Poetical Paradise and other poems

Poetical Paradise and other poems
Selected poems from A Deafening Silence by the Romanian poet and art writer, translated from Romanian by Adam J. Sorkin with the poet, as part of World Poetry/Prose Portfolio [WPP], curated by Sudeep Sen

Poetical Paradise 

in the library’s concentric studio the coral tree glowed white with flowers
in the palace of a thousand rooms near the scribe’s vestibule
a green labyrinth was budding like a pristine eyeball
there one sees the reflection of a polished malachite terrace
of a round-and-square town carved in a pearl
immersed in the roar of a celestial river
flowing whole as a single drop in an opened book, in which
only the perfect man’s exaltation can read anything.


Her name was Hyacintha, iacinta,
     name of the spicy flower of spring        
     unfortunate melancholy ephebe
        diffusing his unripe blood throughout the countryside
      and name of a Christian martyr
her name was iacinta, how strange, h y a c i n t h, I was exalted
     as if from breathing in her perfume suffused in chloroform
her name was Hyacintha        
but she ignored everything
and cared for nothing.

She lay in the white hospital bed,
had four children, didn’t know anything about sex, genitals,
cycles, pills, all those mysterious things,
she was sallow and thin, had straw-colored hair,
almost a peasant, was afraid of the lancet and of blood,
desired to have no more children. I asked her,
do you know how it feels to be a hyacinth?
Iacinta looked at me, startled.

She lay in the white hospital bed
       terrorized by her very body ashamed.

Just because her name was Hyacintha, iacinta
      spicy flower of spring plucked from snow-covered fields,
          handsome ill-fated ephebe,
          immaculate Christian martyr,
I taught her about genitals, cycles and pills,
in the bed full of hyacinth flowers
I helped her
             to disseminate
                                her blood       

Millions of Seas

It's there, an ocean of darkness
      behind your bare, lithe back
which you scarcely cover
     the door broken outward towards
                         the intelligible

your body a raw layer of skin
    stretched between two precipices
thinnest of blades desperately echoing in the void
    its immeasurable liberty

we are scarcely gotten up from beastliness
     as from a bloodstained bed
only suffering pain and terror can yet
       set the darkness afire

it’s there, an ocean of light
     behind your bare, lithe back
which you scarcely cover
     the door broken inward towards
                       the unfathomable

it's there, a silent sea in every cell of the body
     millions of seas
     the sign of the apocalypse.

An Immense Hand

The fire-glory of the morning.
I advance blind through the dense light. solid.
I stagger. it's not permitted me to stagger.
I bear within me something more ferocious than dynamite.
more corrosive than nothingness.
the tumoral dawn rose of the world. its petals
slowly unfurl in my brain, carbonized
like a self-contemplating planet. in flames, all in flames.
I feel its acrid smell of child and corpse.
it's ready to bloom. I hear its heavy respiration.
slowly it unfurls in my brain, the rose
of millions of petals.  drops of sweat
and silent blood drip down
it's making ready to come down

       to come down
 to come down

an immense hand holds me in its palm.

Wheel, Ruby And Vortex

wheel, ruby and  whirl,
        the luminous snow of your lips guided me through the garden
there where I saw no woman, no man
         only the gleam of the twilight dawn,
swallowed in the end by your never-ending sweetness
           a mist among leaves
there, where in the end there's nobody
          only an infinite fragrance
and fingers left behind on the shore

will this world be raised on wings ?

Ars Exilum Mundi

the poet strides forth from his tomb in a red toga in order to sing
in the cold morning, flies swarm with flocks of white pigeons
over the fresh corpses of the last revolution
he sees the square empty and the gutters flowing with blood
he sees crowds of children running away and bands of angels descending
he sees the words liberty equality et cetera
retracting their claws under their feathers and taking flight into the dark
he sees the flayed faces of the past and the future and he sees a funnel
a huge rusty funnel drawing in all, all
sucking in all, annihilating all, and inquiring lackadaisically: is there any purpose ?
he sees a superman movie projected continuously on the walls
where among fires man exits the wings
that very same man, covered with fur and photoelectric cells, in golden chains
and cradling a still born mutant baby in his arms

the poet dances over the ruins, alone
the poet chants psalms for savages and beasts
the poet prays over the gold and the blood
the poet asks where are the new temples
the poet recites his poems by himself to the corpses
the poet devours his own body
the poet transforms himself into words .

The Blood Which Comes

The blood which comes into the world
      and the blood which goes out of the world
whoever gives it   whoever receives it
out of whose veins   into our veins
above all the vessels of our bodies
is a sea unto itself

a silent sea
    poured into small delicate glasses
in the depths of our cells
          in the elements and stars
                                              behind all the words

more incorruptible
        than metal or fire

a silent sea a wisp of wind 
                                     preparing the resurrection

Take all my blood

Will We Still Be Here

Will we still be here when night falls ?
         but the clouds   
         the faraway gulfs   
         the cities
those indescribable purple expanses
         once upon a time when one could wake from sleep

just as far away from
the beginning and the end
of a world subject to imagination
as far away

Too slowly too painfully 
        transubstantiates into light
transmigrates into lightning.     
  Lightning furrows the sunset.
Until then how shall we breathe   
amidst this existence
     subject to imagination   
     without blackening
         so much greater a joy
in which all this beauty is pierced
             to its depths ?

               unseen. unheard.

Will we still be here when the instant reaches its end ?


In the end
         disorder reaches perfection
languages dissolve into the music 
         of wind
          chaos attains pure splendor.

In the end        
      out of the whirlwinds        
      the world screeches to a halt        

      a fixed image:
the heavens
         hang suspended
the entire universe consummates
     in a
daring and profound photograph.

He holds up the print
        still wet
          examines it for a long time
           examines himself for as long, 

               and gulps it down.

At The Very Last

At the very last the whole of the solid world
         and its smog will have passed away
                   through man
at least once all matters and forms
            swirling clouds and swarms of civilizations will have congealed
            and then disintegrated into women and men
thirsty atoms will have absorbed
          through eyes and lips tongues and fingers
          this dazzling day of the world
elements will have known rapture and fear.

The blood of all people the hidden ocean
      will be absorbed back from mountains and veins
it will withdraw into itself;
melancholy will close its pale ring  over the planet
          and go far away.

Living dust, purified with your passing
         stigmatized by love
         transfigured by tears
where is your final end, where is your native country ?

When we’ll be stars, we shall light up
when we’ll no longer be, we shall be understanding.

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