Poezii alese de bloggerii zum, Alexandru, bughi

p.d.s. 11 – cu un obraz albastru si unul galben

Deci uitati cum facem: eu postez azi un fragment dintr-un autor care mi-e tare drag, da’ nu va spun cine-i. Sa vedem cine ghiceste (stiu deja si cine a ghicit din start ).  Nu e (doar) poet, dar cartea din care face parte fragmentul de azi e poezie. Il stiti, cred, cu totii pentru ca una dintre celelalte carti ale lui e tare cunoscuta (sau asa cred eu ca ar trebui sa fie). Si sper sa reusesc sa va spun (saptamana viitoare sau pe-acolo) cate ceva despre cartile lui si despre cat de mult imi plac mie

Asadar, pds-ul de azi:

“E multa vreme de cand, in acelasi fotoliu, altele erau intamplarile, dragostea mea alta era, tu nu existai, doar gesturile pe care aveam sa le schitez in jurul parului tau isi traiau tineretea dintai in asteptarea Lydiei Delectorskaya.

***

Pun de-o cafea e o arta sa-ti astepti femeia in fata aragazului ghicindu-i drumurile in zatul care inca n-a fiert cum uite i se lipeste dresul de pulpa recent epilata cum intinde fardul si strange fotografiile vechi de pe covor cum sta in mijlocul camerei cu pantofii intr-o mana cu o tigara in cealalta trage adanc si isi spune ca totusi n-o sa vina pleaca abia aude taximetristul intreband-o incotro plateste urca in lift cand cafeaua se umfla nu are nici un motiv sa-i tremure mana pe butonul soneriei si nici nu-i tremura scoate din pudriera zambetul pentru mine mi-l strecoara discret in buzunarul de la camasa Lydia exclam si o sarut mai intai pe obrazul albastru apoi pe cel galben torn cafeaua in cesti murmurand a venit.”

Sper sa nu mai trag chiulul de la pds-uri, m-am cam obraznicit in ultima vreme. Ma gandesc la tema pentru poezia de peste doua saptamani, nu-i deloc usor sa vii cu ceva dupa grebla si euglena. Da’ cred ca n-o sa fie ceva prea greu, vad eu. Ah, sa nu uit: pds-ul de azi al Luizei mi-a trezit amintiri si m-a facut sa recitesc poeziile cu Arpagic. Daca n-ati facut-o pana acum, neaparat mergeti aici si cititi! Neaparat!

p.d.s. 12 – duminica

Iar trisez un pic, da’ si daca-i duminica tot pds e. Astazi – Ana Maria Sandu, pentru ca tocmai am vazut-o citind din Fata din casa vagon intr-o cafenea din cartierul meu (povestesc un pic mai incolo cum a fost, tare m-am bucurat si sper ca o sa mai vad scriitori romani – mai ales scriitori care-mi plac mie – citind prin cafenelele berlineze). Si acum un pic Din amintirile unui Chelbasan (aparuta in 2003 la Paralela 45):

***

Ana, ce mai crezi azi despre eternul feminin?
Uf, femei, specimene ciudate, mame cu miini caraghios de lungi
si miros de tocana, sotii infoiate cu o tona de fixativ,
grase si slabe, impopotonate si toape,
vorbiti intruna, gesticulati, sinteti vii,
carati sacose interminabile, va tocmiti la tarabe in piata,
ii povestiti vinzatoarei despre soacra si despre barbat,
despre cit de ai dracu’ si de zgirciti sint, draga,
astia din neamul lui,
aveti noduli la sini, bolovani la rinichi,
o tona de fiere si de venin la ficati
dar ati gasit intr-un loc un doctor bun, carne mai ieftina,
vecina de vizavi sta de ceva timp cu unul de-o spala si pe picioare,
si ce, ca nici frumoasa, nici asa tinara nu mai e,
norocul fiecareia, fata, asta conteaza.
Poate-i toarna repede prostului si-un copil si gata, n-o mai lasa.
Mergeti la nunti si la botezuri,
va faceti costume cu sclipici si paiete, de ocazie,
incingeti cite-o hora de va trec toate apele
si va curg vopselele de pe fete, mirositi cumplit a transpiratie
in bluzele voastre cochete de plastic.
Birfiti cu pofta, tocati marunt tot ce va iese in cale,
sinteti feroce,
va plimbati de pe burta mea pe git,
de pe picioare pe spate.
In mine e un du-te vino de femei mici care fojgaie peste tot,
ajung sa cred ca din asa ceva sint facuta,
din particule fine de “feminitate”.

p.d.s. 13 – ghosts

Stiu ca e lung si poate nu-i cea mai buna idee sa pun poeme asa lungi la pds, dar de data asta treaca de la mine. Nu vreau sa-l rup si sa postez doar fragmente asa ca poate incercati sa ajungeti la ultimul vers. Ted Hughes:

The Offers

Only two months dead
And there you were, suddenly back within reach.
I got on the Northern Line at Leicester Square
And sat down and there you were. And there
The dream started that was no dream.
I stared and you ignored me.
Your part in the dream was to ignore me.
Mine was to be invisible — helplessly
Unable to manifest myself.
Simply a blank, bodiless gaze — I rested
The whole weight of my unbelieving stare
On your face, impossibly real and there.
Not much changed, unchanging under my pressure.
You only shuddered slightly as the carriage
Bored through the earth Northward.
You seemed older — death had aged you a little.
Paler, almost yellowish, as you had been
In the morgue, but impassive.
As if the unspooling track and shudder of the journey
Were the film of your life that occupied you.
Your gaze, inward, resisted my gaze.
Your basket on your knee, heavy with packages.
Your handbag on a long strap. Your hands
Folded over the heap Unshifting
My gaze leaned against you as a gaze
Might lean its cheek on a hand. The impossible
Went on shring your slight shuddering, your eyelids,
Your lips lightly pursed, your melancholy.
Just as in the dream that insists
On the plainly impossible, and lasts
Second after second after second,
Growing more and more incredible —-
As if you slowly turned your face and slowly
Smiled full in my face, daring me
There, among the living, to speak to the dead.
But you seemed not to know the part you were playing.
And, just as in the dream, I did not speak.

Only tried to seperate the memory

Of your face from this new face you wore.
If you got out at Chalk Farm, I told myself,
I would follow you home. I would speak.
I would make some effort to seize
This offer, this saddened substitute
Returned to me by death, revealed to me
There in the Underground — surely as if
For my examination and approval.

Chalk Farm came. I got up. You stayed.

It was the testing moment.
I lifted your face from you and took it
Outside, onto the platform, in this dream
Which was the whole of London’s waking life.
I watched you move away. carried away
Northwards, back into the abyss,
Your real new face unaltered, lit, unwitting,
Still visible for seconds, then gone,
Leaving me my original emptiness
Of where you had been and abruptly were not.
But everything is offered three times.
And suddenly you were sitting in your own home.

Young as before, untouched by death. Like

A hallucination — not to be blinked away.
A migraine image — warping my retina.
You seemed to have no idea you were yourself.
Even borrowing the name of your oldest rival —
As if it had lain handiest. Yet you were
So much youself my brain’s hemispheres
Seemed to have twisted slightly out of phase
To know you you yet realise that you
Were not you. To see you you and yet
So brazenly continuing to be other.
You had even kept your birthdate — exact
As a barb on the impossibility.
And lived only two miles from where we had lived.
Other spirits colluded in a support team
Of new parents for you, a new brother.
You courted me all over again — covertly.
I breathed a bewildering air — the gas
Of the underworld in which you moved so easy
And had your new being. You told me
The dream of your romantic life, that had lasted
Throughout our marriage, there in Paris — as if
You had never returned until now.

Death had repossessed your talent. Or maybe

Had converted it to a quieter thing —
A dumbly savage longing, a submerged
Ferocity of longing in eyes
So weirdly unaltered. I struggled awhile
In my doubled alive and dead existence.
I thought: ‘This is coincidence — the mere
Inertia of my life’s momentum, trying
To keep things as they were, as if the show
Must at all costs go on, same masks, same parts,
No matter who the actors.’ Gasping for air,
At the bottom of the Rhine, barely conscious,
Indolently like somebody drowning
I kicked free.
Your gentle ultimatum relaxed its hold.
True to your ghostly humour, next thing
You sent me a pretty card from Honolulu.
After that, an afterworld momento,
Every year a card from Honolulu.
It seemed you had finessed your return to the living
By leaving me as you bail, a hostage stopped
In the land of the dead.
Less and Less
Did I think of escape.
Even in my dreams, our house was in ruins.
But suddenly — the third time — you were there.
Younger than I had ever known you. You
As if new made, half a wild roe, half
A flawless thing, priceless, faceted
Like a cobalt jewel. You came behind me
(At my helpless moment, as I lowered
A testing foot into the running bath)
And spoke — peremptory, as a familar voice
Will startle out of a river’s uproar, urgent,
Close: “This is the last. This one. This time
Don’t fail me.”