aceluiasi

(Reflex 108)
Prea repede uităm ce-aveam în gând,
Sub apăsarea vorbelor de rând!
Nici nu mă strigi de tot, nici nu mă laşi...
E-atâta ezitare între paşi.
Prea repede uităm ce-aveam de spus -
Un zbor în minus, o cădere în plus...
La tine-i vară şi la mine-i frig,
Nici nu te las de tot, nici nu te strig.

autor: George Tarnea

eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani

this is a poem that a friend poet just showed me: Howl by Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997). IT'S PURE MADNESS!
here are some of the excerpts i liked best:



I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who wandered around and around at midnight in the railway yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,

who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for an Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,

who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,

who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,

who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturerson Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with the shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,

and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia

with mother finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger on the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—

ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

and rose incarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

I'm with you in Rockland

where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse

I'm with you in Rockland

where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls collapse O skinny legions run outside O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we're free

Magritte

gata. am gasit. pictorul meu preferat e belgianul René Magritte 1898 - 1967!

Homesickness


in poza e chiar el (nu, nu ma refer la pictor)

kat's poem

I hate the way you talk to me
And the way you cut your hair.
I hate the way you drive my car.
I hate it when you stare.
I hate your big dumb combat boots
And the way you read my mind.
I hate you so much it makes me sick.
It even makes me rhyme.


I hate it...
I hate the way you're always right.
I hate it when you lie.
I hate it when you make me laugh;
Even worse when you make me cry.


I hate it when you're not around
And the fact that you didn't call,
But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you;
Not even close;
Not even a little bit;
Not even at all.

for the genius child

This is a song for the genius child.
Sing it softly, for the song is wild.
Sing it softly as ever you can ---
Lest the song get out of hand.

Nobody loves a genius child.

Can you love an eagle,
Tame or wild?

Wild or tame,
Can you love a monster
Of frightening name?

Nobody loves a genius child.

Kill him - and let his soul run free

port chipul unui gand pe care nu l-ai avut niciodata

''cum, cum, putem sa ridicam piedestaluri unor oameni care ajung sa ne deteste fara motiv? si de ce atunci cand se ajunge la asta nu daramam statuia de care modelul e nevrednic?'' - Io, acum cateva luni, Timisoara

si cum eram eu la Timisoara, la un bun prieten poet, Aleks, am dat de o carticica de poezii apartinand Cameliei Leonte. De acolo va transcriu ce mi-a placut mai mult si mai mult:

TRECERE

tu treci prin lumini cautandu-ma.
dupa felul cum nu ma vezi
nici macar atunci cand iau forma unui strigat
inteleg ca suprema ta victorie va fi moartea.
disperarea e un spatiu gol
in care nimeni nu intalnese pe nimeni.
disperarea e o toamna in care inaltimile se sugruma.
unde esti?
parca zilele mele s-ar fi scurs intr-un anotimp strident al nimanui
si nimeni nu-si mai aminteste
ce lumina i-a brazdat chipul.


TRECUT

prea multe zile isi cauta trecutul in mine.
intind mana spre chipul tau si el se retrage
intind pana spre inima ta si ea se opreste.
nu trebuie sa vorbesc.
cine stie ce cod ascuns
ce semne trimise mortii
as scoate la lumina.

si chipul tau.
si viziunea acestei maini.
si modul in care te indepartezi.
si imaginea- verticala precum tipatul.

oldschool

A iernii mâna n-o lasa sa strice,
nedistilat, al verii tale chip
pân’ sa te-ajunga gheara neferice,
ti-aduna dulcele aromat în sip
ca-i bucuros cel care se întrece
sa-ntoarca, platnic, tot ce-a dobândit,
astfel din eul tau s-or naste zece.
Fii cel ce creste pururi înzecit,
mai fericit de zece ori si poate
zece de-ai tai refac de zece ori si poate
faptura ta si-asa, cu moartea-n spate
în urma lasi mereu mostenitori
Nu fi nebun sa i te darui iernii
lasându-i, sa te mosteneasca, viermii.


numa batranul Shakespeare putea s-o zica atat de bine.

something else

what can we do?

by charles bukowski

at their best, there is gentleness in Humanity.

some understanding and, at times, acts of

courage

but all in all it is a mass, a glob that doesn't

have too much.

it is like a large animal deep in sleep and

almost nothing can awaken it.

when activated it's best at brutality,

selfishness, unjust judgments, murder.

what can we do with it, this Humanity?

nothing.

avoid the thing as much as possible.

treat it as you would anything poisonous, vicious

and mindless.

but be careful. it has enacted laws to protect

itself from you.

it can kill you without cause.

and to escape it you must be subtle.

few escape.

it's up to you to figure a plan.

I have met nobody who has escaped.

I have met some of the great and

famous but they have not escaped

for they are only great and famous within

Humanity.

I have not escaped

but I have not failed in trying again and

again.

before my death I hope to obtain mylife.

pessoa

I Am Tired

I am tired, that is clear,
Because, at certain stage, people have to be tired.
Of what I am tired, I don't know:
It would not serve me at all to know
Since the tiredness stays just the same.
The wound hurts as it hurts
And not in function of the cause that produced it.
Yes, I am tired,
And ever so slightly smiling
At the tiredness being only this -
In the body a wish for sleep,
In the soul a desire for not thinking
And, to crown all, a luminous transparency
Of the retrospective understanding ...
And the one luxury of not now having hopes?
I am intelligent: that's all.
I have seen much and understood much of what I have seen.
And there is a certain pleasure even in tiredness this brings us,
That in the end the head does still serve for something.

this waz published under the heteronym Ricardo Reis