Îngerul l-a strigat...

Ceea ce am înţeles din scrisul lui Fănuş Neagu se poate reduce la formularea: „dacă o cascadă de metafore va fi existat, în realitate (adică), atunci cam aşa ar fi arătat”... Nu un izvor, nu un şuvoi, nu un torent, ci o cascadă Niagara de metafore... Diferenţa dintre torent şi cascadă rezidă în structura şi durabilitatea procesului... Un torent (de metafore) nu este un fenomen previzibil, stabil, premeditat – torentul poate apărea oricând şi numai din nori; poate genera o „vedută” spectaculară dar, mereu, distruge şi sfârşeşte prin a purta resturile durerease ale distrugerii până, hăt, în nu ştiu ce vale a plângerii... O Niagară (de metafore) pro-vine din ape adânci şi limpezi... Iar, în sinea lor, acele ape adânci şi limpezi „ştiu” şi „presimt” locul şi momentul în care vor intra în starea de cascadă... „Ştiu” şi „presimt” locul şi momentul în care vor reintra în starea lor de ape adânci şi limpezi... O cascadă majestuoasă ţine direct de metafizica Puterii... Este oricând o imagine a Puterii elementare – dar o Putere care se expune întru limpezire... O Niagara de metafore stă în pragul katharsisului...

Pe Fănuş Neagu îngerul l-a strigat demult... Fănuş Neagu a auzit şi a ascultat strigătul îngerului... Mulţi dintre noi (ne-am prefăcut că) nu l-am auzit – aşa cum se întâmplă cel mai adesea... DAO spune: „Un strigăt puternic nu se aude”...

The child stood on the burning tree

The child stood on the burning tree,

Laughing with many a tears.

- Mother—you can’t say it’s true what you see

‘Cause your child

his laughs only hears.

All dressed in furs, against the frozen fire—

He stood

with a paperback plane in his hand.

And your child’s only wish and desire

Are to fetch the pure safeness of flight

and therefore suspend

his dreaming loads onto the sky—

I know you stay there gasping, mother

And puffed I stay—but I

Figure out burning trees, and don’t bother—

Just by the Book, such burning bush is (in fact) icy cold

And it was meant for your child.

And I know the One Who traded

and Who sold

This kind of burning bushes

into the wild—

Riddle

(For Bob Pelerman)

The angel fell onto me...

Skylarking

he fell onto me

He stood still onto my shoulder and spake:

- Why thou do share my words with others?

- Aren’t you my guarding angel—I said?

Shouldn’t I express the enlightened signs you

Wish to forsaken me with?

- I am no guarding angel of thine, instead a humble messenger am I. To you only—

Spread my words no more—he said

Otherwise they will label you an errant minded

Describing secondhand Chimeras.

- You see, angel, I thought I was an errant minded,

Who can only describe secondhand Chimeras.

The grief blistered deeper than --

The self, a spirit’s residue --

“Not enough time to thoroughly” --

Last night in Bucharest…

(Ageōmetrētos mēdeis eisitō)

Last night in Bucharest…



… I watched her
in her sleep -- hands resting
in a swan posture. Her personal angel
near the shoulder.

No sage provided me with basic knowledge
on where she might have wandered while asleep.
Yet, I presume she may wander in a different pageant of reality.

All dressed in light and stardust.
(literally stardust, as I saw it many times on her nightgown when
the shy moon fashioned to glow through my window).

Her hands in the swan posture,
continently embracing continents & oceans
as if they were painted on the china
vase near the bed.

So thick is the air she breathes
(with her personal angel near the shoulder)
That I can draw perfect polyhedra
onto the sky and see them for hours.

Perfect traces lasting as long as she sleeps, with her hands
in a swan posture.

The swan? The peerless aquatic
bird having usually pure white
plumage when adult, walking awkwardly,
flying strongly when once started,
and being the most graceful swimmer
even when one turns the water
into vacuum from heavens.

Long ago @ now, my love

Long ago,
My love,
Your bosom underneath my palms
Acted as skylarks
Noiselessly trying to
Sing in the stratosphere.

The same way they’d
Act now,
After many-a-year made
Our love songs
A mere frown.

Long ago,
My love,
You moved the bed sheets
In a rustle
Reminding me of
Angel feathers swayed by
Cosmic winds.

The same way you
Move these days,
And I still do
Hear the Angel’s praise.

Long ago,
My love,
I feared the instant
When you labelled me seeker.

Yet, Now, I constantly fear
To explore your skin.
The same silky & dear
Universe journey I’ve had or seen.

Counter-Poem (I)

Counter-Poem (I)


As many a summer – wardens
Of thy temples,

Sent countless suns upon thy beauty’s riches,
Thy nubile pictures I keep as priceless samples
Jarred in thy pristine garden,
Now plundered by forged ditches.

When questioned:
“Where all her young days’ splendor hid,
And where her glow was roofed by haze?”

I’ll answer:
“Just look who she is now, and what she relentlessly did,
While harvesting Good in her eyes’ blaze.”


And yet, thou couldst add:
“See my son—the Pelican in his youth?
He can toss on endless beauty – it shall always prove a deuce.”

Reminiscence

Reminiscence


My handheld angel cancelled
a CMYK ibis
& deleted five night rainbows
on my computer

I wanted these artefacts launched into the world-wide-wasteland

I was so proud of my pictures –
they were half google and half ice-cold…
I was so proud that I even dared ask the angel:
- Why?

- The ibis was overrated and the rainbows were shameful metaphoric lies;
My handheld guarding angel said.

- Then, do you allow me to post any image whatsoever?

- Yes, the angel answered...
Try an ibis and five night rainbows

- But, angel, what are they? I have no knowledge about such beings…

- Eventually you don’t have to know much—faith is needed instead…
I give you this Egyptian ibis fetched in ochre,
warm brown, orange, and marked with a veronese green little cross...
We call him Thoth.

As about the night rainbows, don’t fool yourself:
Drink them to the last drop…
They only act as
signs of the covenant He has established between Him and all life on the earth.