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Ioana Ieronim: Omnivorous Syllables


Translated by: Ioana Ieronim, Adam J. Sorkin, Sergiu Celac, Carrie Messenger

ISBN: 973-7893-49-2
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The Portrait of an Artist



This common looking man, you would say
who follows his long lineage of
shepherds soldiers dreamers farmers
ready to travel light
in the patterns of neo-nomadism
moving quickly, with his clothes indifferent
adapted to the sheer usefulness of the day
- tired maybe, like anyone
or elated with the soaring of dawn
- the happiest no-man’s land

This man having the appearance of a young
carpenter maybe who’s looking for a new master
a new home to build
some field to plough
a worker, maybe an activist
a fisherman, a teacher rather
not sure of the future crop
at times maybe unsure of
survival
(who is?)
And then, suddenly, while you were looking at some
little thing on the side
suddenly this ... o, how did Homer put it?
this sudden light, this cloud
the touch of otherworldly joy / pain
allowing you to see in his eyes this rift into
core dark starry simmering

- for he’s been sent by his god
he is that god and
there is this time to see
for a split second
while you can still avert your eyes
and yet
learn


Uncharted Territory



A hesitation in that step
a wave of uncertainty sweeping over our
bodies that will serve us not always well
heavy as they are with remembrance
torn with this hardly visible
swift double motion now
cut in mid-air
resumed

A hesitation before our embrace
a distance kept
no more than a poppy seed
one or two lives compressed
swerving either side if this mirror

a god’s bare foot
stepping on uncharted territory

... no flower as short-lived as poppies
in the vibration of ripe wheat and barley fields
there in a dreamland valley of the Carpathians
no flower more faithfully coming back
than poppies at the core of summer


Fall in the City



You’ve entered without knocking at the door
I raised my eyes and merely nodded
there was so little time, a bunch of things to finish still
a string of deadlines
and yes, you there
this sound unheard, perhaps some muted
gesture you may have made
some call that went unnoticed
across life’s flow strung in its tempo giusto

*



see the chestnut tree? - again the Indian summer
that’s made this city to be loved by many -
see the leafy islands down there
the outcry of wet newborn green
the blossoms lighting one by one
white blinding vertical
their breath arrested
deep at the core of rusty golden glorious foliage

has there ever been a name, do you think
for this ritual
some name, in any language ?


Charm



Hypnotic days hypnotic nights
our bodies have burnt several lives

we are hungry
as hungry as the world as old as young

our bodies
two motionless stones in a mountain river
faces glittering thousand-fold

Hypnotic days
hypnotic nights
our bodies have burnt all clothes and several lives

...

shall we ever fall from this paradise of
Oneness do you think
painlessly
wrapped in oblivion:

apples rolling apart
in the tall never harvested grass?


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