New York Elegies
My Legend

I've been told to give up long sentences.
In order to succeed, I'll have to forget the convoluted
turns and counterturns of Romance languages.

The same cadence over and over: subject, predicate, object.
A soldier's beat ad nauseam.

I'm fifty.
Only my brain keeps menstruating.
I'm still a woman.
But I'm a man too.
Twice I have dreamed of possessing a woman.

Having to be alone in the room while I write.
Humans only in faraway rooms allowed.

I went to India in search of Alexander the Great.
I realized why he had gone there:
to bathe in the eternal light,
still there over the Ganges in Varanasi
waiting for me.

It is springtide now.
I burned all my diaries at 21.
I feel like doing the same.

My friends. My Homer.
My teachers. My Socrates.
My body ­ my Goethe.

I feel like smoking, yet I can't.
I feel like drinking, yet all I get is a heartburn.
I do not use underwear in the summer
to fight the witches' curses: a Romanian saying.

The loneliness somehow of the rainforest.
That's what I experience during the weekends
In New York City.
A man from Europe I lived with for a while had there a mistress.
When he got drunk he spoke about her.
He asked me to love her.
I asked him to ask her to love me too.
I am not sure whether in me he saw his faraway mistress.

Orgasms during nighttime while dreaming.
The best ever. And also in early puberty
not knowing what was happening
while sleeping in secret chambers carpeted with handmade rugs
and filled with barrels of salty tasty feta cheese.
Many times I found drowned mice in those barrels.
The cheese acquired a distinctive tang.
The same with the pickle barrels.

Having to be alone in the room while I write.
Humans only in faraway rooms allowed.

Cooking apple pies
I am thinking of Jason's golden apples.
I am very fond on him.
Peeling the apples I see Jason stealing them.
I was doing the same with quinces in my childhood.
Did Jason eat apples?
Still, I am seeing him stealing those golden apples.

Drifting through this endless emptiness of my life
I write poems while thinking of writing poems.
The art of poetry.
I write poetry only once in ten years. Prowling like a beast
in search of myself.

I had been here before I was born.
I had been perceived before my existence.

 

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