The Poem that Cannot Be Understood
I work on the
poem that cannot be understood.
Itís a black and
out of which the
wiry hair of thirty-three wild beasts suddenly starts to sprout.
Itís the green
marsh that takes over the town squareó
among its reeds a
lonely fox barks gently, soothingly.
Itís the wooden bride (oh, the
wonderful wooden bride!)óthe bluish dress, the
coating the window like white moss.
Itís the canyon
in the sky and the cloud of blood snarling in the skyís canyon.
Itís the flock of
crows circling cheerfully around and around my forehead,
the black frost of my forehead: the
tongue is ice cold and almost brittle in the mouth,
like a medal bestowed upon the prophets by God.
Itís the wine
that thickens into sand in your mouth.
Oh, times when
our home bloomed on the shores of a slippery language!
On words emerging
from talking caves,
when the words
emerging from the talking caves
crawled up the
walls like snails...
Then, the calm,
dusty archives of the madhouses
where I studied
the signs designed by lunatics,
where I compiled
their great history,
written in those same parched signs,
I myself could
That is why I put
it into the poem that cannot be understood.
I see the round
head, like a gold balloon, moving away over the high shelves.
I hear the waves
of the sea pounding against the walls of a tall and yellow warehouse,
and nearly old,
with my halo
folded under my arm,
I get on line,
behind hundreds and hundreds of people,
in order to see,
at least towards the end of my days,
the poem that
the poem that
cannot be understood.
Adam J. Sorkin and Liviu Bleoca