Pentru că e lene și oboseală mare, pentru că sunt și eu într-un fel de turneu și când mai ajung pe-aici nu pot decât să frunzăresc un pic și să-mi zic poate mai scrii și tu ceva (după care plec iar), pentru că azi a fost o zi plină de surprises no surprises și de festivaluri și de palmieri, pentru că m-am să-tu-rat să tot aud că Thomas E. Yorke nu e chiar așa de grozav ca lyricist (da, bine), azi un p.d.s. scris de un nepriceput:
There There. (The Boney King of Nowhere.)
In pitch dark
I go walking in
Your landscape
Broken branches
Trip me as I speak
Just because you feel it
Doesn’t mean it’s there
Just because you feel it
Doesn’t mean it’s there
There’s always a siren
Singing you to shipwreck
Steer away from these rocks
We’d be a walking disaster
Just because you feel it
Doesn’t mean it’s there
There there
Why so green
& lonely?
Heaven sent you to me
We are accidents
Waiting
Waiting to happen
We are accidents
Waiting
Waiting to happen
Am mai facut odata asa, adica am pus poezia fara sa spun cine-i autorul. Atunci se pare ca a fost destul de usor. Si acum ar trebui sa fie la fel.
Cine ghiceste nu primeste nimic, e doar asa, de amuzament.
(o sa va zic mai incolo cine-i poetul si din ce carte e poezia, da’ poate ghiciti)
***
Cum e cu raspunsul: poezia-i dintr-un volum colectiv. L-am deschis in tramvai, in drum spre casa si s-a nimerit la Iggy. Volum colectiv fiind, nu aveam cum sa stiu cine a scris-o, insa mie mi-a luat asa, vreo juma’ de secunda (rotunjit) sa ma prind. As zice ca m-am prins deja de la titlu, dar ca sa nu exageram hai sa zicem ca mi-a fost de-ajuns o strofa. 🙂
Autorul e Sorin Ghergut iar pe Iggy il gasiti in Marfa reincarcata (care tocmai ce-a aparut la Editura Brumar). O sa revin cu mai multe despre cartea asta da’ mai incolo, nu stiu cand. Pacat ca n-a ghicit nimeni, nu era greu deloc-deloc. 😛
***
Iggy Pop
cine trece peste-Atlantic
gol la bust precum un antic
faraon, și strîmți i-s blugii?
Iggy Pop cu-ai săi The Stooges
trupa sa neobosită
ce-a mîncat Acid pe pită
(povestește-n carte* Tina
noaptea-n care la Cockettes
prima oară heroina
a-ncercat-o, nătăfleț)
și coboară-n jos la Mureș**
gol pînă la brîu și gureș
spre Peninsulă converg
rockerii, de două zile
pentru Iggy (Osterberg
zis în actele civile)
și-a sa trupă legendară
cu Ron Asheton la chitară
și la tobe, mai în spate
Scott, năvalnicul său frate***
Mike Watt acum, la bass
saxofon tot Steve Mackay
nu-s o ceată de pripas
Iggy și-acoliții săi
_____________
* Paul Trynka, Open up and Bleed, Sphere, 2007, p.125
** Referire la concertul din cadrul Festivalului Peninsula / Felsziget, de la Tîrgu Mureș, de pe 26 august 2011
*** o inadvertență, probabil din rațiune metrică. Ron Asheton, unul dintre membrii fondatori ai formației, a decedat în 2009. În locul său la chitară a revenit James Williamson (cel care l-a înlocuit și după 1970, cînd Ron Asheton a fost „retrogradat” la bass). Scott Asheton, bolnav, nu a fost nici el prezent la Tîrgu Mureș, fiind înlocuit de Toby Dammit.
Mai aveam de adaugat o poezie din seria lui Frederick Seidel, poezia lunii septembrie. Le-am recitit pe celelalte gandindu-ma sa aleg cateva care-mi plac mai mult, da’ e greu. Octombrie imi place in continuare foarte mult, vad ca ziceam atunci ca si Martie ar fi una dintre preferatele mele, acum pare ca nu mai e, cred ca-s altele. Insa cum se schimba tot timpu’, mai bine nu mai zic nimic si va las sa cititi ultima fila din calendar.
September
The woman is so refined.
The idea of refinement gets redefined.
Doing it with her is absurd.
Like feeding stake to a hummingbird.
Her hair colorist colored her hair gold
To give her a look. It made her look cold.
Her face suddenly seemed see-through like a breath
In a bonnet of gold and she was in a casket and it was death.
She looked more beautiful than life.
She said she wanted to be my wife.
She comes with a psychiatrist to maintain her.
She comes with a personal trainer.
The September trees are still green in Central Park
Until they turn black after dark.
The apartments in the buildings turn their lamps on.
And then curtains are drawn.
One person on a low floor pulls the curtain back and stares out,
But pulls the curtain closed again when there’s a shout,
Audible on Fifth Avenue, from inside the park.
Somewhere a dog begins to bark.
I climb into the casket of this New York night.
I climb into the casket of the curtained light.
I climb into the casket and the satin.
I climb into the casket to do that in.
Into her roaring arms, wings of hummingbird,
A roar of wings without a word,
A woman looking up at me and me looking down
Into the casket at the town.
I see down there His Honor the Mayor
In St. Patrick’s Cathedral, head bowed in prayer.
His friend – wings roaring – hovers beside him in the pew.
Death is all there is. Death will have to do.
***
Bonusul de azi: pornind de la una dintre poeziile preferate (Februarie) – „The best way not to kill yourself / Is to ride a motorcycle very fast. / How to avoid suicide? / Get on and really ride.” – am ajuns si va trimit si pe voi la un articol al lui Seidel despre motociclete si produsele Apple. In plus, pentru ca azi e ultimul episod, un interviu cu Seidel din The Paris Review si un articol-recenzie despre cartea lui de poeme Poems 1959-2009. O sa va mai zic de el, ca-mi place. Dar mai am muuult de citit, sunt 50 de ani de poezii la mijloc.
[Din pacate aveam un cantec perfect pentru luna in curs (noiembrie, nu septembrie cel de mai sus), dar nu-l gasesc nicaieri pe net. Asa ca il inlocuiesc cu altul nu mai putin perfect si mai pun un poem ca sa nu fiu chiar defazata de tot.]
***
Bipolar November
I get a phone call from my dog who died,
But I don’t really.
I don’t hear anything.
Dear Jimmy, it is hard.
Dear dog, you were just a dog.
I am returning your call.
I have nothing to say.
I have nothing to add.
I have nothing to add to that.
I am saying hello to no.
How do you do, no!
I am returning your call.
I rode a bubble to the surface just now.
I unthawed and unthawed.
I said yes. Yes, yes,
How do you do?
I called to say hello
But am happy.
Today it is spring in November.
The weather opens the windows.
The windows look pretty dirty.
I go to my computer to see.
The six-day forecast calls
For happy haze for six days.
The trees look like they’re budding.
They can’t be in late November.
It is mucilaginous springtime.
It is all beginning all over.
The warplanes levitate
To take another crack at Iraq.
Hey, Mr. Big Shot!
I bet you went to Harvard.
Leaves are still on the trees.
The trees are wearing fine shoes.
Everything is handmade.
Everything believes.
Penultima poezie din calendarul lui Seidel (inceput anul trecut la sfarsitul lui septembrie). Cred ca nu e una dintre preferatele mele da ce mai conteaza, la mine se pare ca a venit in sfarsit vara, cu toata suita ei de tunete si fulgere. Ce daca prin alte parti se termina, bine c-a sosit si pe-aici.
August
Sky blue eyes,
A bolt of lightning drinking
Skyy vodka,
A demon not afraid of happiness,
Asks me about my love life here in hell.
I lunge at what I understand I belong to.
I flee, too.
It’s her fate. It’s too late.
I see the sky from a couch at the Carlyle.
Blond is dressed in black.
It all come back.
The sky is black.
Thunder violently shakes
The thing it holds in its teeth
Until it snaps the neck
And rain pours down in release and relief,
Releasing paradise,
The smell of honeysuckle and of not afraid of happiness.
Lightning flashes once
To get the sky eyes used to it,
And then flashes again
To take the photograph.
The blackout startled her and started it.
Lightning flickers in Intensive Care.
I am speaking in Ecstatic.
The couch is floating on the carpet.
The waiter burns
From all the discharge and surge, and brings more drinks.
Coition is divine human
Rebirth and ruin having drinks in a monsoon,
In the upholstered gallery outside the bar, in the gold light.
The Prince of Darkness dipped in gold is God.
Am auzit ca a inceput vara. De fapt cand m-am uitat in calendar m-am si speriat – e deja sfarsitul lui iulie! Trebuia sa completez calendarul lui Seidel, sa pun doua poezii, da’ m-am oprit undeva in mai. De fapt cred ca nu m-am speriat, ci m-am linistit – eram precisa ca am de pus mai multe, ca e deja noiembrie, eu ies din casa cu palton, am caldura pornita si ma uit din cand in cand urat la ploaia care de doua zile nu s-a oprit nici macar o secunda. Ploua, marunt, intruna. Prin alte parti toata lumea sufera de cald si poarta bretele, eu port inca fular si palton. Si fiind vremea asa, sunt cumva si foarte harnica si am o gramada de treburi care ma fac sa uit de bietul blog. Mi-e sa nu putrezeasca de-atata ploaie si uitare.
Dar poate toate astea se intampla din cauza ca am uitat eu sa pun pedeseurile de vara, asa ca repede-repede, sa indreptam lucrurile – June & July ale lui Frederick Seidel. Pentru Luiza, de la care am aflat de Seidel si care tocmai s-a intors de-acolo, din orasul despre care din cand in cand mai scrie el. 🙂 Si pentru vara, poate vine un pic.
June
Eternal life begins in June.
Her name is fill the name in.
My contubernalis, my tent mate,
My woman in the tent with me in Latin.
The next world is the one I’m in.
My June contubernium.
My tent mate through the whole campaign.
The June moon, burning pure champagne,
Starts foaming from its tail and rising.
One minute into launch and counting.
The afterlife lifts off like this.
The afterlife begins to blast.
The breathing of my sleeping dog
Inflates the moonlit room with silence.
The afterlife begins this way.
The universe began today.
The afterlife is here on earth.
It’s what you’re doing when you race
And enter each turn way too fast
And brake as late as possible always.
Of course the world does not exist.
A racebike raving down the straight
Explodes into another world,
Downshifts for the chicane, brakes hard,
And in the other world ignites
The flames of June that burn in hell.
My contubernalis, my tent mate.
My woman in the tent with me does octane.
Ducati racing red I ride,
Ride red instead of wrong or right.
The color red in hell looks cool.
In heaven it’s for sex on sight.
July
Phineas is crossing the pont des Arts,
But he is doing it in New York.
He has made up the Phineas part.
That is not his name.
Nothing is.
Nothing is his.
He is living in Paris,
On Broadway.
Two minutes from his door
Is the pont des Arts arcing
Over the Seine.
Bateaux mouches like bugs of light
Slide by at night under his feet, fading away in English.
Shock waves vee against the quais. Mesdames and gentlmen, soon we have Notre Dame.
The letter P is walking across the pont des Arts.
Back in New York,
Except he is in New York,
He is in Paris.
He strolls home to the rue de Seine, punches in the code and goes in.
The next morning the streets
Are bleeding under his feet.
They are cleaning themselves.
Apparently, they are not that young.
The trees are green.
In the jardin du Luxembourg he says her name.
He watches the children riding the donkeys on the red dirt.
An adult holds the halter and walks alongside.
One tree is vomiting and sobbing
Flowers.
The smell is powerful.
How quatorze July it is to be a donkey and child.
Sa ne prefacem putin ca e inca iunie mai si mai ales ca e sambata. Calendarul lui Seidel a ajuns la mai, luna in care in unele tari vine primavara.
May
A man picks up the telephone to hear his messages,
Returns the handset to the cradle, looking stunned.
The pigeon on the ledge outside the window
Bobs back and forth in front of New York City, moaning.
A man takes roses to a doctor, to her office,
And gets himself buzzed in, and at the smiling front desk
Won’t give his name to the receptionist, just leaves red roses.
The doctor calls the man the next day, leaves a message.
There isn’t anything more emptiness than this,
But it’s an emptiness that’s almost estival.
The show-off-ness of living full of May
Puts everything that’s empty on display.
The pigeon on the ledge outside the window
Moans, bobbing up and down, releasing whiteness.
The day releases whiteness on the city.
And May increases.
Seersucker flames of baby blue and white
Beneath a blue-eyed Caucasian sky with clouds
Fill up the emptiness of East Side life
Above a center strip that lets red flowers grow.
They call them cut flowers when they cut them.
They sell the living bodies at the shop.
A man is bringing flowers to the doctor,
But not for her to sew them up.
And May is getting happy, and the temperature is eighty.
And the heart is full of palm trees, even when it’s empty.
The center strip migraine down Park Avenue sees red. Girl with a Red Hat in the Vermeer show is what it sees.
Vermeer went a day and a half from being healthy to being dead.
A city made of pigeons is moaning in a morgue that’s a garden.
The red hat reddens the Metropolitan.
It’s its harem.
De fapt eu ma bucur ca e iunie fiindca maine ma duc la Librarie sa-l vad pe Wim Wenders vorbind despre muzica si despre de ce muzica l-a facut sa se simta acasa in piesele Pinei Bausch, pe 13 sa-l vad pe Mick Harvey cantand (aproape) singur-singurel, pe 20 sa-i vad pe Danielle de Picciotto si Alex Hacke citind si cantand despre Berlin, pe 24 sa-i vad pe TV on the Radio si in rest ramane de vazut. Oricum e bine. Acum fiindu-mi somn si avand de terminat o insemnare despre scriitorul meu preferat (cine-o fi oare? 😛 ), va trimit la un concert. De fapt imi folosesc masinaria de calatorit in timp (noroc c-am inventat-o, altfel fiti atenti ce pierdeam) si mergem direct la Amsterdam in 1992 ca sa vedem:
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. 🙂
March
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:
It rained
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)
***
***
April
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.
Februarie al lui Frederick Seidel, in ultimul weekend din iarna asta (calendaristica, fiindca daca ma uit afara…). Si daca tot vine primavara, saptamana viitoare cred c-ar fi cazul sa ne rock & roll-izam nitel cu Keith Richards si viata lui (a mai citit cineva, sa trancanim mai pe larg?). Si poate si cu alte muzici, mai vedem, ma mai gandesc. Si poate ne si irezistibilizam un pic, sper sa am timp.
***
(Paul Klee – Winter Picture)
***
February
The best way not to kill yourself
Is to ride a motorcycle very fast.
How to avoid suicide?
Get on and really ride.
Then comes Valentine’s Day.
It is February, but very mild.
But the MV Agusta is in storage for the winter.
The Ducati racer is deeply asleep and not dreaming.
Put the pills back in the vial.
Put the gun back in the drawer.
Ventilate the carbon monoxide.
Back away from the railing.
You can’t budge from the edge?
You can meet her in front of the museum.
it is closed today – every Monday.
If you are alive, happy Valentine’s Day!
All you brave failed suicides, it is a leap year:
Every day is an extra day
To jump. It is February 29th
Deep in the red heart of February 14th.
On the steps in front of the museum,
The wind was blowing hard.
Something was coming.
Winter had been warm and weird.
Hide not thy face from me.
For I have eaten ashes like bread,
And mingled my drink with weeping,
While my motorcycles slept.
She arrives out of breath,
Without a coat, blazing health,
But actually it is a high flu fever that gives her glory.
Life is death.
***
Si tot de iarna, sau de sfarsit de iarna, sau cum vreti (asta cu riscul de-a va plictisi, da ce sa fac, merge cu toata iarna de mai sus 🙂 ):
Repede, despre tot: sunt pe la jumate cu Life a lui Keith Richards si printre hohote de ras m-am gandit c-ar trebui sa mai scriu cate ceva pe-aici. Pe langa Life mai citesc Detectivii salbatici a lui Bolano (numai cartoaie, dupa cum se vede – Life are cinci sute si ceva de pagini, Detectivii… vreo 900) si Opere I, II, III, Cosasu. Toate, de-a valma. Nici nu va puteti imagina ce bine se leaga: matusi, poezie, pasiuni, umor, duiosie, salbaticie, rock & roll. Pe langa ele, poezie (desi si ele cam sunt). Multa. Mi se trage de la Detectivi, de la Serge Fauchereau, de la Matei Calinescu si de la Alexandru. 😛 Era sa uit – Luiza, vin la salonul despre Irezistibil, deschid si eu unul, da mai dureaza un pic. Intre timp zic repede ca Marius Chivu e in mare eroare iar Paul Cernat si mai si. A, si vedeti ca Sorin Ghergut are – in sfarsiiiit! – o noua carte: Orice, aparuta la editura Pandora M. Habar n-am pe unde se gaseste, nu e nici pe situl editurii din cate vad (am gresit editura?). Da poate s-o gasi pe undeva, macar asta.
Acum cateva zile, scotocind dupa ceva, mi-am reamintit de (adica am dat peste) fragmentul asta dintr-o carte pe care n-am citit-o niciodata cap-coada (nici nu e din aia care se citeste asa) si am concluzionat ca ar merge – fragmentul – foarte, foarte bine la p.d.s. Sa vedem:
„The thing that gave me hope for the future of poetry was this Rolling Stones concert at Madison Square Garden that I saw. Jagger was real tired and fucked-up. It was a Tuesday, he had done two concerts and was really on the brink of collapse – but the kind of collapse that transcends into magic.
Jagger was so tired that he needed the energy of the audience. He was not a rock & roller that Tuesday night. He was closer to a poet than he ever has been, because he was so tired, he could hardly sing. I love the music of the Rolling Stones, but what was foremost was not the music but the performance, his rhythm, his movement, his talk – he was so tired, he was saying things like, ‘Very warm here / warm warm warm / it’s very hot here / hot, hot / New York, New York, New York / band, bang, bang.’
I mean, none of that stuff was genius – it was his presence and his power to hold the audience in his palm. I mean there was electricity. If the Rolling Stones had walked off that night and left Mick Jagger alone, he could’ve been as great as any poet that night. He could’ve spoken some of his best lyrics and had the audience just as magnetized.
And that excited me so much I almost blew apart, because I saw the complete future of poetry. I really saw it, I really felt it, I got so excited I could hardly stand being in my skin and that gave me faith to keep on going.”
(Patti Smith, din Please Kill Me – The Uncensored Oral History of Punk, Legs McNeil si Gillian McCain)
Mai sunt vreo 10 minute din ianuarie (luna cea mai nesuferita, un fel de zi de luni a anului), asa ca repede de tot p.d.s.-ul din Seidel. Stiu ca-i luni, dar n-ar strica sa ne prefacem un pic ca e sambata. Macar pana trece ianuarie.
January
I have a dream
And must be fed.
The manta rays when you wade out
Ripple toward your outstretched hand.
The answer is
The friendliness of the body.
There is no answer, but the answer is
The friendliness of the body
In the stars above
The dock at night.
And in the afternoon lagoon flags lazily flap
Their bodies toward yours
To be fed. I landed on
An atoll in the soft
Perfume.
The airport air was sweet. The blond January breeze was young.
The windchill factor
Which is Western thought
Received an IV drip of syrup clove.
I have a dream. I have a dream the
Background radiation is a
Warm ocean, and a pasture for
Desire, and a
Beach of royal psalms.
The IV bag is a warm ocean,
Is a body not your own feeding your body.
My body loves your body
Is the motto of Tahiti.
Two flying saucers mating,
One on top the other, flap and flow, in love.
Each is black
Gun soft as a glove.
(Iar eu revin luna viitoare cu povesti despre niste carti misto.)
zum 
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