock in the front room
the handkerchiefs perfectly folded twice the candles spreading light
over the old photos hanging in frames on the walls
let me sleep like a baby hare between big down pillows with my feet
touching the warm terracotta stove tiles
let the bread dough in the trough raise by itself until the crust breaks
grandma makes the sign of cross over it and cuts it in seven
pours a drop of consecrated water over it
from that green pitcher with a thread of basil
to bring God too at our diner table
grandpa lights a terrible fire that makes you feel your knees mellow
he places the teakettle with wine on the stove for it is mid winter
and even the child could taste a mouthful
grandma sprinkles cinnamon from a small sachet hidden in the cupboard
she puts on her sheepskin vest with oblong buttons
and fetches another bucket of water from the well
while I sort out good white beans for our soup

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

Parsley and Parsnip Soup


with every new dawn a bitter illness grows around
too many people hide in their bosom the shame
of being alone
the secret that they keep in a drawer
some old coins rolled in a handkerchief
threepenny opera for finger-pointed men and women

and the old maid believing that the world fell too much towards hell’s foundation/ and the dropout philosopher who drowns his illusions in mare serenitatis/ and the young man who thinks that life is a shit/ with his fingers oozing cheap tobacco juice/ and the young girl who stopped believing in poetry or gentle things/ because of a man wearing snakeskin shoes

we were all so tall and upright like doors made of beech wood
we danced with the wolves beneath the deep summer sky’s brim
but it was too long ago
we made paper boats from catastrophe newspapers
then we lay on the floor on our backs
we breathed like men do
we became stones washed by rivers and no one believed us

please madam chief nurse another serving of soup
it’s springtime at the poorhouse

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

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