The Stars in the Lake

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Illustration by @lapinmagnetik_art

While I lie awake with you this fortunate evening
I breathe in the frosty cold and breathe out our winter tale
A bit of snow crystals, a bit of tender falling
I turn my head to face you
And mistake your freckles for snowflakes;
That’s the turning point
When the outer world metamorphoses
And the grey converts to white and clean and pure and seamless

A thin crack in the icy lake
Spreads alongside our wakeful bodies
Like a thread of forsaken memories
All sunk to the bottom of the water.
In one of your dormant memories,
There’s a pattern of a future us

Whereas here and now
You find me longing for faraway flesh
Whole bodies split by a continent
So much land, a waste of space between us
Nothing but borders, regulations, paperwork
While we do our own pen and paper work

As soon as the lamps dim, the aching ice
Begins to sparkle eons and as we look around
We catch a glimpse of our younger selves
Somehow trapped between all those faraway galaxies
That were once radiating their best light
For, after all,
They were in the presence of lovers.

Stars now stretch all throughout the frozen lake in an undying web of curious strings that have brought us closer; when you touch them, they vibrate at the same frequency we do and thus we know how the world was created. We hear the atoms collide, we hear the silence before the big bang and witness the birthing of our own universe, a flood of warmth and light, an icy spell. In this eerie nighttime, we seek poetry with hungry mouths and what we find is yet unknown.

As the ice cracks further and collapses beneath their bodies, the lovers clutch onto each other, not to save their lives, but to die, enlaced, of a little death.

On Time

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Smell of home-baked bread and red wine,
Who will be here, watch my hair turn grey?
No moment like the next one
In my kitchenette of tears.

Who will breath into my bosom
While I lullaby them to a sweetest sleep?
A little one heralding noble beginnings
Why are lilacs late to bloom this year?

I reminisce over the fragrance on my window sill,
The warm welcome of the spring
No more within reach now
And I am not missed when I’m not home.

Come here come here, a voice whispers
The lover pours himself another glass
And as he drinks from the water of Lethe
He sinks into oblivion and love he serves no more.

Nescient of his forgetfulness
I remember everything: the long good nights,
Our long good falling and the longer goodbyes
As if they happened all at once.

And in that room as in that painting
We are inundated with choices and possibilities
And love becomes atemporal;
Or do our seconds become longer?

So long that they’re not fading years after;
Au revoir will be my short goodbye
I will only forget when I’m old,
Baking bread and sipping wine.

Quarantine Blues

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Isolation by @daveleeart

I am getting dreamier and I wish this wasn’t metal but flesh

I’ve befriended a tree today. Apricot, my mother tells me
It bent its flowers and gave me a taste of its magenta
Then I caressed its trunk and whispered
Oh, how I wish it were human

Every night I hear a distant howl
A moan of a bird against all that is dark and silence
And it reminds me of the living
Oh, how I wish it were human
Telling me lies, anything
A good night story

As solitary as always
Mute and singled out
The moon needs a companion
Someone human to tell her tale
Of angst and reverie

I hear the cries of pain in hospitals
I hear the cries of grief in houses
I hear the loneliness in your soft spoken words
Flesh and bone writhing under the weight of their own old souls
And I know they’re human

Rain droplets against my windows
Falling
Falling
Falling
Water dripping on your body
Maybe you are more than human…

Is a bruise a touch?
I bruise at the touch of your indifference
You blue-eyed Frankenstein
I am your dead blue rose now
Cursed to wither
Forevermore

© 2020

here lies my mouth

here lies my mouth
(c) gregoria green

here lies my mouth
a sweet and tender graveyard
crimson and wet
which you can’t shut or smear
in her nakedness
she only bleeds the truth
buried deep within greener lands
a powerhouse of creation
my driving force
feeding me the universe inch by inch
around the edges and all the way inside

with your own mouth you carry music
through my bruised veins
where decades become seconds
and seconds the beginning of time itself
and within your lips’ reach
distant galaxies are spinning at our pace
towards an obscene climax

i hear you lonesome lovelorn secluded poet
give me your words and phrases to swallow
and the promise you will stay
and sing and breathe
where my mouth lies

Waiting by Marin Sorescu – (Translation)

waiting-peter-bienkowski
Waiting by Peter Bienkowski

They say things will pass through again
Where they once did
Like comets, fleeting feelings.
All you have to do is wait for them,
All you have to do is tear,
While standing still
Infinite pairs of shoes.

This means that the black locust tree
That was cut down last autumn
Will grow again, even for one instant
From its old root.
That you will really love me again
In a few billion light-years away.

Oh, maybe it won’t be that long,
Who knows!
Here, I’ve already started waiting for you
Measuring time with my beard,
Forever by forever.

Translated by Gregoria Green © 2020

Așteptare by Marin Sorescu

(original text)

Cică lucrurile mai trec odată
Pe unde-au mai fost
Ca nişte sentimente comete.
Trebuie numai să ştii să le-aştepţi,
Trebuie numai să rupi,
Stând pe loc
Infinite perechi de ghete.

Asta înseamnă că salcâmul
Tăiat astă-toamnă
Se va mai înălţa pentru o clipă
Pe vechea lui rădăcină.
Că tu mă vei mai iubi cu adevărat
Peste câteva miliarde de ani lumină.

O, poate nu mai e mult până-atunci,
Cine ştie!
Iată, eu am şi-nceput să te-aştept
Măsurând timpul cu barba,
Veşnicie cu veşnicie.

© Marin Sorescu

Marin Sorescu (29 February 1936 – 8 December 1996) was a Romanian poet, playwright, and novelist and probably the most famous Romanian writer of the latter half of the 20th century. His works were translated into more than 20 countries, and the total number of his books that were published abroad rises up to 60 books.

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His final volume entitled “The Bridge” was published in 1997, shortly after his death. Much of this volume was dictated to his wife Virginia as he was too weak from liver cancer to write himself.

He has also been known for his painting, and he opened many art exhibits in Romania and abroad. He occupied the position of Minister of Culture within the Nicolae Văcăroiu Cabinet, without being a member of any political party, after the Romanian revolution of 1989 (from 25 November 1993 to 5 May 1995).

His published poetry books include:

Poems (1965);
The Youth of Don Quixote (1968);
Cough (1970);
Fountains in the Sea (1982);
Water of Life, Water of Death (1987);
Poems Selected by Censorship (1991);
The Crossing (1994);
The Bridge (1997) posthumous publication.