Triangle
In the crystal night I’ll find you
again in the plaza by the same
statue that saw us separating
that cold October morning
you to the west I to the east
from the merging point
of two lives like triangle
lines and I’ll come to you
holding a book in my left
hand and a carnation in the
other just in case you come
looking to stir my emotions
just in case you come yearning
for kisses like that cold
October morning we separated
Excerpt
…the pharmacist — to her name-day celebration, and alongside the
many exquisite dishes she played the piano beautifully. She also
took in her two sisters, who passed the time with card games and
reading. I found the endless solitaire and other card games played
for hours beside tables laden with pastries and tea — in winter in
the parlor, in summer on the terrace — unbearably boring.
Between the identical walls of the dormitory rooms I learned to
pay attention to others and to myself, to write amid silence and
noise alike. I tried fitting words together so they might express me,
preserve me. My young literature teacher read and evaluated my
writings in her apartment; the situation was at once embarrassing
and liberating. It was as though the boundaries between text and
life had blurred. That was the first time I understood literature was
not merely abstract curriculum but could become an intimate bodily
experience as well.
I founded a literary circle attended not only by students but by
teachers too. We did not merely dissect our own writings; we immersed
ourselves in literary history and theory, argued, doubted,
reread everything that until then had seemed certain. Meanwhile I
danced in a folk-dance ensemble wearing traditional costume, and
played bass guitar in a successful pop band where rhythm held
us together even when direction often remained uncertain. And
like local stars entertaining the student audience, we enjoyed the
special attention of girls, which manifested itself sometimes in shy
smiles, sometimes in stolen glances, sometimes in laughter too
loud to be natural, and although we accepted this innocent admiration
with confident ease, in truth all of us longed for the same
thing: that one day someone might notice not merely the role in us,
but the human being as well.
Even then the prankster in me resurfaced. Back then there were
no text messages, no instant communication; communication possessed
its own slow, paper-scented magic. At the Ditrău grammar
school — I do not know whether such a thing existed elsewhere —
there operated a peculiar institution called Flash Mail.
Glory of the Ptolemies
I am Lagidis, King, absolute possessor
(with my power and my wealth) of carnal delight.
Neither a Macedonian nor a barbarian
can equal me or even come close. The son
of Seleucus is absurd with his vulgar hedonism.
But if you search here for other things, these are clear.
This city is the teacher, the center
of the Panhellenic world,
in every word, in every art, the wisest.
Daily Use
Of course, all these were somehow vague, perhaps even inexplicable for the ones who raise their glass emphatically over the table without seeing who holds it, until slowly the everyday use makes us mortal.
Thus, I always tried to look elsewhere when the doorbell rang and when everything was quietened: where is the host? Why is he hiding? I leaned on the table so that I wouldn’t fall; then, bowing my head.
I opened the door and followed my path.
And at night, at dinner, in horror, I listened as they narrated their stories, which, in a way, silenced the dark, remote outside—there, where we had lived.
Peace of a Full Stomach
Citizen watches TV ordinarily
beer belly exposed
tight T-shirt
jogging pants
fluffy comfort
mind mutated by fat
extreme superiority
over masses of colourful citizens
of the faraway places where beasts live
mind mutated by the notion of entitlement
revisionists accentuated
underscore the importance
of new smart bombs
that outsmart foreign defences
calculations, exact results
deleting hypotheses and estimates
The unprecedented precision
of missiles controlled by a computer
dark green glow of a screen
fingers manipulate the Enter button
boom
Excerpt
Her smile disappeared. ‘Oh I’m sorry, Ian. I can’t. Liam’s going out. Tomorrow afternoon I could. As long as I’m back by tea-time. Before Liam goes out.’ Nora looked expectantly at this Scottish builder who was beginning to invade her daily thoughts as she his. Her heart started beating with an excitement she hadn’t felt since Joe Carney was alive.
‘What time?’
‘Half-one, or thereabouts.’
The ash-blonde poked her head round the door. ‘Will Mrs Liam Dooley please stop flirting with the customers and come home to her husband and wee’ns?’
Nora laughed. ‘I’m coming, Bridie,’ she called. Then in a quiet whisper she said, ‘See you tomorrow, Ian.’
Ian walked back into the bar, but his feet did not touch the carpet. ‘One for the road, gentlemen?’ he suggested light-heartedly. ‘A wee deoch an doruis.’
‘Make mine a double,’ said Copplestone. ‘I have a wife upstairs.’
‘And you should have a double yourself, Ian,’ Copplestone’s colleague suggested. ‘To celebrate your victory.’
‘What victory?’ Ian asked innocently.
‘If I’m not mistaken, Ian—and I’m something of an expert in these matters—you won yourself a black-haired beauty this evening. She’s yours, Ian. Heart, soul, and body, she’s all yours.’
҂
‘What will you have to drink, Nora?’
‘Just tea, thank you, Ian. And maybe a couple of digestive biscuits or something.’ Nora looked at the young waiter behind her. ‘Is that all right?’
‘Certainly, madam. Would you like cheese with the biscuits?’
‘No thank you.’
The waiter turned to Ian. ‘And you, sir? What can I get for you?’
‘A Drambuie, please.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘What’s Drambuie?’ Nora asked as the waiter glided away.
‘It’s a Scottish liqueur made from Highland malt Scotch whiskey and heather honey. Just superb. Would you like to try it?’
‘Not just now, thank you. It sounds good, but I’m just gasping for a cup of tea. Maybe some time again.’
Ian caught the words ‘some time again’ and held them like something precious.
Untitled Events
The memory couldn’t match the things. Events that remained
without a place, vanished. You could certainly imagine
an ashtray somewhere else, a hanger, the fragrance
of cologne in the neighbourhood barber shop just before
they close the stores on Saturday evening and
the beautiful woman who a little later after scratched
a mandarin with her nail, slowly, smelling her fingers,
vanished under the lights of the Station. Forgotten,
forgotten, exiled, not adaptable to the chaotic storage room
with the ammunition and the nylon curtains.
(If this poem spoke to you, find more about it in the following links)
I’m the pounding hammer
who forms a few unnatural
flowers instead of swords and
I’m the tamer gypsy who makes
circles, shadows, griffins and
spells out of fire, some royal
crowns, ghosts, fairies, mermaids
for ships, for palaces that don’t
exist anymore useless, unwanted
and peculiar, sometimes missing
the face, the body and always
missing a name; and what angers
the people who sleep with their
eyes open and all that passersby
expel and all that root in this land
and all that love never woke up
and all that never found any fans.
And I’m the hammering man
who surprises, startles and still
keeps going since all easy work
suited another craftsman though
my breath blows onto my work
something barbarous and new
harder than the hardest granite
and when one expects in his
hands from my hands a creation
steady, motionless and hard
I unwillingly bring to him a soft
soul, a sun ray or a wave’s froth.
