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.
Hyacintha
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
otherwise.
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
awaiting
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
everything
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 ?
Chaosmos
In the end
disorder reaches perfection
languages dissolve into the music
of wind
chaos attains pure splendor.
In the end
out of the whirlwinds
whirlpools
evolution
the world screeches to a halt
a fixed image:
waters
cities
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.
More from The Byword
Comments
*Comments will be moderated