Longing for poetry

M-am trezit asa, pur si simplu, din lumea concreta a salii de operatie intr-o alta in care nimic nu mai putea sa stinga dorul de poezie. Si-am inceput sa caut...

"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference." 

( din The road not taken - Robert Frost)

"A woman is dragging her shadow in a circle
About a bald hospital saucer.
It resembles the moon, or a sheet of blank paper
And appears to have suffered a sort of private blitzkrieg.
She lives quietly

With no attachments, like a foetus in a bottle,
The obsolete house, the sea, flattened to a picture
She has one too many dimensions to enter.
Grief and anger, exorcised,
Leave her alone now.

The future is a grey seagull
Tattling in its cat-voice of departure.
Age and terror, like nurses, attend her,
And a drowned man, complaining of the great cold,
Crawls up out of the sea."
(din A life - Sylvia Plath)

As one listens to the ain - Octavio Paz

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.


  1. Draga, Olivia, (nu pot sa-ti spun altfel)

    Ma reintorc la blogul tau aproape zilnic, desi tac intotdeauna dupa ce citesc. Dar daca ai scris de poezie, indraznesc. :) Mai ales ca observ ca si tie iti place Sylvia Plath. Asadar, in speranta ca mai avem si alte randuri in comun, am o recomandare: Yehuda Amichai. Mai jos, my very favorite. :)

    Human bodies are different from one another
    But their souls are all alike, filled with brilliant uses
    Like airports.
    Do not give me your soul,
    Give me your body I shall never know to the end,
    Give me the vessel, not the wine.

    Stand with me in airports
    Where the pain of parting
    Is cloaked in fine words,
    Like orphans,
    Where drinks and food are expensive
    And men and their fates are cheap.

    And a man talks into a telephone
    And, from the receiver, his mouth drinks
    Grief and love.

    Those who cry too
    Have white hands like brides.
    Arms free from embrace,
    What will they do in the world?

    Let my soul die with my body.

    Yehuda Amichai, “Human Bodies”


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