Our mind,
you that give us the will to act in (seemingly) freedom,
unfolded be your name
and revealed its (linguistic, metaphysical and ontological) secrets,
let agency come, fully restored after a history of deterministic slavery,
let perception be the same as understanding.
Feed us your bread, the truth, free from ambiguity,
and forgive us the arrogance of believing in you more than
maybe physics would allow
and don’t let us fall in doctrinal stupidity
and absolve us from dichotomy, the evil.
Amen
The Cripple Philosopher
play in three scenes and an epilogue
nu lui i-am spus ci ei,
nu lor ci voua
si nu am plins ci doar
m-am dezbracat,
o mina dreapta
apoi o mina stinga,
maieu, sosete, sapca si manusi.
am stat citeva ore-ntins in pat
cu gindurile ca o apa tulburata
si ochii tinta.
un mort stupefiat.
„sa ma ridic”, mi-am spus,
„sa-mi fac un ceai”.
dar am ramas cu setea,
nu m-am mai ridicat.
mi-e sete si acum
dar nu vorbesc.
mi-am extirpat cuvintul
iar fapta i-a urmat.
un mort fara sosete, mut si-ngindurat…
trying to relativate the shame that nodds at me…
„I’m guilty like the pig that ate the corn…”
and, just like the ignorant pig, so silent…
you can call it lack of interest and brutal ignorance,
I call it self-protection:
I stopped long time ago with
reading other poets than myself,
she said, ashamed…
not out of comfort as it makes life so much more difficult:
no helping hand from other brothers in arms,
no mirror to mirror the face that sometimes
falls in deep silence and convicts itself
to months without music or rhyme,
to the minimalistic life of an ignorant pig…
I can still read shakespeare, the man,
with him I’m safe: no piece of him is possible
within the frustrated white verse of the modern me…
wyslawa, on the contrary, seems to wake up
in every sentence that I try to formulate,
her daemon floats with me
depriving me from the only gift I’m left with:
my freedom…
and seamus, the manipulator, the one I fell
in love with when I thought my heart was empty,
(honestly, it was. he filled it up again with resonance
and meaning)
takes me over, over, I cannot write my own words
because I write him through my pen…
without them around me, I can be myself…
what a torment to have to stay away
from the one you love, the ultimate trade…
call the pig an „ignorant”.
he’s nevertheless free…
dear werner herzog,
I saw your movie about antarctica.
I have no words to describe it nor
the meanings that it raised in me.
I think I understood where you were heading to.
I also find it difficult to find words to describe this.
it seems you try to say that man has lost
its meaning, its scope, and now
we are all turning around our own axes
in search of „that” that we miss since.
your form of „articulation” (the film)
is a contradictio in terminis: your film
is arguing for the beauty of silence
while „articulating” about it.
what am I supposed to believe
from it? the film itself (beautiful
images, witty lines, interesting music)
which is just another documentary
that proves that we are here to produce
or its underlying message, the silence as imperative?
I am a writer that forbids herself to write
because the only truth that’s worth writing about
contradicts my action. I hesitated
whether I should write these words to you or
go to bed unresolved and sad.
I’m writing and I’m sad,
this letter is the contradiction of myself as human being,
unresolved and sad.
Amen – voor jou
en dan ook nog voor mij.
wij, met z’n tweeen, de bondgenoten van de hemel,
de enige twee die oprijzen uit
biljoenen mensen die ooit ten dode
marcheerden op aarde…
en jij bent niet eens een mens,
jij bent maar een symbool,
een tekening,
een schilderij,
een smaak,
een wens.
ik, aan de andere kant, kan wel praten
m’n mond vol eerewoorden en beloftes.
m’n adem voor een monsterlijk geweten:
wie van ons twee telt minder
op een schaal van een tot tien?
(de nul is weg, al, zo te zien…)
de zoon van god? ik zie je moeder daar,
ze staat te huilen…
nee, waag het niet te vragen,
met jou zou ik nooit willen ruilen!
Amen – voor jou en voor jou alleen.
god ziet me niet,
ik sta te laag voor hem,
hier, laag, beneden…
graag wil ik het zo houden:
mijn eenzaamheid – jou spiegelbeeld,
jou eeuwigheid – een grap…
geen zorgen: ik zal niet lachen
en zeker niet doorvertellen…
The day I lost my faith was yesterday.
A little piece of history
out of the rush along the years,
a day remarkable and though
the one I wish I could forget,
if possible,
before I reach tomorrow,
the one that I can call,
with certainty, the grayest it can get…
Yes, something happened
that softly got disolved
into the mist of Wednesday evening,
as if it’s never ever bothered to appear…
It touched my soul,
an icy breath,
a blow of spades
and left…
I trembled vaguely and I sighed,
my head went down, obedient,
and my heart died…
That was it…
There’s nothing left to cherish,
and much less to forgive,
now that I know I’ll never hold my breath again
to say that I believe…
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