autumn refracts like gold through dusty curtains
and a mahogany closet brims with summer skirts –
lost in the cosmetics drawer
between toy cars and your mother’s dreams
you search and search
you grey-eyed boy
clutching orange peels in a childish fist
you wait for the weekend when through woven ivy fingers
a slender tongue of light slips through
and the guest arrives
a bearded stranger with the stench of sweat
is that you
father? –
just the scent of oranges in the furrows of your palm
just the golden ivy fingers
through the open window
Home
a street whose name was changed,
crumbling brick facades, cracked stairs,
freezing hands as when I clutched a snotty bib,
gypsies laugh, the homeless sport tired eyes, careful footsteps
at once approaching and departing
with the hum of passing cars
with the scent of rain, red clusters of rowan berries
and a faded fresco from the imperfect tense,
silent trees
barely holding up their mature knotted hands,
peeling plaster fragments of Giotto Masaccio da Vinci
from the 15th or 16th centuries when I was six
and my fingers were smudged with the frost of bitter white paint,
the smell of the flat on the third floor
who lives there? does the cracked grandfather clock still hang
with its hands held still at half past four?
the flavor of melted ice-cream on a Sunday,
the creak of doors and rustling ivy
apples lie scattered on the table
crumbling porcelain has saved the still warm touch
of mother,
an old woman’s patched mantle, a brass mirror
with the fading faces of my family tree,
silence
while on the other side of the street
the rowan of sadness freezes
in bloom
Two Points on a Curve
I. The Final Journey
a raft of five logs
in a swollen river
and your shadow too
my brother
where are you
you flew with the naive birds
spreading their wings too soon
when the coarse fingers of September
barely touched the cool of fall
in which direction should I look
how do I recognize your footprints
lost
on the surface of limpid water
you were supposed to become a writer
or a philosopher at least an ordinary village teacher
you were supposed to create new worlds
from the rich imagination of an Icarus
to marry
the most beautiful blond in town
and teach your little brother
clever tricks
you gave your life to me
my brother
choosing the labyrinth of unbeing
you left to meet the golden fall
instead of imbibing the refreshing rain of spring
the bleeding maples
understood your choice
and the Minotaur accepted your sacrifice
with a respectful smile
you are not my ideal
my brother
but mutely show the way
with the cracked mirror of childhood
like a weathervane
above your stoney grave
II. The Architect’s Yawn
the stones are sleeping
and sand gently fondles their hard planes
an iron weathervane above the grave
sings its quiet song
we die rich
with experience, memories
and a cracked wisdom
about the beginning and the end
about that
which is disposed between two points
on a sine curve
in a lightning’s flash
everything passes!
caws a crow
rocking on a willow branch
a sobbing angel
perches on a stone
raking up, with small handfuls, sand
the big-bellied architect of the world
yawns in boredom
and releases a gust of wind
from his giant sling
forcing the willow’s crow
to hide in a hollow
as the sand blows
into the angel’s sodden eyes
the iron weathervane above the grave
answers the hoarse voice of the wind
by turning its quiet song into a scream
the sleepy architect flinches
and clumsily picks his left ear
inserts ear plugs
and turns over on his side
satisfied
asleep
Caravaggio
Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine,
Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state,
Makes me with thy strength to communicate.
– Shakespeare, Comedy of Errors, Act 2, Scene 2
cold steel touches the pulsing artery of his neck
eyes black as elderberries
show their fear of death
you came
the master-mistress of my passion
from the pages of not-Shakespeare, not-the-renaissance and not-the-baroque
but from dirty dead-end bars and cafés
a stoned cosmopolitan in a cloud of cigarettes and grass
you gave me wine, coffee and wisdom at Café de Paris
whispering about the ancient world and renaissance
you are not pure, you wild rogue
your canvases may be so
you painted me, you played the zither
you taught women to fuck, drink and smoke
to search for wisdom
to create
you were the first music of the body
breaking its silence
Michelangelo is jealous of your talent
but the flavor of betrayal would drive him mad
my king
faithfulness was just childish foolishness
a woman’s artifice to you
I’m tired of playing the fool
and your paintings make me sad
and vengeful
red wine in a sliced throat
black elderberries
in the place of eyes
I Choose Life
Poeta delle ceneri
the blink of an eye
on Rue de Rivoli
no need to follow
all the way to Algiers
a black-eyed Gigolo
with yellow blossoms in his hair
who sold his love
for thirty euros
a body
put together with talent
more noteworthy than those puffy-cheeked
youth
from the pathos of Caravaggio’s canvases
qui je suis
you are more beautiful than a work of art
let the affected Oscar Wilde choke
let his aesthetic ears
fall off
I choose not art
but life
poetry can’t replace
the body’s sensual intimacy
and yellow blossoms swallowed
in the blink of an eye
The Birth of a Beast
save me
from the bare shoulder
from suffering St. Sebastian
from the face of David
from Patroclus’s graceful back
from the sleeping Endymion
cristo alla colonna
they have become expensive escorts
in dirty Parisian streets
save me
from the fat wallet
stuffed with urbane temptation
thirty good deeds
for an hour of masturbation with the savior
medicine for depression
temporarily healing the weak
save me
from too big a caliber
as clutching a revolver
I’ll lay out all the thankless Davids
and hypocritical Patrocluses
with holes in their skulls
save me
from dark-eyed, unblinking glares
from the magnetic pull of fire
and of colored tattoos
with the scent of jasmine
save me
from the desire to love
not David or Patroclus
not the feeble body of Christ
but your dark gaze
that turns me into
a beast
Translated by Rimas Uzgiris
