Dan Dănilă

Seasons and Poems

When I reached my sad fifth season

I used to write one poem a day

to keep away the busy shadows

of the disrobed walking trees

and read them aloud by the moonlight

by the sea by the old road

without microphone or glass of water

and no rumors in the audience

my voice was the white cloud

over the oldest greek amphitheater

yet the sixth season is calling

like a canned howl in a canonball -

another definition for silence -

and my voice and my voice

overflies the biggest houses and trees

to escape in the sky - a migrator bird -

but its song is hidden on a tape

in a cage in a safe in a public library...

A Pseudo Treatise on Night

I too once had the same obsession

of writing out a treatise on night,

but her stillness made me shiver.

I would have preferred to listen to her high

laughter, as she sat, under yellow shining lamps,

or carelessly, disrobed of her whispers,

in her old armchair, slowly combing

her long, milk-smelling hair.

Parfumed letters, toffees, odds and ends

were locked-up treasures in her cupboard.

She glanced at me through black veils,

as I painfully begged her once for a word.

Then I left. She remained, as I recall,

beneath the lampshade circle...

I'll never forget, though, the pinned-through butterfly,

those whispers, her hair, and the treatise...

Words

The inborn haughty to believe

that flowers are so nice for us

and birds are singing just to please

the bored mankind. Death himself

might be persuaded to forget

and file past life - even at last

when the old tree inclines its crown

surrender for the final lightning.

The rainbow, ancient books explain,

for angels is a kind of scarf,

the clouds are signs that we ignore.

But words, the words are just for us,

the secret garden of delight,

a treasure, light to share with all

who are enchanted by the rhyme

and the vibration of the verbs.

Beneath the forehead, on the lips

the Poet's temple grows and grows.