Cover

Preface

Preface

 

 

This is a quest, a poet's quest, starting by visiting the Delphic Sibyl, like a ritual, we start to love, and we start to feel its pain. We begin to understand and to feel, what was love for an archaic man. How Love gave birth to the gods, and how love formed us as people. We visit Byron and Keats, we meet the myths of Galatea, Persephone, or Phedra, who survived in us, in our love, an we meet new myths of today like Deneuve, we understand what is melancholy doing to us, what life is doing to us. We meet people, we meet the father and we meet the father. The poet is going his way, lonely, at a distance, and from that distance he can see inside the soul of humankind, trying to understand, what is he and what are we. “English words are like prisms. Empty, nothing inside, and still they make rainbows,” said Denis Johnson, words are the path of a poet în every language. It depends on him, if the path he has made, will be used by others. “What could be lonelier than trying to communicate?” Denis Johnson also said. What could be lonelier than a poet, who cannot be understood by his people?

 

Adrian Nicula, 2017/05/29

 

Part I

 

 

“I step naked into the street
      ripe with lost poems.”  

 

  Federico García Lorca

The Delphic Sibyl

 

 

In your eyes I look for

The only answer.

 

In your gaze I look after

That deep hidden poem,

Written by life through you,

In you.

 

In your smile I’m looking

To catch a glimpse of the sacred!

Flowing Water

 

 

I sit on the platform, on a bench,

And my tears are flowing on my face

And in my hands.

It's dark outside

And the nigh is crying with me;

We cry together for no other reason:

I love a girl

With eyes like the sea

And with her charming voice still in my ears.

Water.

Orion

 

 

I am the beast hungry of life,

The archaic with bleeding eyes,

In the Danube valley with my ancient spear

I am hunting, wild, with shuddering instincts.

 

All the senses are awakened,

The throat burned with cries of battle,

Of death, borealis in the woods,

I can smell fresh traces in the snow.

 

I see the deer twisted with the horns

In the branches loaded with snow,

How he gets hurt by my killing tool

Detached from itself from my hand.

 

I lean on him, to devour him,

To rip his heart and his guts apart,

When an arrow pierces my back

And gets, golden, out of my chest.

 

I turn my head to:  her...

Goddess, woman; dying worship.

I fall on the warm, generous body of food,

And I am, forever, like him, only dust.

Bagatelle In Minor

 

 

I would like to be a seagull,

Floating above the view,

To dip my wings of ink

In the foam of the sea.

 

I call you! In the agitated flight

I'm disturbing your crepuscular silence,

I'm looking for you in vain, unremittingly...

Ah! If you would only answer my call!

 

From above, above the clouds, I follow you

How you cry, how you laugh, I am deceived:

You seem so close, but I lose you.

 

Marveled at the concert of the seas,

Ever floating, wandering,

Impassive to the rousing wind.

To Byron

 

 

You took me on the top of the mountain,

Where I could breathe the pain of Manfred.

You took me in the deserts full of pain,

Where I could feel the mark of Cain...

 

........................................................

 

You died away, on foreign shores,

Struggling for divine ideals:

Lord Byron, seeker of eternal love,

The personified defender of the arts.

 

Hercule's blood was flowing through your veins,

You were the hero, that you invented.

 

Looking from the top, you detested the meek,

You have aspired for an antique dream of gold,

 

A savage genius climbing up to heavens,

In the Hades of souls fighting the Cerberus,

By the force of a bow eternally tensed

Even from your own life you have exiled yourself.

 

With everything you've been, until you've stopped breathing,

Beloved you were more than good old Shakespeare...

To Keats

 

 

Conceiver of perfumed verses:

Poor Keats, romantic also in death,

Old England did not come to your wedding,

Nor did it play at your funeral.

 

You perished with a broken heart -

Now all are getting enchanted by your verses.

The genius curses his fate,

He dies for love and art.

 

The world around competes in ignorance

It does not give you the slightest importance,

And it does not care how you lived.

 

What do you care: for you have loved and you were loved.

Romantic soul, who believed in beauty,

A star you will be , luminous forever...

Infaustus

 

 

Atlantes and caryatids,

We support each other

Under the condition of the same belief

Of one in the other.

Despite the hostile adversity:

We live!

Assisi

 

 

The vivid colors of the frescoes melt and trickle

Off all the walls of the cathedral,

The blue of the lapis lazuli

Falls down in large and warm drops, splashes from the ceiling

On the heads raised to prayer,

It daubs the pale faces of the virgins,

Who came from all over the world

To celebrate life,

It flows on closed eyelids,

Under which the eyes look at the

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Bildmaterialien: public domain
Lektorat/Korrektorat: Adrian Nicula
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 30.05.2017
ISBN: 978-3-7438-1639-8

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“Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.” Novalis

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