Two poems intertwined. The first, by Vlad Razvan Baciu, so dense that every atom of moving music tells a new story, but also so light, like helium gas lifting balloons riding over air, filled with multiplicities of space and feeling. The second, my own ( https://halfspoken.org/2017/10/22/mirror). To hear the two voices of the poem, so masterfully interpreted by Christine Simolka and René Woklhauser, is to feel understood, multiplied, enriched. I cannot fully grasp the notion that this perfomance is traveling to many places. Thank you so much for this experience!
an alien ghost, the shade of apples,
fresh smoke of mint, burned, spoiled by pale sweat,
crawls twisting on the fractal aether.
time blurs, repeated ends, disturbs the vapid vapor,
behind your curls on air’s weight,
your shadow never left.
lyrics written for the lied with the same title by Vlad R. Baciu https://vladrazvanbaciu.com
Sadness is the kissing gate, the backdoor to the garden,
where scrambled tears sewn to the ground,
trembling, chained with strength to a spiraling string,
grow arching, dancing silhouettes.
For the first time,
I sp lit
a pair of twins,
conjoined as they were
by the roots,
And saw a brownie
Turn into a tree.
(Baked 40 minutes)
Nowhere did it say that
trees grow darker
So I threw the crust away.
I only feel the white wall
and the sleep
the not yet universe
where galaxies, lost children
are playing hide and seek
till end of time.
What was there before the spark of creation,
before the spoken word?
A thunderstorm ?
Inspiration comes as inspiration goes…
as with dreams, I remember mostly the bad ideas.
like an inside out depression,
where all the light trapped in a black hole
was flooding out
for the first time in eons.
They say that joy is
to never want anything to change,
we are blessed to never call
is the map:
a book where all the empty
the author has changed their name,
and the title?
Who could digest an eternity
that has just begun?
Leave behind the roots,
End of day.
Heavy yellow stones and one dark-faced monkey,
I’m sitting down, pretending to be funky.
She looks at me, and scans me up and down,
You’re not my type, cos’ you’re from outta town!
I try, explain, that we are all the same,
We laugh, we cry, no matter whence we came.
She says, no, no, you cannot understand,
I’m sorry, yeah, but cannot be your friend.
And so it goes, united by the wall,
We face the light, that down on us does fall,
I contemplate, and cannot comprehend,
How could it speak, so I can understand.
I can never remember a time,
when people were still collecting stamps,
tabulating the symbols,
of letters not yet sent,
never to be sent,
many of them,
In my time,
in my book,
I’m collecting just names,
and their faces,
the post office has moved,
and the faces,
are still waiting for letters…
Strolling down my collection,
a lone finger sends waves to the crowd,
moving back, moving forth, till it stops,
pointing one name at random,
It’s the first on the list.
A thumbs up,
Then a quick middle finger,
Laugh out loud on the side,
Zipper mouth, dollar eyes,
Then an eye roll.
I can never remember the time,
when I sent away my last letter.
The post office has moved,
has become our exchange.
With no words,
by the beautiful,
grammar … of emotion.