Little by little she became a word,
bundles of soul on the wind,
a dolphin in the clutches of my eyebrows,
a stone provoking rings in water,
a star inside my knee,
a sky inside my shoulder,
and I inside I.
-- Nichita Stanescu
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Narration of the history within the calendar of betrayal |
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To her: Neda Agha-Soltan (death: 2009 in Tehran)- Hide quoted text -
In the labyrinth of your body,
I was protesting in silence
on your bruised streets
on the footprints of the garbage-men that every morning
washed away the wounds and kisses
so that I would always see myself alone.
my nightmares expire on your body
but in poetry nothing has expiration date
it stands face to face to the word
with a handkerchief wrapped on its face
neither teargas
nor the new Chinese armors
could block the stones from landing in Tienanmen Square
It stands face to face to the word
to touch your body
as much as the guards’ gear suits you.
You can send hundred word-garrisons out to the street
that the poem lives in between the silence of words
in turmoil between the distance of “smile” and “you”
in the tremble of your body before the touch of my hands
that don’t conquer you
they bare you
from camera, speaker and the news
from courier, crier and the news
from word and the news
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1
I write of your eyes
the words melt into water
I drink the text
poisoned, I wander the alleyways
strange passers-by become poisoned
and beautiful
your beauty
embraces a deranged child
and walk her in the streets
I paint you with that child in your arms
on the coffin of words.
you walk
the distance between your barefeet and the earth
catches fire.
from my mother-tongue
I spread out a carpet under your feet
to dance on.
watching you
I scatter a poem of ashes
in my voice.
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1
the stairs of 2 O'clock live in eternity at 2 O'clock
the streets of 3 at 3
the metal tea cup and the scrap chair at 4.
I am afraid of the eternity of things.
no one's there to receive my memory
this is our last meeting, or I have never met you before
you brought your lips close, or moved them back
your scarf is green, or violet
you move away from the things
and they become eternal in me
I sit on the same stairs even when I am in another city
I drink from the same tea cup even when I hold a coffee cup
I carry myself on the same wheel chair
in the car, in my bed, in the plane
the things stick to the clock hands
I am addicted to my eternity
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The peddlers' stand is full of colourful stones
and high mountains
The miners
with old wagons
faded lanterns
filterless cigarettes
and dynamite boxes
pass by the stand.
I will buy you those high mountains
an old wagon
a few dynamite boxes
my old clothes
I will wear on you.
naked, I lie down behind the high mountains
you pass the mountains
in the antique wagon
you enter me
the laughter of the explosion of your colourful discoveries
echoes in me.
your discovers of blues, yellows, reds
you arrange them on my body
and call me with the voice of peddlers.
The peddlers' stand is full of colourful stones. |
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