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.

Oana Cristina Andreoiu

Carol Rumens
 

Gandindu-ma la Montale pe malul raului Hull

Radacinile un se distrug usor, in ciuda tancurilor
Si a transeelor; dupa ani si ani, pasari planeaza deasupra campurilor de lupta.
Ce daca la oras, in gradini, iarba cenusie isi batjocoreste
Propriul drept? Intreaga poezie se pleaca
In fata ierbii, iar iarba in fata fotosintezei.
Si simtamintele poetului se prefac in futilitate
Ca vagabonzii- trestii in contururi barboase, Isis
Tarandu-si locuintele in viata sau in moarte,
Rafale de duhoare, emanatii curcubeice.
Lumina noua nu se mijeste usor in locul asta
De crepuscul la amiaza si aer suspendat. Ce altceva
Decat sa te indragostesti de un barbat sau de-un lamai?
Ratacesc agitata spre casa, cu gandurile mele,
Si cand am sa gasesc pagina de internet argintie, acei
Oaspeti ai unei intuitii, cuvintele tale, isi vor pastra intelesul-
Asemenea barbatului si a lamaiului nefericit.
Copacii sunt prea domoli. Pretind stralucirea coifului pasarii
Sau coloritul lancilor, acum- pescarusi, sofron, zapada,
O craciunita stacojie. Creatori luminati,
Calauziti-ma spre apasatoarele voastre guri
Pana ce zilele si-or recapata inaltimea si tineretea, iar eu ma voi dispretui.