I stand solo, aloof in the snow, a precipitation
of words cascading from a nebulous eye
Fathoms wide, forever dripping like wax onto
a punctured paper serving a Sanskrit sky,
and spreading into sibilant sentences swiftly
sliding from syllable sorcery to soulful serenades
so silent in the shunting shout of white. Poetry
fills a churning void where novels cannot wade,
Phrases solidifying into idolisation of emotion
itself, isolation of the isometric individuality that so
Crushes my keeling cavern of thought, ever
careering from caustic career path to another new low,
Which so seems to crumble into crazy paving’s
counterpart. In this first freeze-frame we can all grasp
A fraction of the familiar, oh so fractured by the
fumbling nature of enforced form. Freed by the gasp
Of a photo-opportunity glowing phosphorescent
with firsts, I am no longer framed by the festering
Constraints of non-fiction, and folding my fond
farewells carefully, I hesitantly face a vision pestering
Me, fearing the fiend that would open maw and
gnaw beneath my feet, evoking an avalanche of the
Vernacular, but I am further past this unfed
existence now, loosened from the fickle friendship of a
Winter thaw. Focus not your gaze on the grinding
gauze of the greats, for the pressing pestilence of
Perishable poetry is elsewhere pondering its parallels
in posturing and post-modern pining for forlorn love.
Praise no other; I am poetry.
A self-written poem begun in Christmas Time,
While it tasting the soup and looking for rhyme.
In the kitchen, neighbor with the quiet tomato paste,
The sorcerer's apprentice, a poet pretty well placed
Near Soups (ciorbe) with characteristic sour taste
With luminous face and much grace added the rest:
As he was sipping and tasting from raw and cooked.
His group had a passionate look at what was booked
For the dinner: These might be meat and vegetable soups.
They had to choose till the coming of the helping troops
For the pig`s sacrifice rite, old mixture of joy and grief
Under the hot and long debrief of the pleasant smell-thief
Tripe soup (ciorba de burta) hard prepared from beef,
And calf foot soup (ciorba de vitel), with green-gold leaf
Pickled soup (supa de moare) with pork and big rice;
But use the dice to decide between spice and allspice.
From the slaughtered pig the village` families prepare:
Carnati - sausages kept in special aromatic smoke
Of wet fir and oak burned at small fire as enjoyed by folk;
Caltabos - sausages made with liver sprinkled with beers;
Toba and piftie - dishes using pig's feet, head and ears
Suspended in aspic like a frozen symphony in red
After cups of plum brandy and before going the bed
Tochitura - pan-fried pork to bid it a farewell, twice
Served with mamaliga - palesta , and red wine with ice,
Or boiled wine with pepper and cinnamon against frost;
So that the pork can swim and the verse were glossed;
Piftie - inferior parts of the bashful pig, mainly the tail,
Feet and ears, kind of meal like taken from a fairytale
In which all are cooked and served in a form of gelatin
In this naturalist field, all the poets smile like Mr.Bean;
Jumari - small pieces of pig meat are fried and tumbled
Through various spices if after all, you are a little troubled
And may falter some poetical from the famous songs
Like "So, good people drink…" couples of diphthongs
Since Saturday to Thursday and make colorful the gray.
This poem was written in the Night of Tuesday to Friday.
( And later we`d find that the housewife had covered with it the pickles cucumbers jar.)
In a bright studio overlooking the noisy street,
I hide from the living to write with a frantic beat;
loud voices and sounds will subdue before dark...
very sweet is the the melody of the lonely lark.
Even when it snows, the view is quite awesome:
watching snowflakes slowly come down and dress
trees in glistening white...one can feel lonesome
when every audible sound is hushed by stillness.
How lovely it is when happy faces peak from windows!
They may seem immensely surprised or stupefied;
and some even open their doors and come outside
to observe the fluffy snow descend on the pines' boughs.
I pause for another minute, then resume my writing...
it's profound observation that inspires the heart and mind,
giving this motivated poet many ideas of positive feeling;
I sense and absorb them, not noticing kids getting wild.
In a bright studio overlooking the noisy street,
I fear shadows towards evening when feet
make deep footprints that lead to my stairs...
and afraid of ghosts, I begin chanting prayers.
The cold winter days
Use to amaze me
The dead trees
The lack of their leaves
The season of death
It surrounds me now
My body frozen
Like the chosen
The pond with its ice
Geese in full flight
Ducks skating across
All I see is frost
Wind cuts through me
Like a sharp knife
Freezing my brain
Driving me insane
Cold, painful hands
Can't write the words
My thoughts imploding
And the blizzard still blowing...
The muscles flexed like wings for flight
I saw fell down from heaven like light
The trees shook
Off their callous demure, grew gold green
My masked look
Came where adoration feathered preen
The cold pride that risked my life
The risks that gave me strength in youth
Disappeared in conformance too rife
And I risk done, for old age turned to soot
Undone by trusting to be secure
The man becomes impotent like the child before
Some will not see old age in anything
Except to know dying leaves are gold
And a drying river seems like a spring
Dead winter too as white innocense unfold
Some will not understand metaphors still
Deeper pearls in images of hard shells
The sun gives life and same time does kill
But nothing alive deters the cycled knells
For we conform and then we fall apart
To believe is where the beginnings start
Winter hairs atop the head, and winter beard
That even in the sun will not melt. This tree
Has no green leaf left to show for life. Seered
By the cold barren branches faking all glee
Replaced their groans with creaking songs
Death is kind, it is old age that's glum and gloomy
I fear its frightening, and unfumbling fangs
The little niche of hole to a world so well and roomy.
Bones leak like roofs, and no rain yet
To moist the scales of the crinkling skin
The joy of today is to forget
Memory has no next of kin.
I go beyond the end of the line to write
My children in meaning after my tongue
Still against the forlorn night
Cleave leaves for specks of dew soft hung.
I have opened hibiscus for your tongue
To bird hum and suck
Its honey out among
Shrivelling stamens sagging into muck
I gave you light that may understand this
Lapse of petals dried
Fantasizing for a kiss
A mouth that left the flesh mob crucified
All this roar of dreams and desires vain
This birth to know, fell
From grace, grows pain
Man's life, the eager urge of empty shell.
Walk on almond paths
of winter sprigs and thyme
floating upward under steps
you left for me in rhyme
I wish to counter balance
your magnitude and flow
with a whisper and an echo
like the winter winds which blow
Crisp inhale and wonder
with a cup of fresh brewed bliss
while the loose exhale of winter
turns my thoughts toward those I miss
You always memorize me
while you turn to me in kind
with a moment and a whisper
which you always leave in rhyme
I love you like forever
as you warm my hands in yours
as we wind on down our sensory paths
and land on different shores...