Poems

by George Bogdan translated by Miqhael-M. Khesapeake the azylum of the lifetime left
we are free only bewixt the white walls of our wasted youths, we withdraw therein like goin to a monastery, inside some white cells, beneath a tyrannical sunlight, with our heads shaved, tastin by teaspoon such a psychedelic music, monks gorged on that serenity of every trice you can say were here protected from lies, from that bubonic plague of the hypocrisy, but in a white light, a pinching one, one like of a hospital, like of an operating room, the truth about ourselves shows up dimmer than ever, it goes through these corridors in dampness with its head wounded and its teeth like ramshackles, it engulfed us eagerly like a mystical leukemia here in this azylum of the lifetime left here all my ex-schoolmates from the primary have their hair white and their smile like of jelly fish, gambolingly fastin there in the foam of any pint of beer the forgotten season of the runnin away from home, of the football played on stray places, among the humble blocks of socialistic concrete, with the same care like those archaeologists sweep the dust away from the skeleton of any prehistoric animal, theyre speakin and braggin about how terrible they were, as if narrating all those guerrilla wars against the demons of amnesia here we keep on advancin to our future lifetime, castin overboard all the childhoods ballast, its thousands of undeveloped footages about the everyday happenings and sacrificed grandparents, about the uncaught butterflies and all those antiquated stamp files, about the divine taste of boiled-wheat cake received as to be charity unto the dead on those Saturdays of springtime there in the ruined church, the one hidden betwixt the blocks, then, when we assist in apathy the reading of those churchy akatist-invocations with living and dead, either of them just some uncaught butterflies: "bogdaproste, let it be tasted, for the souls of those either once upon a time or recently asleep" here we keep on advancin to our future lifetime, but from now on for us, each and every morn shall be night, one left by that coffeee dreg spread over our dissipated youths in this azylum of the lifetime left, here, where we keep on living casting aboard all the childhoods ballast, its thousands of undeveloped footages, monks gorged on that serenity of every trice

I and God in Flanders

far away from those cities where the morons shoot one another into great heaps of bodies, Ive chosen my exile in Flanders, flirtating the death with high-heeled shoes here Ive found old people and even an odd mood of feeling-good, cathedrals where the wind is hissing, changed overnight into a market of cows Ive chosen a place of mine right there in the midst of the field, wher the thunders establish a rendez-vous with the Colorado potato beetles, wher the clouds comb their steams through those trees hair-lopped asymmetrically right over there Ive raised a little church, made of straws, of saliva and a lump of hatred, as to meet there the merciful God, who was passing about, like a shadow, by the bored farmers in the lamps light, among rags soaked into wine, into oils and some eau de cologne, Ive espied him when being in profile, his glance is a flower of camomile put in Roentgen rays Im askin him whether hes in sufferance and hes answerin me that he isnt, that out of love he accepted to be the scarecrow, transfigured by a smile mathematically drawn, like a hopscotch drawn on the wall that separates us from the sky up there high the clouds are fatty, chubby and falstaffic, the time is passing by with them along, like a show of a circus stuck like a loser there in the Brabants mud, Im waiting for being saved by the autumnal wind so I can flee away, so I can disolve myself away into thee colours, absorbed like a featherlike-flake in the Flemish schools landscapes, inflatedly permeated from rain, cos should I become a fetid iris, right here should I find out its faint freedom of the one whichs everlastingly buryin himself and scatterin the vineyards crop for no reason, beside it and with it the merciful God is, like a shadow, among bored farmers.

Sunlight passed through a magnifying glass

so vaguely, faint away, so hunch-backed and a little myope, Im countin the days when I dont read a thing. Theres an atavistic fear - that Ill be no longer able to speak any human language. Ill be abandoned right there in the middle of the field, punished to die there Like a cricket of the absolute drought. All my lifetime left is goin to have been gone away like a minibus Which made so much noise and left behind such a big cloud of dust. And which left me right in the middle of the road. This is my age cuffed by the hot weather. Im stayin right in the middle of the field, so hunch-backed and a little myope and Im burning manuscripts by a sunray passed through a magnifying glass. When Ill be done with them, Ill direct the magnifying glass to my heart. A burnt flesh, a burnt heart, songs burnt. Lean like a locust tree out of which you cant do anymore a boat, Ill become even leaner - a melancholy so fast like a laser. Beneath that magnifying glass close by my heart, from that so much light, gettin closer is the night. 2

The shadow of a dog

comin closer is the fear, and the cold light, so little, that one of the-gods-glace-looking-at-me I could retire myself in the countryside, on the edges of moutains, so I can enjoy my lifetime left, through that spyglass of the art and occultism thus, this would mean I should till and hoe, across that daily water for drinking, so I can come across that little blind coin of the last moment luck my parents are dead, they left across me the furrow open, Id like to travel by tram, again, through all those scandalous lives of theirs, but theres no tram to stop any longer in those stops their old photographs are like those street commercials, hastly seen only, with no big meaning, my child believes theyre some tarot cards indeed this tram is the one of the pure time, it shall no longer carry anyone, trust me, to anywhere I promise to all the wise men hidden there behind Ramayanas covers, that Im goin to be with me more harsh, closer by the wax-candle burnin betwixt the dear ones,
cos Ill

more serenely ponder, with a juicy patience, about the air streams from the grass blades, the vacuum is on the watch betwixt my pillow and my beloved woman, ascetically, like the shadow of a dog, desperately lookin for the shadow of a master