Saturday, February 11, 2012

I can't give you anything but love

to our world ad infinitum


Sarah Vaughan, "Tenderly"  |

I would have written this, and wished I could make my words dance to you like this, irrespective of how not-so-beautifully they would seem due to their inability to measure up to all the delicacy of these words-not-so-mine I bring you today… So I would have expressed you this all if I could… But I can’t. And I don’t even feel that I should. I am not a poet. Nevertheless, I catch myself letting poetry course through my veins, loving it all not only in such materialized forms but also, or especially, as a vast, astounding realm in which you find so much beauty ready to be appreciated, contemplated, touched with hands and eyes and skins – wholly experienced. Amongst a universe of poems I have ever entered in this frantic yet sweet existence of mine, of all us, these lines [by a Bulgarian poetess who remains unknown and not as honored as she really deserves] express better-ad infinitum what I deep-down would like to for now. Elisaveta’s wondrous poems, like this one herein, are a little out of the so-called [and, most of the time, unreasonable] literary canon… and unfortunately, because she is one of the most gifted artists I have ever touched with all my senses – and that’s what I would really like to share with you… In front of her poems, I feel in a complete state of wonder!

Poetry  Elisaveta Bagriana

If my glance were not blest–
with you, inside. Open-eyed to penetrate the darkness,
and to make it fly and dance for me,
grafting wings to it,
to teach it how to see the flower,
to see the future fruit in the a branch still bare,
and to land with an interstellar craft
on a star that twinkles there–
how could my eyes, deprived of such joy last,
if you did not exist?

If you had not pitched my ear–
so that in stillness I can hear
those words, someone whispers to enlist for me
words, that bring both care and cheer,
with nearby or distant voice,
from outer space or next door’s fence,
that reach me when full of remorse–
all that powerful richness of sense
my life would miss,
if you did not exist.

If you had not possessed my heart
from youth until this very hour,
poured all your song and thought in me–
so I might feel my sister’s hand
when I was helpless and alone,
so that your furnace could transmute
sorrow to a spark, into joyous-tones.

In: Penelope of the Twentieth Century. Translated by Brenda Walker, with Valentine Borrisov and Belin Tonchev. Forest Books, 1993.

Saturday, February 4, 2012


[or le goût des choses]


     for Verónica Ch.

     Kindness glides about my house.
     Dame Kindness, she is so nice!
     The blue and red jewels of her   
     rings smoke
     In the windows, the mirrors
     Are filling with smiles.

     What is so real as the cry of 
     a child? […]

     Its crystals a little poultice.
     O kindness, kindness
     Sweetly picking up pieces!...

     Sylvia Plath, “Kindness”

    Girl Sitting on a Bench (1935)
    by Dorothea Lange

that little boy, flustered, sitting on the stairways of any house-maybe-mine, no lucky dawns, empty hands, tormented mouth that tongues but a hollowness of victories he never took for granted; so that hopeless boy, wild feet to reach the very cold outside, perhaps deluding himself – like a fucked-up needleworker who does not have any key to anything less stern in life – into zigzagging a mélange of absurdness and failure, and trying to puzzle over something unbecoming; so he, that little lost, whose eyes were as clumsy as pensive, shouldering such a pain made of a mixture of nothings and tos and fros, he was arrestingly looking into his nails – painted blue… his eyes, [a little fixed, a little tottery], were also – blue; his legs grew in a very unbelievable blue note either, as if he was entirely – blue… and then, when I came closer and asked whys and hows, his nails shining through everything around, [they were really visible, rather than anything else in his frail inexistence], he, that dying-away-for-something boy, he, with some glazing-over eyes, and lips that seemed to touch the asphalt [foreigner-like] scent, he just murmured, as if in secret: “I painted my nails blue to not forget the very color I have inside; my grey body is as usual what makes me wear my sunglasses, colored blue such as my nails, every single time I need to face people and respond to their quests anywhere I stroll in; I still refuse to paint myself without, never mind this whole solitude and acrimony Im stuck with… there may be something smiling to me and just saying you the lost, but you alike, you mine…