Autumn came so please cover my heart with the
Tree shade—or yours so it won’t wither.
I fear that perhaps I won’t see you sometimes
That I’ll grow sharp wings up to the skies
That you’ll hide within a foreign eye
Which will close with a bitter good-bye.
And then I go near the rocks and shut up.
Take the words and drown them in the sea.
I whistle the moon and rise it and turn it
Into a big love.
“Autunm eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends.
From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk:
then time returns to the shell.
In the mirror it’s Sunday,
in dream there is room for sleeping,
our mouths speak the truth.
My eye moves down to the sex of my loved one:
we look at each other,
we exchange dark words,
we love each other like poppy and recollection,
we sleep like wine in the conches,
like the sea in the moon’s blood ray.
We stand by the window embracing, and people look up from
the street:
it is time they knew!
It is time the stone made an effort to flower,
time unrest had a beating heart.
It is time it were time.
It is time.”
― Paul Celan
You are my Sword
My life is torn between the artist and the engineer
the poet and the pragmatist
I have compassion for those who ache
contempt for those who abuse my trust
I believe in love
Though I may never find
My heart aches
yet I feel no pain
there is no end
it is already here
I am forever bound in a Gordian knot
I yearn for the sword to free me from this labyrinth
l am the Minotaur forever trapped
yet I am never lost
my life lies before thine eyes
for all to see, for one to understand
be gentle and I give freely
be cruel then forever no more
the choice is yours
I will live on
defiant of your scorn
or entrenched in your love
mine is forever
there is no end
you are my sword
© indigorock
A Catbird lives outside my window
He made his nest quite late in July
Could he be the victim of a love gone awry?
He makes his nest to please his love
In my rose garden, amongst the thorn
He brings great treasure to ease her scorn
He calls for her all through the day
She does not answer, nor come his way
I tired of his Catbird screech
A new tune was mine to teach
So now when he arrives with treasures to see
He whistles a catcall especially for me!
J’ai fermé les yeux pour ne plus rien voir
J’ai fermé les yeux pour pleurer
De ne plus te voir.
Où sont tes mains et les mains des caresses
Où sont tes yeux les quatre volontés du jour
Toi tout à perdre tu n’es plus là
Pour éblouir la mémoire des nuits.
Tout à perdre je me vois vivre.
We shall remember once, too late,
This simple happening, so fine,
This very bench where we are seated,
Your burning temple next to mine.
From hazel stamens, cinders fall
White as the poplars that they land on,
Beginnings want to be fecund,
May gives itself with sweet abandon.
The pollen falls on both of us,
Small mountains made of golden ashes
It forms around us, and it falls
On our shoulders and our lashes.
It falls into our mouths when speaking,
On eyes, when we are mute with wonder
And there’s regret, but we don’t know
Why it would tear us both asunder.
We shall remember once, too late,
This simple happening, so fine,
This very bench where we are seated
Your burning temple next to mine.
In dreams, through longings, we can see—
All latent in the dust of gold
These forests that perhaps could be—
But that will never, ever, grow.
By Lucian Blaga
Translated by Cristina Hanganu-Bresch
Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it’s raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the asphalt’s shining, you cross the street,
it is the mist, wandering in the night,
it is the night, asleep in your bed,
it is the surge of waves in your breath,
your fingers of water dampen my forehead,
your fingers of flame burn my eyes,
your fingers of air open eyelids of time,
a spring of visions and resurrections,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the years go by, the moments return,
do you hear the footsteps in the next room?
not here, not there: you hear them
in another time that is now,
listen to the footsteps of time,
inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift-go in,
your shadow covers this page.
We share all these disappointments of failing
autumn a thousand miles apart. This is where
autumn wind easily plunders courtyard trees,
but the sorrows of distance never scatter away.
Swallow shadows shake out homeward wings.
Orchid scents thin, drifting from old thickets.
These lovely seasons and fragrant years falling
lonely away— we share such emptiness here.
