POEME ROMÂNESTI ÎN LIMBI STRĂINE

    

Octavian DOCLIN
ASH

Far beyond ashes there is ash.
Grown old I reach the sky with my hand.
Ever more often do I dream the poem with no rules.
Philosophy has fallen asleep on my arms.
Nothing dies away at all. I walk on.
In the basic word stock. There,
Near its end. The children are out.
I fall asleep near you. Sometimes I, too, pass away. 

              


     THE  SMELL  OF  ASHES

 

You  told me to stay with you
because  an evening was to come brighter
than the ray of phosphor of the rotten wood¾
The hope and the fear of  the man  lost in the forest
at night.

I stayed and we began talking

About the flame of the snow
 pulled out along with mother’s hair.
Nothing easier to bear in mind
but the smell of ashes, I said to myself,
leaving you.

                            GRANDMOTHER

She  waves to me in front of the door.
She knocks and knocks. Life no longer opens.

 

                 BUT  ONLY  BETWEEN  THE WALL OF CORK 

I your son fond                                                  of   you
My mother younger                                                         than myself
Give me life once again                                                  so that I may  know
That only in death  can I be                          still alive
And please do not suckle me                       without  limit
And instead of breasts give me                   the word
And do not wrap me in swaddling bands     please
But in an carpet                                                  of snow
And throw me out                                            through the window
Down  where hungry                                       the poem waits
Thus, really,  between the walls                                 of cork
I your son will love                                           you

O, my mother younger                                     than myself

                             MINIMAL  POEM

 

I, too, saw it. The Other Life.
For one moment. The kid woke up inside me.
I did not make a halt. We both, of course.
Made a world.
As the lightning did  the mineral flower.
                THE  MEMORY  OF   THE  ANXIETY

 Crafty, histrionic lecherous
it broke the bone of my forehead  into bones
naked liquid women kept dancing with sensual pleasure  on the walls
with frozen eyes I stared at them as if through some field glasses
blue flames turned my eyelids to ashes
my body endlessly floated in the smoke grave
defeated I tried to make you a sign of victory
before Christ in the new memory.  
  

 

MINIMAL  POEM

Between life and death
The warm snow
Like a smooth line
Of smoke.

Like a floating line
Of fog
Similar to the broken line
Of ash.
Traduceri de Olimpia IACOB

 

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