I
let my heart to rose growers
Ecaterina
Bargan
I do not want
dependencies.
I do not want
obsessions.
I do not love at high
frequency.
I would have wanted to
fill the empty space
of my adolescence with
chemistry and biology,
to have attended the club
of the neurology enthusiasts
to have walked through
the ashes in the forest
not so as to blink
verses on fascinating sunsets,
but for the herbarium.
In the evening to draw
bones and organs
at the lamplight,
and in the morning to
make up
complicated physiological
schemes
so as to memorize them
and to easily stupefy
teachers for the
following 10 years,
for their own good,
they’d better
have been fish sellers.
I wish I never spoke
about
what burns us / touches
us
or make us cry,
never give in be
devoured by your bald intentions.
I’d wish, when I look
at the shifting wind turbines
before which rises and
falls a frail
small group of birds,
not to see in this
anything beautiful or literary
and when I cross the
country with lots of waterfalls,
to break forth:
"uh, these have free water
and pay only 4 cents
per kilowatt energy."
not to see the point in
walking on the beach
without a metal
detector.
to feel, instead of
heat, the solar principles,
not to decant my pain
into beauty,
not to burn for the
sake of the eternal desire to burn,
in the avant-garde
manner, for others.
Not to see the sky,
even if I close my eyes,
to stop the snow fall
of devastating images
on the surface of memories
that
in endless and repeated
times
make the heart tremble.
History is irrelevant.
We could all be
incinerated, together
with our books.
Hematopoiesis
Ecaterina
Bargan
I was in the
biochemistry lab
and our teacher
reminded us that the
erythrocyte
lives for 120 days.
The teacher continues
to draw something on the board,
and my mind was only
at the fact that the
answer is this.
I just have to wait 120
days
until my erythrocytes
who are in love with you
will be destroyed and
replaced by others
new, out of love with
you.
All that I had to do,
was not to write to you
all this time.
I did this.
Each day I kept silent
was a miracle to me
as big as
the appearance of a
double rainbow in the sky,
like the launch of the
Hubble telescope,
as electronic chips
or genetic engineering.
I was proud of every
day that passed
in silence and I had the
courage
to make an appointment
for dialysis only if I had known that in such a way
I could have finished
what I had with you more rapidly.
The days began to turn
into weeks and then
into months.
25 trillion red blood
cells in love with you
were extinguished
like soldiers under the
guns
of the Second World
War.
Now I see a stretched
field, peaceful,
without people, without
endeavors,
without seven circles
passing consistently
through hell
for you.
I walk slowly, not
pushin my steps out,
indifferent
on the spine
of an autumn
of which I hope
will be everlasting.
They
got off to sleep
Ecaterina
Bargan
Night hours are filled
with people who sleep.
Sleeping hours are
filled with dreams.
We dream alike.
Almost everyone in his
sleep commited a perfect crime
with unknown offerings,
then got up at a quarter past 10,
and the morning seemed
to him squalid, sinister and sloppy.
Almost everyone in his
sleep felt the stagger of calf’s teeth
the low teeth, the
teeth between canine, the teeth that stagger acutely
and fall plainly,
almost involuntarily.
Two theeth,
You see them in the
palm after you slowly joggle them
with fingers of your
right hand
and you think you are
too young for something like that
and you think of the
young girl’s mouth bitten by the rats
in Benn’s poem, and you
wake up in your smooth bed,
in your beautiful
pijama, you wake up with toothache.
You know fair youth
wasn’t the young girl’s
But that of the family
of rats they found food in
Her gut and that
doesn’t make you a bit sad.
The window is wet. The
cars break through in the street out of insomnia, cries and the worries that
pinch sweaty skin. Down there in the yard, outdoors in the dark
A man cries, his voice
like a famished and hoarse cat.
He lives in a
nightmare. He now lives your nightmare from four years ago, maybe the same
drama, maybe more earnest, maybe more bowed.
For him the fall could
be more abrupt, the end more decayed,
the delusion more
vivid. He can hear his iwn heart beat. His lungs are filled with night. The rain
cleans off only the skin.
His eyes turbid.
The dream is not really
a dream. The dream is a nightmare. The nighmare more true than it seems. People
sleep in their heated houses.
Traducator: Monica Stoica, pentru siteul: http://subcapitol.ro/
