Adrian ALUI GHEORGHE
The Old Poet Declaims His Fame
(Poetul bătrîn îsi declamă faima)
I wished that all the words obeyed me
I now obey them all
Like a flooged dog I now walk behind them
Every now and again they whack my nose
I gnash and I yelp
They seem amused, they grow impatient
Like some jades who captured an old satyr
And they torment him, stirring his senses.
Then they drive me into the arena
And they put me to the ultimate experiment:
They cram me with potatoes,
I produce poetry
They pur beer down my throat
I produce poetry
They stuff me with salad and slimy snails
And with fruits seething with promises of Heaven
I produce poetry
Even the saddest words stand up
And applause, the show is complete:
„ Did you see? Poetry is not as fierce
as it was thought, it hisses like a snake,
but its venom is harmless...”
„But look, blood smears its beard, poetry lures the words
Into brambles, and tears their hearts apart...!”
„Mother, I just saw Poetry like a herd of
Glowworms harnessed to the melodies of the subconscious...”
„ Stop the show, too many words die on the
Tongue of poetry...!”
I wished that words obeyed me
I now obey them all
Their whip urges me on,
It tears my flesh
Like a reptile singing the blues.
Hemlock
(Cucuta)
People in love
there have been many
But who has ever seen the way two
Cutlets make love?
Cats in love on rooftops
There have been many
But who has ever seen the way two
Rolls of soft dough make love?
Turtledoves in love after
drinking the vigour of a pearl of dew
there have been many
but who has ever seen the eggs merging in love
into an omlette?
Two stars in love falling from the sky
There have been many
But who has ever seen the way fruits in a salad
Make love?
And this is why I say to you: without love
Every seed lacks savor
You put one on the tip of your tongue
As if you tasted the bitterness of hemlock.
The Tea Spill
(Pata de ceai)
Death is the tea spill on the table
Let me show you how I spread it with my finger
making it vaster
as vast as a scaled down continent
as vast as the world’s map
I even crack the patch of cley
From under our feet
You’ll now remain suspended
like beauty upon the visage
like the skin salt which rooted itself
out of the skin
only before you I unfasten myself unveiling the ribs
and I’m not ashame
we both take a smell at my heart
it’s just like a rotten strawberry
still preserving something from the flavour
of the garden ravaged by the unicorns
there is no sadness
although so many a time the skin drops the body
out on the street, it slips like a foetus through
fingers which do not know the tongue of death
like a squeek
moving across the room
a squeek with slanting eyes
like those of a Japanese who grows billiard cues
anyway, on the fourth floor lies a dead man
ahh, he is closer to God than us.
The Meat Market
(Piata de carne)
The meat market. Early in the morning when the sun
Has no core. God tears angels apart,
He firstly disjoints their wings,
lest they should think of escaping,
then he throws their bowels
imbued with a scent of holy oil and
acacia flowers to the dogs.
The carcass is to be sold separatelly. The heads
are given for nothing to every day beggars
in Heaven’s peripheries.
Hearts are singed over the flame
and eaten half-cooked. There’s a problem with the bones:
the soul doesn’t always strip off the bones
so that they need a long boil in vinegar. Or perhaps in
wine. God is satisfied. He cracks joints with
a single movement of his hands. Even the money
he gains has a scent of holy oil and lotus
flower. And of rotten heavenly grass...
the meat market. Early in the morning when the sun
has no core. God drags the sky
as if it were a chunk of meat from which
drops of eternity drip slowly like ears of snails.
Halves of the Moon
(Jumătăti de lună)
The night swooped upon you
stirring your breasts
the same way children play with
The ant hill stirring the ants.
I come and reforge them
I draw with my finger the
obscure galleries leading to the heart.
alas, many were the nights
singing with dead saxophonists
In the grass
glueing together halves of the moon
On your chest,
Laughing : how childish a universe
We have been given
To waste
and to squander.
The night swooped again upon you
Stirring your breasts
The same way children, tricksily,
Stirr the life within the ant hills.
Traduceri de Andrei ALECSA
