Nu
I felt nostalgic when I cried one night
for the short laughter of glory
the noise of the day stopped, and
the soft song of the crickets
commenced
keeping me company as I dreamed
about the fiery rays of your glance
and the fragrance of your flesh
that I longed to touch
I made it my goal
to lie next to you and play
in the delirium of your embrace
I felt nostalgic about becoming
one with you
during that hour of the donna di notte
that stirred its beauty the first time
I heard your erotic song and
I said,
the time has come again
for me to taste the fruit
of your enigma, oh, woman with
such attitude and passion
with endlessness in your eyes
into which the shadows vanish
during the noon hour of July
and I said,
The space in the car was
small and lustful, and Eros couldn’t
wait any longer as it flew over
your flesh trapped in your longing
for consummation
two bodies hungry for each other while
the cicadas kept on singing and
dogs rested under the oleanders
I felt nostalgic to see you naked
again, and Fate granted me my wish
for just a short moment
when I eulogized the nipple
of your left breast that
my lips took and painfully bit
your apotheosis was at that moment
woman, when time was annulled and
I learned the lesson that
couldn’t hold me prisoner when lust
transcended all bounds and
made man immortal

https://draft2digital.com/book/4118210#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763777

ORESTES

Under the moonlight the houses get lower down
at the plain, the corn creaks from the wind or the need
to grow bigger, the whitewashed bases of trees gleam
like mowed columns in a noiseless war, while the signs
of the small shops hang like verified oracles on closed
doors. Farmers must have slept with their arms over
their bellies and sleeping birds with their light feet
clasping onto the tree branches not trying to hold onto
something, as if trying is nothing, as if nothing happened,
as if nothing is about to happen — weightless, weightless
as if the sky has spread amid their feathers, as if someone
is passing the long and narrow hallway with an oil lamp
in his hand and all the windows are open and, out in the
countryside, you hear the animals ruminate calmly as if
they exist in the eternal.
I like this damp quietness. Somewhere close by, in a humble
house, a young woman is combing her long hair, and next
to her, her spread undies are breathing in the moonlight; all
of them flowing, slippery, happy. In the baths, water is poured
out of big urns onto the necks and breasts of young girls, the
small aromatic bars of soap slide onto the tiles; bubbles split
the sound of water and laughter; a woman slipped and fell;
everything slips because of the soap — you can’t hold
the bubbles nor can you get a hold of yourself — this slippage
is the reoccurring rhythm of life — women laugh and blow
the white, weightless, tiny towers of soap-bubbles from
the little forest of their mound. Isn’t this happiness?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763815

THE GENIUS OF THE LAMP
(In the Light of the Lamp by Nicolae Tonitza1)
For a while I have begun to recognize the passage through worlds,
As the beginning of a second’s beginning,
An imperceptible break fleetingly smelling miracles,
This is how I know today that from my eyes
The genius of the lamp, tamed (maybe by the grace of the evening,
of the curtains, or of the girl),
Comes back into the painting
Challenging the destiny he has in Oriental tales,
And slim and crepuscular again,
It converges from all the corners of the world,
In order to keep vigil, protectively,
Over the effervescent kindness that unites the being and the book,
The passion sipping up all that has been and all that is…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763696

….I look at the sun: a black spot
where from now on my blinking will rest
the mourning seal will accompany it
I hopelessly stare at the world
I sob like a homeless child
and I keep fighting – theirs is the game –
with earthly and heavenly gods
bury half of my life oh God
thunder curses the mills of prayers
take his body sacrificed for them
the other half of my soul
I offer to hell
parting is a mute mother
but ephemeral whisper of lament
spring that gushes out from the foot of the rock
city thunders on sky’s bell
and until we remember the warmth
of your palm
prayers chew like gums we ruminate
your thunderous life unveiled
in the blinded night
with flowers we cover the wound of the earth
then we walk in darkness
on our lost paths
to live what was written
to our pilgrimage place
Mother
in small petals on the boundary of the sly
and in the blue of your eyes
God has stolen them –

https://libroslibertad.com/2016/11/06/missa-bestialis-poetry-by-attila-f-balazs-translated-by-lucia-gorea/

17th DAY or ANOTHER ELEGY
Quietness on the first line today
only they didn’t mention how many
scorched bodies they buried in the sand.
I wondered whether the desert
rejects corpses of foreigners
like our desolate bodies.
Twilight. I read letters from
the days between the two World Wars.
Pasternak, Rilke, Tsvetayeva
correspond with words and kiss each other
not knowing whether they’ll ever meet.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562965

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763521

Routine
Often you said we needed
to change our habits
a new beginning to commence
a new purpose to seek
hopping to discover hope
and its elements
while all along
you remained resting
in lush recliner
and always upheld
your beliefs while
tightly in hand
you held
the recliner’s lever

https://draft2digital.com/book/3746001#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763750

excerpt

When it was over, Poodie reached for his notebook and wrote.
“Come see me.”
“I can’t Poodie.”
He took the notebook back and scribbled, “I want to see you.”
“No, Poodie,” Marcie said. “You’re my friend.”
She saw tension in his jaw. His hand closed around her wrist.
“That hurts,” she said.
He tightened his grip, then let go and tried with his eyes to hold
her there. She began to walk. Back at the edge of the bandstand he
remembered dances at the school and made a bow. Marcie curtsied,
and went off with her football player.
Poodie stayed near the drums until the band stopped playing
and the dancers went home. He helped the drummer carry his
cases outside and stood waving as the bus rolled out of the parking
lot, then started gathering bottles. Pulling his wagon home
through the darkness, he felt his heart pounding. It was like the
rhythm of a drum.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562868

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08W7SHCMV

Meeting the Cosmos
I’m stressed over my reawakened youth
that brings life to lightning bolts
rain of meteorites made of unearthly music
imaginary souls that were never born
rebel
shattering the distance
of a perforated world.
Utopia is the wisdom we didn’t understand
gift in the heart of humanity
time has come to express the unsaid
torch bearers of loneliness and dreams
initiates of the jump into chaos
wandering walkers on the dark side of the brain
prophets and searchers of knowledge
that we received
the irreversible time has come
to meet the Cosmos.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPCRLJC6

Perfection
Stress of the day evaporates
fog over the lonely grave sites
of long forgotten friends
that no one ever visits
and I embrace
your delicate waist
as we walk in rhythm
alike sounding heart beats
entwined fingers
play the same music
and the nightingales conclude
at this moment
you and I
perfection

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1771713208