romanian literary monthly

~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


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