pentru şi mai mult gol
pentru
zgomotele făcute de alţii
atât de străini încât
să nu te mai doară
pentru
scrâşnetul scaunului pe gresie
venit de la apartamentul de deasupra
pentru
foşnetul seminţei ce încolţeşte prin ciment
pentru
sunetul vocii tale din vis
mai vie decât o ştiai
şi
întotdeauna te vei găsi
în preajma neputinţei
de a înţelege
lucrurile fireşti
cum ar fi o îmbrăţişare
simplă
ca un sacrificiu
…
…
un trup cald
în mormântul ăsta din piept
.
.
.
.
.
.
la Casa de Pariuri Literare, în 2012, voi debuta cu Eşecul melancoliei!
nu-mi vine să cred! 
anunţul lui Un Cristian e pe facebook şi, dacă nu-mi spunea Tina, eu puteam să o lălăi mult şi bine ))
mă duc să sărbătoresc sau ceva 
La mulţi ani, Leonard Cohen!
…
Song (“I almost went to bed …”)
I almost went to bed
without remembering
the four white violets
I put in the button-hole
of your green sweater
and how i kissed you then
and you kissed me
shy as though I’d
never been your lover
….
Things are better in Milan.
Things are a lot better in Milan.
My adventure has sweetened.
I met a girl and a poet.
One of them was dead
and one of them was alive.
The poet was from Peru
and the girl was a doctor.
She was taking antibiotics.
I will never forget her.
She took me into a dark church
consecrated to Mary.
Long live the horses and the sandles.
The poet gave me back my spirit
which I had lost in prayer.
He was a great man out of the civil war.
He said his death was in my hands
because I was the next one
to explain the weakness of love.
The poet was Cesar Vallejo
who lies at the floor of his forehead.
Be with me now great warrior
whose strength depends solely
on the favours of a woman.
….
THE PRO
I leave my silence to a co-operative of poets
who have already bruised their mouths against it.
I leave my homesick charm to the scavengers of
spare change who work the old artistic corners.
I leave the shadow of my manly groin to those who
write for pay.
I leave to several jealous men a second-rate legend
of my life.
To those few high school girls
who preferred my work to Dylan’s
I leave my stone ear
and my disposable Franciscan ambitions
…
summer haiku
Silence
and a deeper silence
when the crickets
hesitate
….
….
uneori nu mai pot nici vorbi şi nici respira.
şi nu caut motive pentru că nu există nici un motiv.
există doar stări foarte puternice şi de o înspăimântătoare pasiune.
şi chiar dacă nimic nu e complet nu înseamnă că nu există frumuseţe.
…
…
….
…
…
…
….
Wislawa Szymborska cea ludică şi înţeleaptă, de care sunt irevocabil atrasă.
am găsit din pură întâmplare cartea People on a bridge. chiar m-am speriat când am descoperit-o, aruncată printre celelalte cărţi de pe raftul din anticariat. zic: Uau! chiar ea să fie?! ea era. ha!
deci, vă las aici, din People on a bridge trei poeme, traduse în engleză de poetul Adam Czerniawski.
…
Homecoming
He was back. Said nothing.
But it was clear something unpleasant had occurred.
He lay down in his suit.
Hid his head under the blanket.
Drew up his knees.
He’s about forty, but not at this moment.
He exists – but only as much as in his mother’s belly
behind seven skins, in protective darkness.
Tomorrow he is lecturing on homeostasis
In metagalactic space-travel.
But now he’s curled up and fallen asleep.
…
Thank-you
I owe a lot
to those I don’t love.
Relieved to acknowledge
they are closer to someone else.
Joy at not being
the wolf of their sheep.
With them I am at peace,
with them I’m free,
and this love can neither give
nor knows how to take.
I don’t wait for them
from window to door.
Patient
almost like a sundial
I understand
what love does not
and forgive
what love would never have forgiven.
Between a meeting and a letter
it’s not an eternity that passes,
but simply a few days or weeks.
Travels with them are always a success,
concerts heard through,
cathedrals toured,
landscapes distinct.
And when seven hills and rivers
divide us,
these are hills and rivers
we know well from maps.
It’s their own achievement
if they live in three dimensions,
in nonlyrical and unrhetorical space,
with a real, that is, a mobile horizon.
They themselves don’t know
how much they carry empty-handed.
“I owe them nothing”
love would have commented
on this open subject.
….
Funeral
- so suddenly, who could have guessed
- nerves, and cigarettes, I did warn him
- passably, thank you
- unwrap those flowers
- in his brother’s case it was the heart, must be in the family
- I would never recognize you with that beard
- only himself to blame, always mixed up in something
- that new one was to speak, can’t see him
- Kazek’s in Warsaw, Tadek’s abroad
- only you were clever enough to take an umbrella
- he was the ablest – doesn’t matter now
- it’s a connecting room, Basia won’t agree
- yes, he was right, but that’s no excuse
- door varnishing included – guess how much
- two yolks, a spoonful of sugar
- not his business, shouldn’t have meddled
- only in blue and only in small sizes
- five times and never any answer
- all right, I could have, and so could you
- at least she held down that little job
- no idea, probably relatives
- the priest’s quite a Belmondo
- I’ve never been in this part of the cemetery
- I dreamt about him last week, had a premonition
- the daughter is quite pretty
- we’re all in the same boat
- condolences to the widow, must rush
- but it used to sound more dignified in Latin
- it’s all in the past now
- goodbye, Martha
- let’s find a beer somewhere
- give me a ring, we’ll talk
- catch a 4 or a 12
- I go this way
- we go over there
…
câteodată, reginele negre se ascund în libelule…
…
…
…
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….
…
artist mic şi mijlociu profesionist fumător
gura lumii