Ion Mureºan
The Poem that Cannot Be Understood
I work on the
poem that cannot be understood.
It’s a black and
shiny stone
out of which the
wiry hair of thirty-three wild beasts suddenly starts to sprout.
It’s the green
marsh that takes over the town square—
among its reeds a
lonely fox barks gently, soothingly.
It’s the wooden bride (oh, the
wonderful wooden bride!)—the bluish dress, the
herb-strewn mouth,
the whimpers
coating the window like white moss.
It’s the canyon
in the sky and the cloud of blood snarling in the sky’s canyon.
It’s 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.
It’s 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,
which, being
written in those same parched signs,
I myself could
never read.
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,
nearly hunch-backed,
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
heals,
the poem that
cannot be understood.
translated by
Adam J. Sorkin and Liviu Bleoca
|