BRIAN PATTEN

The Right Mask

One night a poem came up to a poet
From now on, it said, you must wear a mask.
What kind of mask? asked the poet.
A rose mask, said the poem.
I’ve used it already, said the poet,
I’ve exhausted it.
Then wear the mask that’s made out of
a nightingale’s song, use that mask.
Oh, it’s an old mask, said the poet,
it’s all used up.
Nonsense, said the poem, it’s the perfect mask,
still, try on the god mask,
now that mask illuminates heaven.
It’s a tight mask, said the poet,
and the stars crawl about in it like ants.
Then try on the troubadour’s mask, or the singer’s mask,
try on all the popular masks.
I have, said the poet, but they fit so easily.

The poem was getting impatient,
it stamped its feet like a child,
it screamed. Then try on your own face,
try the one mask that terrifies,
the mask only you could possibly use,
the mask only you could wear out.
The poet tore at his face till it bled,
this mask? he yelled, this mask?
Yes, said the poem, yes.

But the poet was tired of masks,
he had lived too long with them,
he snatched at the poem and stuck it in his face.
Its screams were muffled, it wept, it tried to be lyrical,
it wriggled into his eyes and mouth.

Next day his friends were afraid of him,
he looked so distorted.
Now it’s the right mask, said the poem, the right mask.
It clung to him lovingly and never let go again.

Ruxandra Georgescu

Brian Patten
 

Masca potrivita
 

Intr-o noapte veni la poet o poezie
de acum inainte, spuse ea, trebuie sa porti o masca.
Ce fel de masca? intreba poetul.
O masca din trandafiri, spuse poezia.
Am folosit-o deja, spuse poetul,
Am epuizat-o.
Atunci poarta masca nascuta
din cantecul unei privigetori, foloseste acea masca.
Oh, aceea e o masca veche, spuse poetul,
e prea ponosita.
Prostii, zise poezia, ar fi masca perfecta,
dar totusi incearca masca unui zeu,
aceea da, poate ilumina cerul.
Aceea e o masca stramta, spuse poetul,
iar stelele o brazdeaza precum furnicile.
Atunci incearca masca trubadurului, sau cea a canteretului,
Incearca toate mastile cunoscute.
Am incercat, spuse poetul, dar se potrivesc toate prea usor.

Poezia devenea nerabdatoarea,
si batand din picioare precum un copil,
tipa. Atunci incearca propria fata,
incearca acea masca ce ingrozeste,
masca pe care doar tu ai putea-o folosi,
masca pe care doar tu ai putea-o secatui.
Poetul isi sfasie fata pana sangera,
Masca asta? urlă el, masca asta?
Da, spuse poezia, da.

Dar poetul era satul de masti,
Caci traise prea indelung cu ele,
Asa ca insfacă poezia si i-o vari ei in fata.
Strigatele ei erau inabusite, plangea incercand sa fie poetica,
dar masca se strecurase deja pe ochii si gura ei.

A doua zi, prietenii se temeau de el,
caci arata atat de distorsionat.
Acum porti intr-adevar masca potrivita, spuse poezia.
Se agată de el cu dragalasenie si nu-i mai dadu drumul in veci.