I am twisted from a single rope,
Pulled apart into two corners.
And I live alone, beaten by a husband,
Though I was never married.
I lay my cards on odd and even.
Something may turn up, perhaps.
I no longer wander — not a damn thing
For me to roam through gateways for.
And through white cold little tubes
I take in life and poison both.
Inhalers in the jaws of nightstands
Keep their secret from me.
And at night in a cold room,
Keeping watch over a hospital rhythm,
Even if you do not remember me,
Two of me stand in two corners.
* * *
Mary Magdalene?
Helen the Beautiful!
She is always guilty
Of quarrels in the Universe.
Dashing and carefree,
Her life — a sketch of Paradise.
And anyone at all
May love her, burning up.
And strike her easily, sharply,
Under the breath, behind the knee:
She is a flirt, after all —
Helen the Beautiful!
Deceptions and curses —
All dew from God to her!
Repentance, embraces,
Farewells at the threshold.
She’ll hide herself in armor
Of Chanel and Dior,
And then it’s back to Troy
For the apple of discord.
* * *
I wrote your name
And folded the paper into three.
Unread by anyone else,
And therefore precious.
To guard the secret more surely,
I crumple the paper into a ball.
I wrap it as best I can
In a freshly laundered handkerchief.
And hide it at the bottom of my pocket,
Pinned, to keep away temptation,
Away from disbelief, from deception,
From the urge to make corrections.
I’ll hide behind a closed door
And wrap myself in a blanket.
Now I will tell no one
What name it was I wrote.
* * *
Silvery-gray olives,
A city of riddles and stones.
My friend, we are utterly unassuming;
Hardly anyone could live more modestly.
Brushes, paints, freedom in the air,
Bread and coffee, pasta and wine.
Our life, alas, is of another sort —
A feast beyond a closed window.
Buona sera — taste of heavenly manna,
A dream that can be repeated.
We are ready to paint without rest,
To marvel and to love the whole world.
At the foot of the mountains lies a road,
A house with stove, small table, bed.
I’ll lie down for a little while,
So I can manage to draw the world.
* * *
If there is no hope in the eyes,
One can step out on the ledge,
And, calmly taking off one’s clothes,
Take a step and leap down.
I’ll fly toward earth from heaven,
And from heaven down to earth.
If only I had wings, wings —
Wings would help me now!
Flowing through my fingers,
Clouds drift away.
For now I am still alive,
And for now I am flying.
Passing birds
Beat me painfully with their wings.
I cannot see a face at all;
Home is far behind.
An endless road
From heaven down to earth.
I asked too much of heaven;
They could not give me so much…
Yet while I fly, I dream —
Perhaps this is not the end,
Perhaps I’ll fly after all,
And crash into the sky at last.
A young angel, God’s own boy,
Wept a little for me.
All in vain: my dear one
Did not reach out his hand.
Only meters to the ground;
It seems they will not save me.
Maybe the wind will open
A parachute instead of wings?
Five, four, three — ever closer,
I reach the earth at last.
Fear anxiously licks my fingers.
All. I fell. They could not.
* * *
At the solar plexus
They braided themselves like plaits,
So that near the crown
They could become questions again,
Mysteries and riddles,
Unstudied truth,
Like a smooth current
Ruffled at the river bend.
As a stake in a palisade,
As grains of sand along the river.
The little sun pretended
To be invisible in the sky,
Copper cymbals,
Loud kettledrums,
Broken branches
Over an old bench.
Unmown grass
Has stems like hair.
You want it kindly,
Without raising your voice,
But at the temples: charades,
Tangled dreadlocks:
“Should we? Should we not?” —
We do not shout; we talk.
Little fingers like leaves,
With sharp small claws,
Chatter with a touch of mysticism,
A steep sailor’s syllable.
Darts and little sticks,
A ship’s rolling sway,
Riddles, counting rhymes,
Foolish, aimless.
So many days lost,
So many years spent.
I am almost certain,
I have been taken by surprise.
Thoughts — grasses, lines,
Witch or beauty?
That’s it, a dead end. Jammed.
Without you I cannot manage.
