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)



..

beyond the edge of time

..

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.




..

who would know, who (in homage to Ono no Komachi)

waiting for you all night.
two moons lit up my skin,
my dry rose blossomed anew.
only you didn't come.
towards dawn, a big blue bird
flew home and crushed, its chest open,
against my window.
who would know, who
that i was the bird
and you were the temple in which,
suddenly, all flutter had ceased.

..

in the last hour of the sun, walking past the water of stillness

..

unbearable fullness

that night, before leaving, i stood in front of the window for a long time,
staring into the night, or what should have been the night.

yet life was still there, unbearably full, clinging to me like algae to a dead body.

..

the quiet, slow and steady distortion of memory

The broken mirror will not again reflect;
Fallen flowers will hardly rise up to the branch.

from Zenrinkushu (1429-1504)

..

more about dreams, snow and cats

At noon, it began to snow, and we stopped
on the window-sill, and looked out, dreaming
of a walk by the lake with her, seeing
her face, intent, when she listened, pursing her lips,
and then turning towards us her white face
like a flower of ice in the upturned collar
of her loose raincoat. Snow in her hair,
(and we, dreaming of alcohol-algae hung loosely in her
locks), and walking with her by the lake.











And later, someone came
and asked us something. We went to the bar,
and played with the long-legged glass
on the counter. And when we remembered
and looked out of the window — it didn't snow anymore.











And then, last night, I descended
to the bar in the hall, but down there
I was stopped as I had just reached out my hand
toward the bottle, by the moon's icy gaze.
It summoned me to the window — and there,
I saw, just under the terrace's French window,
the cat Theobald crouching, ready to spring
toward some indistinct shadow by the shore.











Then, that shadow moved, and I saw it was
a girl in a loose mackintosh, walking
as in a daze, by the moonlit lake
— I saw her shivering — she was alone —
and, absent-minded, tried to fold her raincoat
up, around her neck. The cat was watching her. So was I.



Mircea Ivănescu

La amiază, a început să ningă, şi ne-am oprit
pe pervazul ferestrei, privind afară, visînd
că ne plimbăm lîngă lac, cu ea, şi-i vedeam
faţa, atentă, cînd asculta, muşcîndu-şi buzele strînse,
şi apoi întorcîndu-şi spre noi faţa albă
ca o floare de gheaţă în gulerul înălţat
al hainei de ploaie largi. Zăpada în părul ei
(şi noi, visînd alge de alcool atîrnînd destrămate
în buclele ei), şi plimbîndu-ne împreună cu ea
pe malul lacului. Mai tîrziu, a venit cineva
să ne întrebe nu mai ştim ce. Am coborît
şi ne-am jucat un timp cu paharul cu piciorul înalt
pe tăblia lucioasă. Cînd ne-am amintit mai tîrziu
şi am privit pe fereastră — nu mai ningea.
Şi apoi, astă-noapte, am coborît
către barul din hall. însă acolo
m-a oprit locului, tocmai cînd întindeam mîna
spre sticlă, privirea de gheaţă a lunii
— şi m-a tras la fereastră. — Acolo
l-am văzut, chiar sub uşile de sticlă ale terasei,
pe motanul Theobald, chircit, gata să sară
spre o umbră nelămurită, pe mal.
Apoi, umbra s-a mişcat, şi-am văzut că era
o fată într-o haină de ploaie prea largă, mergînd
ca-ntr-un vis pe lîngă lacul bătut de lună
— o vedeam înfiorîndu-se — era singură —
şi, absentă, încerca să-şi încheie haina de ploaie,
sus, la gît. Pisica o pîndea. Şi eu.



(the English version belongs to the poet himself)



..

moving through dreams

the city is still celebrating.
a maze of lights, faint odour and whisper,
the languid body of human desire.
only i, like a cat who's become one
with the music of her prey,
move through dreams, eyes wide-open,
oblivious of my claws, my smooth arched back.


oh, the stillness of the snowed-in garden.

..

silent dance

We rarely hear the inward music,
but we’re all dancing to it nevertheless.


Rumi



..

december roses

A few December roses, still,
Roses, real roses, with little fragrance,
All petals, heavy, satiny petals.
It was important not to stop talking. For
The poem was still the poem, for
You couldn't do anything else
With your body.

Henri Deluy, from Carnal Love
tr. Guy Bennett

.

december chrysanthemums

The chrysanthemums
were yellow or white
until the frost.

Godō's death poem (1801)

Note on a note:

"Ladies moistened a bit of chrysanthemum-patterned brocade with dew from chrysanthemum flowers, rubbed their cheeks with it to smooth the wrinkles of age (since chrysanthemum dew conferred immortal youth), and composed poems lamenting the sorrows of growing old", says Royall Tyler in his notes on The Tale of Genji (which he translated into English).

(i am still searching for a chrysanthemum-patterned brocade to photograph it for the Bridge, against snow and delicate fingers, like faded petals themselves)




..

first snow, today

...happiness ... might be just such a matter of the fleeting instant.


Shingo, in Kawabata's Sound of the Mountain


..

in the stale grandeur of annihilation

Weaker and weaker, the sunlight falls
In the afternoon. The proud and the strong
Have departed.

Those that are left are the unaccomplished,
The finally human,
Natives of a dwindled sphere.

Their indigence is an indigence
That is an indigence of the light,
A stellar pallor that hangs on the threads.

Little by little, the poverty
Of autumnal space becomes
A look, a few words spoken.

Each person completely touches us
With what he is and as he is,
In the stale grandeur of annihilation.


Wallace Stevens (Lebensweisheitspielerei)










.
.

it happens when...

the butterfly dies slowly.

the first death has always been there, from the beginning, carried within, unknown, as another self.

about the second death, maybe the third one as well, there isn't really much to tell. imagine: one day, almost unawares, you walk past a flower, not very different from others on the same meadow, you brush one petal, you go away. it is only later that you realize that this short moment, perhaps only a few seconds in a butterfly's time, contains the essence of your life, of everything you have longed for. you go back, in vain, you keep searching for something to fill the shape of this death. you are ready to admit it, or you refuse to. it doesn't matter much, in the end.
(there are some who argue: the more such deaths gather within, the richer one's life. hence a scarred meadow would still be preferable, though whoever is to bring clarity in such matters? and most importantly, why aim at clarity after all?)

the fourth death is the one which is really unavoidable. it may seem paradoxical, perhaps it is indeed so. in the end, it doesn't matter much, either. it happens when, instead of the silence which should drape, in gray and self-effacing grace, the loss of each wing, the poem is spoken, pinning the butterfly to itself, forever.

right now, i am the executioner.
(is my picture a lesser crime?)


.
.

sunset under the floating bridge (in homage to my adored Monet)

crossing this blue bridge of dreams,
my heart still untamed,
my hair still the bloodied reeds
which used to chain down time.
stopping. such stillness, suddenly
in this body heavy with countless autumns.
leaping. rings in the water neither reveal
nor hide anything. for a while,
until the world gets busy again,
as it never fails to do.
in this body of mine as well, though
i ask: whose body, now?

drowning within the setting sun.

..