Posts Tagged With: time

our lord does not ask for interest rates from poor people


after you put in a coin in order to get the wheeled basket at the supermarket
you buy shoe polish nail polish floor polish in order to make everything shine
you leave a few coins in the transparent charity box where there are only a few notes
and you offer your child some chocolate pennies wrapped in tinfoil

the man-child too plays with fire
he re-raises the bet for his electronic poker game
coins with two faces like Janus the god who became a dote like some elders do
or like the people who are said to have a double-faced brain after surgery

close to the graveyard’s gate the cortege stops and the widow throws coins
others too are throwing coins for the place in the hereafter world
in order to make them fall head or tails
or rarely perfectly on their edges if the ground is fair and even

someday someone will smash the piggy bank and will throw away all the old coins
into charmed wells for unconscious deep wishes
into the clear water that washes everything apart from sins

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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

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

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

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

My Share of Time


I write to you a letter from the trenches
in clear black ink
sealed in a SASE envelope

around here some people still play war games
they clash in couples or alone
bringing blood on the whites of their eyes
they shoot each other in the corner
of their minds

others pull out whatever they can
from this life
caressing cats and dogs and newborn babies
as if these were a kind of secret weapons
they spy on those who have a sincere smile
because good intentions create suspicions
they arrest those who give charity
and those who buy flowers
cutting off their share of potatoes and beans

if it is night or day it makes no difference to me
I am much more sour
much more yellow on my cheeks
since the street guards whistle at scheduled moments
time is trenched more accurately in equal parts

it is as if no one understands
why I am so calm why I have only civil clothes
or what kind of devil do I expect to be blind
in order to pass the last border line
and finally scream I’m alive

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

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