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Showing posts from 2012

When pain finds a voice

It isn't mine

It's three in the morning,
my brain.
A terrible sound.


It's three in the morning.
My brain,
a terrible sound.

It's three. In the morning,
my brain.
A, terrible sound.


(Sept. 2015)


Rummaging through sheets, mutilating my brain with scenarios about the new school, about the new minds I'll have to carve into
at three in the morning. When, suddenly, 
a terrible sound approaches my heart - It isn't mine. A man's crying in the street
a woman’s name. I jump and lean 

over the window sill. A shadow
on the pavement, holding a bottle,
is sobbing and howling like the eviscerated
puma of Doctor Moreau.
(Sept. 2012)

(un exercițiu)

On time embodiments

Rain breaks as gentle as a cat
on the roof. It’s looking at us.
I remember the signs of possession.
I remember time slowly approaching my mind

behind the wooden gate. The bells are getting closer. It’s nothing like fear. Enormous bodies of silence, 
great beasts,  who know their way home.
You try to remember as much as you can – of the time embodiments you were passed by and above all, their name.
They seem tired and somehow overwhelmed. Walking heavily through gates, through the narrowing air, to the stables, without saying goodbye or hello. Grandma’s touching a wet and warm belly. I’m looking into the beast's eyes. Grandma whispers gently its name.  It resembles mine.

Heart stammering

Years came in a rush, leaving you
with so little

to say.
What have you been doing?  
Someone leans to take a sip. Maybe it’s me.
There’s no right answer to that so
I look sideways -

in class, teaching English grammar,
in the bar or at home, listening to
his fears reducing me
to heart stammering.
You don’t see me, I say ashamed of the thousands of women’s voices from movies and literature – the residues. Of a boarding school girl who stammers about what love and happiness should be. This isn’t it, she says defiantly. I encourage her. Say some more. Tell him. You’re not it, he says and shuts her heart.
She doesn’t trust her flesh. She doesn’t trust her mind. Still, she corrects spelling and grammar and gives in red bad marks, while he plays table tennis and darts.
He needs his friends, or so he says, for the talking and drinking. She needs him to acknowledge her on the way back.
The bell rings and you rush outside for a cigarette. For every fifty waiting minutes, ten minutes more. This is your life. Bulls-eye and …