Candle lit note

[...]

this is not a confession

it's a singing lesson for the deaf

where my demons

sitting pretty 

on the white fluffy rug

play scrabble

with yours

Photo by I Must be Dead Photography

Dearest Virginia

(reply)

I, too, am certain that it is harder and harder to stay afloat. The water is fast and deep and my pockets full of stones. I feel I have surrendered to a life I cannot breathe or bare or wake up to any more. I tried like you tried and failed like you failed and without you I would have thought that hope is still a pear waiting to be picked in a Sussex garden. I feel I did not understand this until you asked Mrs Dalloway to visit and she brought cake and we had tea and spoke about parties and vegetables. I'm afraid I've been buying the flowers myself for far too long or so the voices say. They are carnations and hydrangeas and perhaps lilies and sometimes I'm not certain which ones to choose, at all. I wanted to thank you for the other day when I heard the Big Ben chimes and remembered what you once said to me in London: *"The leaden circles dissolve in the air”. They did and I cried for no reason, no reason at all, because there was no reason left to cry for. If anyone could have saved me it wouldn't have been you. You opened my eyes and now, on sunny, monotone afternoons, I can even make up the face these hands are firmly holding under the surface.

C

*excerpt from Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

Hmmm?

what is this tip toe dance I’m doing

around a purple room

without me moving a limb?

this pursing of lips and

imaginary fingers catching their kiss

at the other end

and this song?

I know this song

 the sounds climbing my frame

up and down, up and down

from pianissimo to forte to pianissimo

why sing it now,  in my dressing gown

smiling in front of a mirror like a dumb man

staring at his feet in a summer puddle

a child is blowing soap bubbles through a straw

in my head

and while my hat is still on

and no one can see a thing

I’m going to corner him

I’m going to catch him

I’m going to grab him by the hand and ask him:

what is this? what is this?

Pseudo (non-identity)

acestui nume mic îi vom da încă unul

şi încă unul şi încă unul

pînă la ultimul

posteritatea îl va descoperi singur, mumificat

într-un colţ de grotă

o stalactită atîrnînd şui din tavanul alfabetului mort

prima vocală-i va fi şi ultima

consoana - sufocată în faşă

de iedera suindă pe minciuna propriei cruci

marele cuvînt va fi bolborosit în neştire 

în limba tăcerii

şi cînd ne vom aduna cu toţii, în blănuri de animale la gura peşterii

trecîndu-ne mîinile prin păr, prin foc şi pietre

ca un lup alb, sideral

de printre nori se va-ntrupa brusc luna

[auzi cum îi trozneşte-n fălci lumina?]

ea vine, ea pleacă, ea urlă

ea vede şi ştie

să ascultăm deci, să privim şi să ne rugăm

să hăituim aceşti pereţi

în puncte puncte

cu dalta

a.m.

dezlipeşte-ţi frunzele de pe nas, cască lung

 unge-ţi încheieturile cu bale de melc

şi fă-mi un ceai cu lămîie si miere

întinde-mi turturele pe sîrmă şi lasă-le să-şi fîlfîie trilul degeaba

în ochiul meu trîntor, nemişcător

prosteşte-mă cu o veste bună , scurtă, neadevarată

cu o orhidee înflorită în şanţ, cu un val nespart de ţărm

 încuie uşa şi-nghite cheia ca pe-o felie de măr

dă-te aproape, aici, pe pat,  lîngă mine

aşază-mi un şal din caşmir pe umeri

o mînă de bărbat pe genunchi

şi citeşte-mi un articol banal din ziarul de ieri

lumea e un demon rătăcit prin coridoarele raiului

cîţi morti, atîţia vii, şi-o singura ramă

din care trebuie să zîmbim cu toţii

pune-mi un Bach

lasă-mi draperiile trase ca un capac de cosciug

nu-mi arăta ceasul cu limba, nu-mi scoate capul din căpiţa cu nori

şi nu mă întreba ce-am facut aseară

dimineaţo, de nu mă laşi să termin poemul ăsta

jur  că mă urc pe tine şi

I do

do you follow rainbows to the end of the road

and pretend they end there with a screech of the breaks

or perhaps you miss the train and convince yourself that

you were on the wrong platform or you were there just

waving someone goodbye

or do you receive flowers from people you never loved

and your ‘thank you’ is the discorded key of a piano
 in the middle of a concert

do you make someone cry and comforting them is a trembling hand

a surgeon never shows the world

do you etcetera your list of to do’s into a painted oblivion

and never ever want to admit

that your blues are not just a shade of angry skies

do you talk too much so you can never hear

the voice of your loneliness

bouncing of the walls of your room

do you read tones of recommended books  

to help you catch another day

while tomorrow comes and discards you into yesterday

without a word of apology

do you stumble across true love and wish you broke a leg

rather than a heart

do you think this poem is nothing to do with you

Apucîndu-l de falcă

ridică-te

ridică-te şi umblă îţi zic

ori vrei să fi cărat cu roaba la groapa cu ceilalţi

ce-mi stai chircit între pături cu pumnii la gură

în noptile albe şi reci, ca-n pian clapele

te scoală , blegule bleg

vrei  lapte? struguri? lego?

vrei  trup de bărbat? inimă de copil?

ai tras după tine un tanc peste carne şi oase

şi-acum te culci peste ele

le pipăi, le pupi şi le mîngîi pe cap

hai, mişcă un deget

spală un geam, udă un ficus

fă viaţă în jur

Merde! arăţi ca o ploaie de vară-n găleată

pune-ţi bigudiuri, caută-ţi rujul, fă piruete-n vitrină,

umbră de femeie nebună

ţi-am adus Rumi şi Lulu şi un braţ de buline

degeaba-ţi rozi unghiile cu nasul în zid şi genunchii la piept

degeaba mori, degeaba iubeşti

sufleţel, de n-ai fi al meu aş rîde de tine

pînă mi–ar crăpa faţa

Secret Places by Rumi

The last straw...

No. It is not his birthday, or the anniversary of his death.
In fact there is no reason for this post apart from the obvious one (known by many by now): Bukowski is a poet. And this is a good reason to commemorate him and his work as often as time allows it. (He would so laugh at these words if he was still alive)

I asked myself many times why love his work? Why obsess with a guy that drunk, cursed and used women instead of tissues.Why bother buying another poetry book signed by him? Why even planning to go visit his grave some time in the future?

And I bet there are a few more other questions out there my subconscious has not as yet processed.

Hank was a hater of people, a hater of poetry readings, a hater of conventionality. Yes, he loved his alcohol, his classical music, his gambling on horses and I believe he loved the idea of love - which may or may not be anything to do with the women he encountered.

Who cares?

 The thing that keeps me hooked is his cunning ability to be honest, brutally open about taboo and totally exposed to the waves of pain and deception life throws at any given time.

The link will take you to the last public reading he ever made, the last straw...

Hemoragii

Hemoragii

e smoală cu crini şi pericol iubite

castroane  cu stele se sparg sus de cer

şi palmele noastre alintă cuţite

şi lumea se plimbă cu paşi de-ofiţer

duminica ţipă la vrăbii şi-nghite

plăcinte cu măr, praf de puşcă şi gin

şi lanţuri ne trag înapoi zornăite

şi-n parcuri cresc tei cu miros de pelin

la şoapte ne luăm şi murim din cuvinte

ce nimeni nu ştie cînd/ cum/ cît le-am spus

şi gloanţe de frică ne-aleargă prin minte

şi plîngem cotoare de soare apus

ei rîd şi ne-arată cu mîna-nainte

noi poftim şi tîrîm setea  goală prin spini

şi mă strigi şi te-aud şi tăcerea-i fierbinte

şi aş vrea şi te-ntorci şi-i mereu şi suspini

e linişte-n noapte,-i răpciune iubite

castroane cu stele se sparg sus de cer

şi lumea se culcă pe cant de cuţite

şi inima bate ca un pas de-ofiţer

Absolute beauty (a thing or two about...)

it does not end

as it does not begin

is where Infinity meets Forever

and says: how d'you do

in a continuous white noise

with a touch of

Rigolleto

it tickles your pores until your skin blooms into goosebumps

like cherry trees in a suspended Japanese garden

it pushes your face to the edge so you can touch the void

with your eyelash

it pulls you back just when you're about to jump

and stares silently into your dilated pupils

it feeds on you like a hungry beast

and you laugh the laughter of the King

and walk the walk of the clown

twist, turn and bleed with joy

clap, crawl and beg for

more,

more,

more

but you keep it all inside

to give it a name

it appears out of nowhere

and even if I guess it

or not

I pretend to be too clever

to water its roots

with lacy butterflies of hope

too busy, too awake

to walk the walk of dreams

daily surrendered to dawn

like freedom 

by caught and trialed killers

and when it stings

like a bee that knows all about 

honey

all about petals and fate

it feels grateful and peaceful and forever

lost

it appears out of nowhere

it floats

and the blood carries it everywhere

obeying its deep undisputed route

to the heart

where some day

you may turn

a London bus

în iunie nu ne-am văzut niciodată

şi credeam ca nu mai ajungi. minutul

 atîrnînd în ştreang aşteptarea

bătea în perete ca pumnul unui vecin cu chef de scandal

număram diminețile în frunzele ferigii cind

ai ciocănit la uşă timid. 

am sărit peste-un prag, peste

nodul din gît,

m-am împiedicat rău, mi-ai strigat numele si 

ți-am căzut dragă

fix

în acelaşi loc ascuns 

sub camaşa nouă, în carouri

apoi am pus trandafirii în apă. din lift

vîntul se luă după noi 

soarele ne urmări pînă tîrziu

ca un asasin blond

plătit cu ziua de Dumnezeu

 şi peste pontoane

Dunărea îşi lăți zîmbetul încercînd în zadar 

să ne ghicească-n ochi,

în buze,

în sălcii

numărul la iubire

Well..

[..I said to Barbara, I said]

I’m writing my book, making my costumes and playing me

I think I am rather good

remembering all those lines that could

have once made a difference

when sunsets felt real,

 beyond their damaged magnetic fields

I sang, I danced, I concurred

and when my sword bent from my knees

 and I couldn’t cry anymore

I walked on burning coal through the icy rain

to embrace the forgotten

I keep on writing my book

I pierce my ears, die my hair, conjure the dark forces

and anchored by fear I deliver

touching, exhilarating, borderline shocking

live entertainment

half brave, half pushed

sometimes merely there

I remember the lights,

blinding they are, hallowing they are

I keep on wearing my costumes

children rush to me like lambs to their mother-sheep

and their smiles, joy and clapping

are worth a whole sun and one bright half of a Moon

we lick ice-cream together,

 get colds together

make sticker-charts together and

sit on the naughty step together

and after dark - and only after dark – we pray to not have to pray again

shh!

keep reading

turn the page to the scene

 with the guy who locked the rare wounded dove in a cage

and the woman who loved too much, laughed too much, wore too much lipstick

and her depressed chiwawa

and keep playing me

 Sunday to Sunday

Carpe Diem

tu

genunchiul fără frică  pus pe acest pat

cînd pereții ard de jur împrejur

palma din gheață sculptată după fruntea și imaginea mea

tu știi cine sînt?

unde mergem și cît putem îndura?



degeaba închid  radioul, fereastra și mă ascund după ficus

ești respirația gură la gură dintre pastilă și bubă

prima și ultima rază alunecate după perdea

cu buze uscate  repet în urechea de plastic a telefonului

aici, apasă aici, dă drumul garoului

sîngele promis vieții, să curgă



brațele tale labirint știu sa țină piept inimii

știu să țină inima la piept

sînt gata.

am pus creionul jos

și termometrul și hîrtia și apa

poemul acesta se învîrte

eu amețesc și tu rîzi

The *NHS Song

There’s a wheeze when I breath and this pain when I live

And no wonder our paths come to cross

You’re my Heaven my Hell within you I dwell

Each time my health is at loss

You’re pretty and sweet when we meet and we greet

But your chit chat’s a ‘NO-NO’ because

I am loosing terrain you drive me insane

And I don't know the name of your boss

Your  system has crashed your words come out mashed

My story – I say it again

But you’re now on the phone while I play my trombone

and my patience’s being washed down the drain

My lips turning pale you’re biting your nail

I just need my prescription, I’m sore

You smile with a smile, I repeat for a while

Everything that I told you before

You click and you stare at the screen I don’t dare

To look for the fear that you’re wrong

I can not buy time even for this crime

But tonight (oh, boy, this is so worth breaking a rhyme)  you’ll be blown on my blog

There’s a fire alarm and you say with a charm

'Please leave the premesis now'

I’ll be damned if I go, all I need is to know

Are you stupid or simply a cow

We part and I leave you wave and I grieve

For they won’t let me kill on the spot

And all I can do is wait a day or two

‘Till Tuesday is better' you thought

~

This saga was mine, I bet my last dime

That the papers will take them to pieces

The name of the story, for such fame and and such glory:

NHS – Hope is for sissies

NHS = National Health Service

Note: This poem is based on a true story and is aiming to reveal the impotence of a failing system. 

Control Panel. Test 01

Statement 1.The poem bellow is false

there’s no rush in pushing dreams

one into another and watch them disappear into black holes

like shiny balls on a Saturday night pool table

no need for hope and fear

to marry again and again and again

lovers can only be parents to one eternal daughter: agony

open your eye

the voices in my head are now quiet

muted by the glowing in the dark yoyo of life

forever ends Tuesday and

 it doesn’t matter why

or how or who played in it

the Big Engineer wants us to be grateful

for every dove flying above our heads

for every loaf of bread sliced on the kitchen table

for every mouthful of air allowed in this room

‘Breath in and hold’/ (should I do what I’m told?)

I take in you2 and exhale love dioxide.

Statement 2.The poem above is true



Audio version:   Control panel. Test 01 by Corina Gina Papouis 


~

din jurnalele Diotimei

voi face o listă cu trei lucruri

şi o voi pune după ureche

mă voi tolăni pe sofa

şi voi mîngîia catifea mov, genunchi de bărbat

şi ciucuri grei

voi ieşi pe alei

trăgînd norii de lesă. din priviri

voi clădi un turn înalt

îmi voi împleti părul în funii iar

noaptea voi evada

voi ajunge la timp pe un ţărm oarecare

unde voi oferi unui pescăruş oarecare

ultimul cartof prăjit

voi coborî din tancul blindat cu păpădii

şi voi săruta cu sete buzele urîţilor

voi rearanja ţările pe hartă în formă de război şi pace,

valurile oceanelor, cărţile pe raft

şi alibiurile celor ce adoră şi tac

voi alăpta copiii făcuţi din dragoste

din cenuşă, apă şi talaj voi ridica livezi de cuvinte

cu stînga voi mînca

un măr roşu

iar cu dreapta voi scrie în jurnal

ceva ce n-o să-ţi vină să crezi