Tuesday 22 February 2011

the fan dancer

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i remember you in the summer room
filled with sun and ripe cherries.
the dark purple of cherries around your nails, like blood.
i remember you dancing for me in the summer afternoon,
your dress pierced with seeds of light.
the fan moved like a bird in your hand.
you looked at me and something like a bird
moved within my heart as well.
but it was when you hid your face, oh
that darkness pierced me,
as it pierces your dress when you take it off,
as it pierces the air longing for your hand
to pick up the fan again.





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Friday 18 February 2011

the kiss in front of the Hôtel de Ville








They kiss, oh, they kiss, they kiss,
the young on the streets, in the bistros, on parapets
they kiss and kiss as if they were themselves
just endings
of the kiss
they kiss, oh, they kiss in the racing cars,
in the metro stations, in theaters,
in buses, they kiss with desperation,
with violence, as if,
at the end of the kiss, at the conclusion of the kiss, after the kiss,
the only thing to follow would be prescribed old age, and death.
they kiss, oh, they kiss, the thin young people
in love. So thin, as if
they were ignoring the existence of bread in this world.
so in love, as if, as if
they were ignoring the existence of world itself.
they kiss, oh, they kiss as if they were
in the dark, in the safest darkness
as if nobody saw them, as if
the sun would rise
shining
only after
their mouths, broken by the kiss and bleeding
would only be able to kiss
with their teeth.



Nichita Stănescu
The young, tr. by
Cristina Hanganu-Bresch

note:
if you want to see and hear it in Romanian, go to the translator's page and listen to the song there (included also a very interesting note on translation problems)




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Saturday 12 February 2011

Thursday 3 February 2011

self-portraits with snow and mirror
















looking into the mirror
until one becomes another
at the window gazing

white pure white
the snow has fallen
silver hidden within silver
self nestled into self

















note:
after Akahito's poem:

Coming out
from Tago's nestled cove
i gaze:
white, pure white,
the snow has fallen
on Fuji's lofty peak.





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