No Chance
I already ought to know
who I am.
Between me
and the world around
takes place a conflict
which expresses itself by peace
and understanding.
I always miss
the meeting with me.
Here abroad I do not
have any chance
to find the sense of
this little universe
I believe is mine.
The afternoon tea,
with milk,
one sugar, in the kitchen,
with the loved ones,
good mood,
gives me the opportunity
to see in detail
the photos on the fridge,
but this is already an image
from the heart’s memory card.
I’m the one who’s hearing
the birdsong outside.
Silence can find
the sense of any music.
I suffer as much silently as
an eye does from
a little grain of dust.
I do not know who I am.
Goodwill
I never find
the appropriate tone.
An e-mail
reminds me
I live on earth and still
have some exams
to pass.
Embraced by a feeling
I want to hide,
I try to believe
it is inspiration.
It might be
such a thing,
which means
I would better
change this sullen mien
for a convincing smile,
according to the
promised
shining future.
I am willing
to learn.
It was a cloudless day of January,
in 2006.
I whirled
with the tram Ring-Kai-Ring in
and realized there was no end.
I had never seen that properly.
Ring is a time curl, with people
talking and laughing in cafés.
I also entered Votiv,
just to prove how that really was.
Pretty good, I would say,
as time had patience,
smoked silently,
looked like his own owner
and politely cared
of the story I was desperately trying
to make interesting for him.
Statues
Mozart’s statue
in the Viennese Burggarten
seems to fly
above the people visiting,
but if I mention this
I let myself be carried away
by sweet banalities.
Despite appearances,
I adore saying simple things,
because life is short,
and that’s the way
I keep myself closer to its realm.
Goethe’s statue nearby is
better situated,
more stable,
but it’s this relaxed attitude
that gives charm
to the author of Faust,
who said
about the magic composer:
“Without doubt,
a figure like Mozart
will always remain
an inexplicable miracle.”
I wonder why people don’t crowd
in front of the old man, too.
As he sits on the armchair,
he could offer a priceless lesson.
Limit
I am inside out like a pullover,
though I do not
have any ill sufferance,
not yet;
I have a revolt deep in
my soul, but I know,
it might be related to the anxiety
I never escape abroad.
I am nearly sad because of
some trifles,
because I surpass myself
in swimming freely on
the waters of the pessimist's sea.
Your image overlaps everywhere;
it spins me as the wind does
the trees’ branches
here on the
But I have to admit, things
can go no further, when the limit is
already passed over.
Confused Happiness
You know, sometimes
we say sweet words because
we do not want to be
poets every time.
Maybe while being such a distance
from you,
I could find the important
and simple
things helping me survive: the love
of a person like you
and the value of a life lived in love.
It is as if these yellow flowers
of gorse bushes
- so well spread out here
all over
disappear in a second,
taken by the wind,
and do not come
back again next springtime,
a thing that would be almost
impossible,
even in a poem where they usually say
they work much by
using imagination.
The soul I have will
flourish when I come back
on the same
British Airways planes,
on a day that will be one
of my very own springs
and I can truly flourish then,
wrapped up in the confused happiness
from which I can never be
separated.
Time stopped on
watching the hurried tourists,
maps in hands,
seekers of confirmation
that they were close to history.
I saw the kingfishers
sparkling over the canal,
along Untere Donnau Strasse,
in the late autumn weather.
It was where I thought
of time more than I would have
in normal circumstances.
But he had already stopped
in those places,
smiling on a bench,
even laughing a bit at my hurry
to take photos of all and everything.
Your Absence
Your absence is
a permanent presence,
as if I were with you,
but alone in a way,
like the days we quarreled
with each other.
Loch Long is dark
now as the sun is
setting.
The hazel green in your
eyes is at home,
but
is entirely green
and stays here
to accompany me.
Where ships passed today
there is nothing but
a quiet water luster now.
Where I lived once
you still live,
and so will be forever.
Your absence supports
me from a distance,
the way
the clouds above uncovered ridges
seem to rest on something
invisible.
Your absence,
a presence
offering
a way to be happy
in sorrow.
Spring and summer together, blood
and ink,
joy, and the sadness you would hide,
waste roads, thorns,
wild flowers, illusions of a lonely man,
town’s lights, faraway, Glasgow,
annoying ankle ache (maybe it is
from the walking too long),
Helensburgh, faraway,
not darkness yet,
it is evening and not summer yet,
it is just springtime,
not happiness yet,
rather a suite of little joys,
a rain of red cells, sprightly,
over a smooth field of benumbed brain,
a cluster, people inside,
familiar bird scream,
while you think of paintings and poems,
exposed,
in the middle of
the refined current of contemporary art
mixed with raw life.
The Subject
To talk without restraints
about it
is in fashion now,
an endless spectacle on the high stages.
People praising they can freely
chat on it any time
might neglect their own complexes,
and I am not sure they know what
they lose this way.
I am not going to play the philosopher,
just I have recently visited
Freud’s house in
and still some rests of thoughts
wheel round in my head.
I do not know whether
it is good or bad,
but whenever I hear
someone making those
kinds of jokes the adults use to
make sometimes, you know,
I become red -- woe is me.
Women kindly admit this reaction
might be charming,
men would claim it as a weakness.
It should probably be time to be braver
in discussions,
because they say the subject is like any,
though a bit different, I would add,
in a way I could not explain,
not so brave to live all to the full,
but maybe brave enough, yet,
to be - at least en petit peu - cool.
Performance
I listen to my own heart
while it listens to me,
as I am not quite part of
the spectacle.
The brain
listens to both,
and the blood wheels round.
On the little lake in front of my terrace
three ducks land
unexpectedly
and make me shudder.
I am in a walking trip inside of me
and I do not know the places.
It is a season exulting outside.
A sudden turn on the heels
and I offer a good performance
to myself.
Then I applaud, but
I do not think
an encore is in order.
I remain in the side scenes
watching through a curtain’s slit.
Adventurous Life
Everything is perfect.
I am able to smile
larger and larger till
the mandible articulation begins aching.
I can do this with the noble goal
to create high-spirit around,
and I never complain myself.
All is more than perfect.
I live the life I have written,
I am loved by the woman I love,
I have two wonderful children,
and I also could mention many other
good things,
in the case I am asked.
All is incredibly well-arranged.
The blood pulsates,
the heart beats, the legs
carry me on wherever I wish to,
the lungs breath pretty normal,
I have no aging problem,
maybe except
I need now to wear glasses
while reading;
but I am forty,
and soon I will be fifty,
and so on.
I do not want to complain at all,
I rather could say I am happy,
not to mention money is not
among my life’s priorities.
It is as though everything were
especially for me.
I write poems, I say
to each and everyone
how lovely the weather is, always,
and I guess this is the most adventurous life
I can ever live.
Back In Time On
The bagpipe I heard
on Buchanan Street in
carried me deeply back to centuries passed.
It may be true,
that this is a “shopping” street,
as local people say, a disappointed mien,
but the emotional wave I
faced there had nothing to do
with prices,
neither with the joy when
you find that for which you look,
or when you are found by the merchandise
seeking you.
I already wore the face
of one surprised, one who
had come unexpectedly out
of the blue.
I peered into the crowd to see
this musician teleporting me
back in time.
He leaned against a wall,
wearing a tartan kilt, playing
the mysterious bagpipe
under a drizzling of rain.
Coins gathered in the front box,
while the music could not succeed in
becoming wares at all, and I think
I knew for a second why,
but I forgot,
and I lost myself
in that very space and time.
At Kunstmuseum in
I consciously wrote - like
students do in their note-books -
the years between which
the artists lived.
So close to the city,
Paul Klee lived
from 1879 until 1940.
Picasso had also two numbers
immediately after
his name: 1881-1973.
Further on, on the labels
of the two paintings of Modigliani
it could be read: 1884-1920.
Beside Dali’s “Collosus of Rhodos”,
a whole life was placed
between1904 and 1989.
To no comparison,
while writing, I thought
there would be a label for me, too,
some time, somewhere,
in a future.
Later, in the train, watching
through window,
still I saw the empty place
next to 1965,
my birth year.
(first appeared in “Stellar Showcase Journal”)
Today, when the sun is shining,
I guess you should look different
among all these ruins we have reached
by chance, having talked on a literary subject.
I’ve sought all the last time for the line,
for the uncertain border,
especially in the springs
when we enjoyed so much the blooming
and the stifling flowers.
Now I feel as if I were not me,
and I do not like when the pauses come,
the silent moments,
when we drop the eyes and do not say a word,
softly stirring in debris with the shoes’ tips.
I understand how it’s possible to say
that someone is conceited,
that he is so preoccupied with his body, his heart,
being also interested in
how his face will look in a distant future.
It could be something similar
to the warning sign we can see on the electricity poles,
on the flagons with poison in a laboratory,
or on the flags floating in the movies with pirates.
Today, when sadness is a background for our silence,
I think I should begin thinking more
about where is to come in what we are concerned,
with what makes the flowers into optimistic elements,
among all these forgotten old walls
having, still, a ciphered story to say.
(first appeared in “Subtle Tea”)
Life is neither so philosophic
nor complicated
but you cannot speak about it.
My father, who knew
the Soviet Gulag,
had generally good opinions of life.
I also have good thoughts
and so does my wife.
As for our children, they
avoid the subject,
and we prefer to leave them
in peace like that.
I remembered life yesterday
in the plane, but
immediately forgot it, especially
after a glass of red Pic Saint-Loup,
the stewardess’s smile attached.
Big-Ben,
Parliament,
and all the other known buildings
below displayed their splendor
through my eyes - an Eastern European who
has lived half of his life in communism
and the other part in neo-communism.
Life makes me think of life;
death also gives me a way
to think more about it.
I am in a place where if I could
catch the most appropriate note
I would know then
to play brilliantly the score,
and be able, in consequence,
for more enjoying life.
Everything is perfect.
I am able to smile
larger and larger till
the mandible articulation begins aching.
I can do this with the noble goal
to create high-spirit around,
and I never complain myself.
All is more than perfect.
I live the life I have written,
I am loved by the woman I love,
I have two wonderful children,
and I also could mention many other
good things,
in the case I am asked.
All is incredibly well-arranged.
The blood pulsates,
the heart beats, the legs
carry me on wherever I wish to,
the lungs breath pretty normal,
I have no aging problem,
maybe except
I need now to wear glasses
while reading;
but I am forty,
and soon I will be fifty,
and so on.
I do not want to complain at all,
I rather could say I am happy,
not to mention money is not
among my life’s priorities.
It is as though everything were
especially for me.
I write poems, I say
to each and everyone
how lovely the weather is, always,
and I guess this is the most adventurous life
I can ever live.
(first appeared in “Stellar Showcase Journal”)
It is as if I were ill,
feverish, lonely,
abroad.
I do not share myself between
me and my own person.
The world swishes inside;
and the heart,
agreeing secretly with the brain,
makes waves to show I am still alive.
Despite the smile,
I am not on the wave --
quite under it.
Maybe I am in vacation
and try to take advantage of
the good weather.
Striving to be at least
a part of what I will never be,
I dare not venture too deep
but splash a bit with the oars here,
where I suppose the shore is nearby
helping me feel safe.
(first appeared in “Stellar Showcase Journal”)
It is drizzling,
Scottish style,
over the pond
in front of
my terrace.
My brain, wrapped up
in fog, absorbs
the far peaks foggy as well.
I am waiting for something
I do not know --
a thing passing through my blood
leaving a powerful
feeling, like a prayer.
I am neither sad, nor glad,
neither alone, nor accompanied.
I do not move myself --
I am quite self-controlled,
just a bit too
faraway from what I am.
The rain kindles
like a fire.
Blood struggles within my heart.
I have some good things to offer.
I come from a country where
beauty and poverty
go together.
I come from
where I go back.
I am from the inspiration and
expiration
of unshared pain
that goes very well
with the rain outside,
keeping me in the house.
(first appeared in “Flutter Poetry Journal”)
I do not say it’s difficult to live
the nowadays modern life,
because it’s just a complicated kiss,
where the two find room
together
without the need to pile themselves up.
Loch Ness is somewhere else,
so I am safe from monsters.
It is Loch Long here, and
I watch from the terrace,
like once in Bicaz,
near the dam’s lake, in
where you write e-mails
saying you think of me.
I think of life,
and when I do this I push
my limits much further.
I am just someone
thinking that death belongs to poems
I wish I could write but cannot,
because I do not have
enough courage to go so far.
(first appeared in “Flutter Poetry Journal”)
A Japanese man
took photos of
the crowd sur le Quai du Mont Blanc,
in
It caught me too
when I was admiring the huge
artesian well.
I thought then for a second
I would remain
in an album,
somewhere in a house
in
or elsewhere,
and nobody would ever know
who I was.
(first appeared in “The Orange Room Review”)
You have such a mood of being,
a hidden way,
without the outbreaks
we have seen in others.
The train made a high noise, not too far off,
but no change on your face.
It is quite clear
we deserve more sky,
more green land, trees, grass, flowers,
all these things,
the spring itself,
maybe even smiles
of obvious happiness.
The gratitude of people,
having a better affective memory,
humiliates us.
We must admit
we had forgotten them,
yet our embracing gesture
is for each of them.
They were like springtime past,
enthusiastic and volcanic,
and that simple gesture,
under an uncovered sky,
might surely seem mechanical
on the outside,
yet strange and clear at the same time,
like a secret mood of being.
enclosed in the volume "Transatlantic Crossings. The Constant Language of Poetry" (TJMF Publishing, 2006)
Not only would it seem too hard,
Laughing with my entire face
Like that big advertisement sign
Outside the window.
Neither this thing, nor something else,
Would be even crueler
Than the correct frame between accepted limits.
The power to let loose a long moan,
Both discrete and deep,
From a depth no one can reach.
I stop myself for a while
To watch the people at tables.
I stay, but am not able to have an opinion,
Not even a temporary one.
I actually try to pretend
I am at home talking to me,
Yet I am far way, not with me.
I suppose this can already be seen,
Just as a state of pregnancy can be seen
On a young woman's face.
It is clear that I have been carrying along
A kind of cheery discord to these times,
Which seems, however, to be a positive course.
Still, I have got a little hope
And I decide to make it true,
Just as this day has finally become a real day,
And this is just because I have been staying, and
waiting,
Not a problem to anyone.
enclosed in the volume "Transatlantic Crossings. The Constant Language of Poetry" (TJMF Publishing, 2006)
Waiting for a flight,
I drink a cup of espresso,
a teaspoon of sugar and a thimble of milk,
mixed with a small plastic-stick,
at a table in the airport’s bar.
As time goes by,
I'm increasingly convinced
it is the best thing I can do: wait.
I stay and think, and maybe write two lines
on this empty paper sheet.
A smiling stewardess wearing a short skirt
deflects my thoughts,
but not more than the announcer's repeated phrases.
I feel a shadow coming over,
but not because of the clouds or any other obstacle in front of the sun.
I’ve just a single story to tell.
It is not my life’s story,
rather it is that of the world I live in,
full of endless nuances.
It seems to be simple,
but it is more complicated
than the Woody Allen movie I saw yesterday...
and I do not say this just to defend myself.
enclosed in the volume "Transatlantic Crossings. The Constant Language of Poetry" (TJMF Publishing, 2006)
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There is something obviously lyrical |
first appeared in Magma Poetry
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When I feel my life is like first appeared in Magma Poetry | |