The Night Is Darkest Before the Dawn

/, Blesok no. 69/The Night Is Darkest Before the Dawn

The Night Is Darkest Before the Dawn

Bucharest 5 ½
Dear Sun
Reclining On Verses
Sultriness Over Mountain Water
The Sense of One Night
TV Screen and Jim Beam to Mr. Koala, after Snežana Bukal"s story
How to Write a Poem
Gentle Poem

today while unloading new books of poetry
on the counter I saw a book entitled “I’m dangerous.”
while I was waiting for them to take the poesies, I opened it
and took a look: this is dangerous as a fire extinguisher
– it will let you down when you need it most

you’re dangerous, I mumbled, to the art of literature.
god forbid, some kid may take you seriously.

I’m loading books of poetry in my backpack, while dreaming of prose
each dawn awakes me with new pages of short stories
I’m not writing anything down, just asking where’s the bar

dangerous I became to myself, like this, unwritten,
never managing to drink enough in these springs of mine
never managing to be satiated with food, words, and music
– I’ll screw myself with too much love for life

where’s the bar, where’s the ice, do you have a glass for me?

I ask that much, resigned beforehand to any possible answer.
I’m gentle. I drink silently and try to dissolve
the memories. what good are remembrances if I’m not alive right now?
do you have, for me, where’s the ice? this fire must be extinguished
or the world will be set ablaze like a thin unwritten piece of paper…

pathetic words for the bass that beats through me, laments
that don’t mean anything even to me. do you have, for me?
on a solitary shore I’m building a hut: sooner or later, I’ll have to
go back to fishing. the string that connects me with the
deeps: sweat and flesh in the protective water of the world.

pour me more. don’t spare me. don’t spare the bottle.
everything will be alright. just let it flow. let the time be:
we will always be ourselves if we don’t pay too much attention to it.
I am building a hut on my shore. of sunken ships, of
withered trees, building a hut for my thoughts:

if there is no room for them here, we’ll erect a palace of words
– fragile as a tower of cards. I’m gentle, indifferent
to the world. indifferent to myself, but would not refuse
if you caress me. I am lying down, tame, and I don’t care
when I wake up. poesies wake me while I dream my short stories.

Translated by the author, edited by Cliff Endres

2018-08-21T17:22:56+00:00 December 21st, 2009|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 69|0 Comments