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Angela Marinescu
A dark waste. The cavity of the chest, filled with tufts of frozen grass, becomes a temple. On religious evenings, the angels cast Unclouded looks. Man hastening to the hopelessness Of woman. Woman casting out of herself Her self. Violet objects trembling, suspended In the stony night. translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Mihaela Anghelescu Irimia
Laws like drops of alien blood steal through my brain likenesses of evil and ice tied by ice ropes to the marrow of my spine. The sea shore I can no longer respond to, except as a desert, vast, useless. or any other place in nature that I’ve uprooted from my gaze and destroyed. I can no longer respond to the stillness of the starry sky. Everything seems to me shrill—evil’s screech which undoes being, which displaces objects. The mountain itself swarming with vultures appears a hunchback, strange and black, while any sun-speckled hill rising to the roof of my mouth disgusts me with nausea. I feel the limits of the other’s thinking— no one can possess me, I can possess no one. God, my deeds like venomous snakes coil so tightly around my throat I can speak no more than a single extended word. Ashes without end inflame my eyes, between the long bars blasphemy sneaks in. I can no longer recognize anyone else, only my own self. Sweat forms icy beads along my spine: whatever I may have done is with You in my brain. translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Mihaela Anghelescu Irimia
Every evening madness Comes calling at my house In the guise of a dwarf, his face white, Eyes huge and gray. Every evening I light the fire then, I blow as hard as I can into the pinpoint Embers, and a calm warmth Shivers. The dwarf sits down by the fire. I want to shove him into the embers. So at last he’ll die. But the dwarf keeps on returning Day after day, with a patience That appalls me. translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Mihaela Anghelescu Irimia
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