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...
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.