p.d.s. 41 – martie & aprilie. „Everyone who wore glasses was executed”
In apararea mea trebuie sa spun ca martie si aprilie aici au fost cam la fel. Cred ca de-aia nici nu mi-am dat seama ce mult a trecut de cand n-am mai scris nimic pe blog, eram convinsa c-a fost doar o luna. Asa ca poeziile din calendarul lui Seidel vin la pachet – primele doua luni de primavara, azi. Mai – saptamana viitoare, fiindca mai e o cu totul alta poveste. 🙂
He discovered he would have to kill.
He went to Paris to study how.
He returned home to throw out the colonial French.
He never left the United States.
He was a boy who was afraid.
He talked arrogance, secretly sick at heart.
He oozed haughty nonchalance, like a duke sitting on a shooting stick.
He grinned toughness on the playing field running behind his teeth.
He strutted in the school library, smirking
Like Charlie Chaplin twirling his cane jauntily.
He was a genius but he was afraid
He would burst into flames of fame and cry.
This Ho Chi Minh was arrogant. This Ho Chi Minh was shy.
Then he discovered poetry. It was in Florida
One March, at spring break, with his sister and parents,
Having parted for the week from his first girlfriend ever.
He wrote: The sea pours in while my heart pours out –
Words to that effect.
Even for age thirteen,
This was pretty dim.
This was the year of his bar mitzvah.
It was his genocidal coming of age in Cambodia.
Everyone who wore glasses was executed.
He took his off.
They killed everything in sight in a red blur:
A rainbow of the color red.
They wore black pajamas in a red bed.
They killed anyone named Fred.
This to start Utopia. Everyone was dead.
The Algerians blew up the French.
The French horribly tortured them to find out.
(daca ma gandesc bine, cred ca asta e una dintre preferatele mele)
A baby elephant is running along the ledge across
The front of an apartment building ten stories up.
What must be the young woman handler desperately gives chase,
Which has a comic aspect as she hangs on by the rope.
But the baby elephant falls, yanking the young woman floatingly
To her death on a ledge lower down.
The baby elephant lies dead on Broadway.
Every year it does.
Birds bathe in the birdbath in the warm blood.
The bed upstairs is red.
The sheets are red.
The pillows are blood.
The baby elephant looks like a mouse running away
Or a cockroach scuttling away on a shelf,
Followed by the comically running sandpiper
Holding the rope.
It is everywhere when you restart your computer.
You don’t see it and then you do.
A half has already fallen to the street,
And the other is falling and hits the ledge.
Now is a vase of flowers
Manically blooming red.
The medallion cabs seem very yellow
Today – as yellow as lymph.
Every April 1st frank O’Hara’s ghost
Stops in front of the Olivetti showroom
On Fifth Avenue – which hasn’t been there for thirty years.
He’s there for the Lettera 22 typewriter outside on a marble pedestal
With a supply of paper – to dash off a city poem, an April poem,
That he leaves in the typewriter for the next passerby,
On his way to work at the Museum of Modern Art, because
The baby elephant is running along the ledge, chased by its handler.