~Aurel Pop: „The calvary of the words“

dedicated to those
- who have gone and have not returned
- who still remained
- who shall come one day

pilgrimage of secession in pursuit of the midday

in the mirror every cry can rely on the echo
a ray of hope clings to it in pursuit of the midday
remembrances as stiffened wounds roam about the districts
the pilgrimage of secession regenerates silence like a heartbeat
the moment is a particle to cure the make-up
of the lasses stiff a a picture the outline
of the oblivion exhausted by destiny is swelling
it seems to be a whitewashed wall in a
moment of silence detached from the deal in words
someone orders the start for a walk through the
spotless maze of the poem one migrates a little earlier

 
the never-failing raw material of the poet

between two moods at the village-museum in the capital
one teaches the theme of a march
in which the letters settle down at the roots of the yell
no one can arrest the words that overflow
the never-failing row material of the poet
swirls like a clod crusher when touching the lips
over the field of this poem nestled in the memory
without any evidence i have to believe
that the people will cry shame upon me
on the streets of the village as a poet without a volume
while the stoker of the heating plant becomes famous
for the fact that he has found the poem of the eternal fire
due to heat domestic words in the district of the illusions

calvary of the words or the seven sorrows of a poet
it’s a long and winding road that of the cross
how many people have diverted from its course
though there are yet some who change their mind
in the skin of a snake as the dumb yell calls

 
adam stands by with flabby sight astonished
the nakedness of eve seems to be a myth
sorrow pain and toil are man’s main ordeals
yet the ages bite in the banned fruit and pith

 
at lunch one of the poets gave me away
the nails driven into palms do not rust
how could that drop of blood cover the earth
with tears of the holy mother we trust

 
i clasp in my arms mountains of words
the burden of iniquity lies heavy upon us
we are aware of those seven sorrows
the poet in me suffers without fuss

 
the crazy man escaped may create a wonder
the strait jacket hidden in the bathroom
when they’ll put his head on the hangman’s block
wasn’t it a pitty to hide him in a tomb

lashing the words according to the deeds of the poet
or how can one bring a russet widow (to be found under the law)
into a clumsy state after a night spent in a car park
though god took pity on her forgiving her sins

there are mountains of fog the boats of helplessness rove through them against
an imaginary cliff
and however much would seem it strange the universal caravan has started
from us
vanities invade the words day and night night and day
the awful echo of the silence strikes through something we want to master
though it turns to be more and more queer and sometimes it doesn’t even exist
for a moment
giving the impression that everything in this world is in vain even if we raise
with the night in our head our recklessness builds walls of wax which
tumble down in the evening and in the morning you take all of it from the
beginning by the cry of
moulded hearts which fuse in the shade that crawls along in dust and mud
where the acts of folly of the mankind appear as some stained glass-windows
in which we look at each other
insane as we were some angels whose eyes reflect the manner how stupidity
howls a little earlier as
the slyness of the fox shows up then we direct our steps towards the way the
world points out
towards the point from the sign comes which has not risen yet here among us
the poet deciphers the obscure of the loneliness being in drift because
where there’s everything there’s nothing and however much it may seem common
in a snow-white coloured metallized box a young russet widow
offers a night of sexual orgies somewhere in a car park by the highway
god took pity on her forgiving her sins i wonder where from they may come
and who wanted to throw a stone at her while somebody annoys me with
one of the ten commandments afterwards i smoke a cigarette humming
a song of seven volumes asking how many dimensions may this scene have
with happier mornings when the most ugly woman of the district plays
where all the secrets of the world hide away and even if it seems strange
this state doesn’t ache when the young widow takes our strait jacket off
and soon after we feel as a challenge the nipples in the mouth

 
a poem torn off the herd of horses

when i was a child i’d prayed to the horses
would they lift me up onto their mane
white herd of painted horses through the window
their glance is heavy their run is insane

 
saddle us they said in the thud of their hoofs
as they were writing the cry by means of their manes
as they were pressing the pain out of their hoofs
why are they harnessed i wondered amazed

 
in front of the coaches working running to a ball
they all have to suffer on the way lacking the light
everywhere’s needed the valorous horse and this is a call
a poem torn off the herd to our delight

 

snow-white without the seven dwarfs
let to beg for the necessary words of the poem
or how (mother’s care) the poet adopts
the whimsical words conceived at lent

somebody is ringing at my door and the door of my flat gets out of the way
there shows up a woman without outlines without shape snow-white holding
in one of her hands a wicker full of wine while with the other one
she offers me a glass to drink out the tears of the seven dwarfs
and the whole eternal childhood of happiness and the greatest weeping of life
born out of trouble and out of the words bathed in the main market of the town
the overturned ink penetrates deeply like horror and nicely like the past
struggling like the present and serene like the future which
shall be locked up with bolts of the darkness at lent i notice the carriage
in which we’ve been conceived and we’ll die somewhere out of the
ten commandments faced with the human manners which seem to be boots
soiled with dirt of the world through which we are splashing from the dawn till
the night
for over two thousand years we may feel us now wiser but in no case
smarter as the wisdom left in our minds all at once by the passing
away of those who died before you and those who’ll die after you
and those who lie in hospitals but no one has come yet
no one has returned yet and they won’t return but in dreams
or somewhere in a certain street they’ll show up again as nicely as nice the
hopes of the seven dwarfs are

 
the sign of liberty of the poet discovered on an internet-site

there’s a gleam of light with choked ear somewhere in
the remoteness stags frisk about
the paths of your body are forgotten summer rains moan on the blades of grass
one lights the fire glowing dawns are breaking
the fields turn into oceans when it rains and i lie
the waves of time are tossing about and turn into dew
the universe is divided by broken lines
life begins under the track of blood rough star-swarms are
on the watch and caress us
eternal dawns are breaking in the morning soldiers attracted
by the horizon push them away
remoteness is the star i used to fear got lost in the night and flustered from sleep
covered by snowstorms someone is calling but
i sleep under the mantle of great expectations
forgetting is as normal as natural in the universe
the water flows smoothly and leisurely
one of my eyes moans in every verse i’m sipping the ink then i’m thirsting for it
it may happen that the grigs weep when they get drunk
at the end of the millennium under the herd of stars
gathering teardrops from eyes cracked out of fury the grass has lips that enjoy my kiss
the sunrise is on fire in the kid’s sunken eye its tremendous
breath retains me amazes me
i drink under the stake of flowers from the shaded jug you know
someone reproaches me for living
there are all sort of rumours raging in the world
the yesterday born cows are getting mad too
pigs suffer of fever hanged in the garret for some time now
i feel like blind eternity of forgotten summers
the death goes round the eternal virgin everyone of us is waiting for an internet-site
i wonder what miraculous sign shall it bring when it diverts sometimes so easily and soft
the hands of the clock beheads the lifetime of the summer
we utter what mustn’t be uttered but in the grave
our life bathes day by day in misery the facts only support the paper floated by the wind
we are the sins of accumulated ages on the shoulders of those impotent creators
deaf and crippled blind persons’ days are grinded
harmless or enraged we crawl living in dependence
straighten you up nations shake off your yokes the revolutions they
all have been suppressed
the mighty ones make the laws though we are brothers
hope is the sign of liberty to overcome
AUREL POP