BAGATELLES
2002
Music
To whom the Sonnets were addressed—
does it still matter?
The dirt roads of the past
have been paved with cobblestones.
The cracks on the modern macadam
are being patched up with bitumen.
The cell phones are silent, their batteries
in the white mold of thermodynamic death.
The radio beacons emit 911.
The taxicabs shuttle between Freude und Angst.
The chorus will never sound as one voice
Democracy have abolished the unison . . .
and so on, ad infinitum.Offered from the open palm
of single entendre,
Music comes
without allusions and connotations,
Falling like rain
on split opinions
and harsh habits.
The Herbivores
Barefoot
on grass.
Life to life, like body to body.
This is why the herbivores have hooves:
Not to caress what they kill.
TerzineThe Truth
1. The Eyes
The delicate mismatch
between dead and dormant
nudges the dormant to hatchinto the daylight—
under the therapeutic patch
against palsy and blight—and use the untested device
of the eyes
unpacked from the crate of the night.
2. The Bears
In the den of my soul
a couple of bears
peacefully hibernate:joy and disgust
mate,
waitfor the spring
and its
wrestling ring
3. Choices
Being selfish:
drawn to the bait
as to a magnetBeing unselfish:
casting a slashed
dragnet.Being like shellfish:
with nothing to choose,
nothing to lose.
4. Time-tables
One can nail times,
names, and other items
to slippery time-tablesGiven a chance,
one can merrily dance
on bare time-tables.One is quite able
to do anything, even burn,
but not to turn the tables.
1
The
truth is the least valuable possession:
Does the truth matter if I love?
Does the truth matter if I die?
Coming
in thousands of shades and flavors,
It's just a candy. It's a grocery item.
Instead,
the number is of value:
Stern, stiff-necked,
it has no color, no flavor, no label,
but it comes as more
or less.
You
can't have more truth.
You can have less truth.
I search for the truth, ergo…
Oh, come on!
Instead, the lie of art is of value.
2
How much does the truth weigh?
I’m dropping all my scrawny lies,
clanging like coins, one by one,
on the opposite pan of the balance.I am out of lies.
I add all my silly arguments,
doubts, and insinuations
against the elephantine truth.My last trick: I tie
a Happy Birthday balloon of hope
to the truth.
And it works!
Money
1
To
conquer a land,
an army was needed.
Now
you can make money alone
you don't need a crown
you don't need an army
you don't need anybody.
2
The
nocturnal swamps of thought,
reflecting the distant stars
in the spotty pools of darkness,
the frothy surf of lust,
popping its ephemeral bubbles,
the Styx of the perennial crossroads
that could not be taken both ways—
none of it could be traversed
over the stepping stones of money.
Instead,
one can walk on the firm ground.
3
Rome
died. Slavery ended.
The Middle Ages won
by default. Serfdom died.
Rome was cloned in new empires.
Generations
felt the rumbling earth under the feet.
But the volcanoes died.
Parks grew on bitter Epicurean ashes.
The fight for land ended.
We
carry the sweet soil of motherland:
Money.
Dogs and children
1
My
heart is sinking,
heavy with empathy:
I look in the eyes of dogs and children.
The
dogs will always be dogs.
The children will never be children again.
2
Dogs
and children,
living by today,
are the only true believers in the Almighty.
The rest are just opportunists.
Dogs
cannot say what they think
Children always say what they think
And the rest of us just plot and scheme.
3
Dogs
and children bet on us.
They mostly win.
When they lose,
They don't know the gain from loss.
Memories
1
The
man in the mirror
gives me his left hand for a handshake.
He combs his hair from right to left .
He writes with his left hand.
I can read his scribble
with another Euclidean mirror.
He is my mirror image.
But
in the time mirror
I see no change:
the child is still as curious as myself.
He is as timid, as reclusive.
He makes same mistakes.
He fails. He stumbles.
He is easily tired by trying,
but as stubborn.
At
last, I find the difference:
He cannot write in English.
Life
was ahead.
2
The
smell of boxwood
Turns on the memories
of my best years:
young wife, little child,
blue sea.
Now
I grow boxwood.
I cut some twigs,
put them into water,
wait for the roots.
I
want to make spare memories
to last for several lives.
Surface
1
Everything
is under a surface:
The surface means nothing.
The surface is mean.
The surface lies.
It is only the surface.
The substance is underneath.
But
the surface is all we can see:
we see only the surface:
we see the face of the watch:
we don't care about its gears.
We
trust the face
like we trust the watch.
We shake hands.
We kiss. We touch.
Face
against face.
Surface against surface.
2
"I
don't want to dwell in the depths
where there are no seasons,
no rain, no stars.
For
I believe in no truth.
What is deep is as much high
and out of reach
like the sour grapes,
too high for the fox.
I
look at the surface:
There are scores of things
To touch and turn and push
and break and throw away:
to feel important, a big shot."
Why?
Why
would I worry
about the world without myself?
Why would I care about it?
Why would I care
about anything post-myselfish?
It
is just a habit of life that is hard to change,
like to quit smoking.
Thoughts
1
This
is the time when the tired and sleepy mind
slides into peace
as a finger into a wedding ring.
It
is the time of conformity and magnanimity.
It is the right time for I'm sorry.
This
is the time of peace
and final decisions.
Time
of reconciliation
and forgiveness.
This
is the time of peace
and final words.
Time
to agree
and to say:
“That's it.”
2
On
traffic nights,
from the coastal points,
my thoughts are driving to the heartland,
like relatives to the funeral.
At
the traffic lights,
my hoarse, croaky thoughts,
are waiting for the eternal red,
but the road is open: carry on.
The
traffic knives
split my mind into halves:
one to the left,
the other to the right:
My
map doubles its hemispheres.
3
The
thoughts are black, like the seed of papaya,
Or white, like the seed of cucumber.
Inedible, incredible, they should be discarded.
If
sown, they bring up the same thoughts
Every year.
Distance
1
We
should stand firm
on the ground,
take sides,
and never doubt.
Well,
yes and no can be confusing,
even though the instincts
can always break the tie.
Only
life and death are set apart,
as our eyes and ears:
to not err with the distance
and direction.
2
The
world of book
and the real world
are worlds apart
connected by the wormholes
of bookworms.
Anti-symmetry
1
Young
poets write about love
and apples:
each one is the first.
Old
poets write about apples
and love:
each one is the last.
2
Ego
cannot multiply:
as if it were the last animal on earth.
This
is why we are mortal:
We are always alone.
No mate.
A
painting cannot multiply
but it is immortal.
So they say.
3
One
comes to the new land
and goes:
the traveler is the same,
the land is the same,
the traveler leaves no trace
of his sojourn.
One
can visit a made-up place
and return,
with no ticket as a proof,
and no postcard.
But
the place will never be the same:
it will be discovered
for the first time.
Fate
1
There
is no fate:
only events,
confused, pushing each other:
the cattle,
running through a narrow passage into a corral.
There
are no events,
only the fate: the shepherd,
the builder of the narrow passages.
2
The
king sends his army to death,
while imagining a victory.
There
must be somebody,
Who weighs both outcomes.
3
The
fate is invincible.
I can defeat it
only if it assaults me playfully,
but backs me up
with her other hand.
It
can break me,
but it can't even break a twig,
nor throw a stone.
I
can.
I am afraid of myself.
The Pendulum
I
am full of energy:
I am afraid to move.
I am afraid of faux pas.
A misstep—and I explode.
I
am weak and languid
I have no energy:
I have nothing to fear
I venture into the world,
like the spring bear.
The Millstones
1
The
words: Life. Death. World.
What is the meaning
Of every such word
As heavy as a millstone?
Death
is the last sack of corn
that we drop off
with the last sigh.
The
world is what never stops
grinding corn.
Life
is the bread
that goes well
with love,
which does not belong here:
feathery, volatile,
made in the vineyards.
2
The heavy old words,
from the slow old worlds,
are out of place
in the fast spinning world
of marquees and CDs.
Some quiet day off
we would go to a cemetery
and leave a stone on top
of a former millstone.
3
Rolling
Millstones
on a stone CD?
If everything turns around,
why not?
People
want to live forever
not because of the expectations
but because of memories.
The Show
Enchanted by the fantastic shapes—
the
torrents of human nature,
congealing right before my eyes,
the
genesis of a new world
from old humans and new Things,
the
futility of hate,
the hypocrisy of love,
the putrefaction of envy—
I
think about a man
dying on the stage for real:
he would see only his poor life
in a flash.
Power
A crow flies by my window,
croaking, "Power! Power!"
and tosses me its quick shadow.
I have no power over the crows.The blank sheet of paper:
I can fill it with unthinkable words and doodles.
Doodles—yes,
but I have no power over the unthinkable.Behind the Windows® bars,
I have awesome powers:
insert, delete, even save,
let alone doodle,
but I can't save the run-over squirrel,
and if I did, the crow would starve.I can paste my shadow
on the blank sheet of paper:
it looks like the crow
diving from the roof.
The Fruit
Most
of the world wants
the once tried sweet fruit,
even if dried.
Some
try and spit
the stone—the core, the heart—the pit.
What
a few want does not exist.
They don't know what it is
when they find it: it's not on the list.
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