CAROL RUMENS

Thinking about Montale by the River Hull

Roots are not easily killed, in spite of tank-tracks
and trenches; birds, years later, perch above battle-fields.
What if in city courtyards the grey grass almost mocks
its own entitlement? All poetry yields
to grass, all grass to photosynthesis.
And the poet’s senses warm to trivia
like mud-larks: - reeds in bearded profile, Isis
worming his life-or-death accommodations,
swags of stink, iridescent effluvia.
New light does not dawn lightly in this country
of midday dusks and hanging air. What else
but fall in love with a man or a lemon-tree?
I wander home with my heightened pulse, my notions,
And when I’ve found their silvery web-page, those
guests of a guess, your words, will keep their coats on –
as he, of course, will, as the unhappy tree will.
Trees are too slow. I want the bird-bright coif
or spear of colour, now – kingfisher, saffron, snow,
poinsettia-crimson. Light-creators, glow,
pull me towards your heavy mouths until
the day grows younger, taller, and I hate myself.

Carmen Dumitru

Carol Rumens
 

Gandindu-ma la Montale langa Raul Hull

Radacinile nu-s usor de ucis, in ciuda senilelor
si-a transeelor; pasarile, dupa ani si ani, vor zbura deasupra campurilor de batalie
Ce-ar fi daca in curtile din oras iarba cenusie mai ca-si batjocoreste
propriul drept? Se pleaca-ntreaga poezie
in fata ierbii, iar iarba fotosintezei.
Si simturile poetului se-nvioreaza-n fata unui fleac
precum ciocarlia ne noroi: - Isis, din profil pletoasa trestie
isi capata cu greu ale sale conditii de viata-sau-moarte
sagetari de duhoare, miasma curcubeica.
lumina de-nceput nu mijeste usor in tara asta
a amurgului in plina amiaza si a aerului statut. Ce altceva
in afara de-a te indragosti de-un barbat sau de-un lamai?
Ratacesc spre casa cu-al meu puls marit, ale mele notiuni,
Si cand le-am gasit paginile web argintii, acei
oaspeti ai unei intuitii, cuvintele tale, isi vor pastra vesmintele –
ca si el desigur, ca si nefericitul lamai.
Copacii-s prea lenesi. Vreau coiful de pasare stralucitor,
sau sageata de culoare, acum – pescarus, sofran, omat,
stacojiul craciunitelor. Creatorii luminii, stralucirii,
ma smulg spre gurile voastre grele pana ce
ziua intinereste, se-nalta, si eu incep sa ma urasc.