Rodica Draghincescu

 

(France)

 

The Art of Saying « Come! »

 

I photograph

my eyes,

my belly,

my thigh,

my tongue,

then I stick together the pieces:

mine, yours, mine, yours,

a sandwich with which I feed my good will

I lick my hands

I lay them in wait:

comecomecomecome, like a flytrap, comecome

I will give you your education on not dying weary, I will stick you to me

until you become a huge lit cigar

Then you will smoke yourself,

you will taste your truth, your lie, your fear

and turning towards Hell,

you will evolve silently,

like the rifle on the back

of an elite soldier

Am I naked? Look. Listen.

I photograph

your fingers,

your neck,

your belly,

your tongue,

Am I naked? Look. Listen.

I photograph

your eyes,

your belly,

your hands,

your mouth,

undress yourself, humble beast!

don’t be afraid!

(the ants only eat men

in spice bread)

say your prayer, humble wildcat,

before sharing yourself in photos!

Am I naked? Look. Listen.

I combine the parts (the life photos)

mine with yours, yours with mine,

an erotic to-and-fro

around which the queen of ants gets worked up

don’t be afraid!

neither night nor day,

will dare touch us!

To taste this photoposition,

you have to shoot time a little!

Take photos of each other,

make war in mauve paper

with the seconds, minutes, hours of torment!

I made you / you made me dive into your body,

mine, you, you made me / I made you dive into my body, yours,

Am I naked? Look. Listen.

I photograph

your mouth,

your neck,

your hands,

your tongue,

 

undress yourself, humble beast!

don’t be afraid!

(the ants only eat men

in spice bread)

say your prayer, humble wildcat,

before sharing yourself in photos!

Am I naked? Look. Listen.

I combine the parts (the life photos)

mine with yours, yours with mine,

an erotic to-and-fro

around which the queen of ants gets worked up

Don’t be afraid!

I belong to you, you belong to me,

even in the galleries of the queen!

 

 

Dorothea Fleiss

 

 

 

rOSE

 

 

« Are you the flower named Rose, greenery embellished by God, the plant with rapturous thorns and bewitching fragrances? » a lost young man asks (himself) (at) nightfall, Poem in the street of December.

 

« Is it you, Flower or? » he whispers in the ear of that wilted name, pitched into a refuse bin in the street. « You’re lucky, flower, » he continues, « the Greens in the government are fighting for you, they put you in their lavish lapels, they defend the consumer society and floral and vegetable remains, they love you, Rose, as they love themselves, they are happy. »

 

The Rose does not answer. She drops a petal on the snowy sidewalk.

 

« Are you the real rose or perhaps a new plant of incandescent plastic? »

 

The rose does not answer. She loses a second petal on the sidewalk strewn with white pebbles.

 

« Do you have deadly thorns, Flower? Are you poisoning my heart? »

 

Rose doesn’t answer. She sends a yellow leaf on the trail of the grumpy young poem.

 

« May I touch you, Rose? »

 

The rose does not react.

 

« Flower, are you dead or am I too alone and too shivery not to see your light? Are you in this image or that image? »

 

The flower is silent. Poem dares to look her straight in the eye. His breathing gives the winter chills. Rose does not dare to speak about the dying of her life. Her name trembles under the wind so cruel tonight with her. Frail, her petals say nothing, only leave each other.

 

« Rose, don’t leave me, flower! Flower, are you dead or am I too alone not to feel your breath, not to see your outline? »

 

Rose has her own reality. She is silent.

 

« Flower, who do you belong to? And for how long rosy? You’re lucky, the rats and roaches brothers and sisters have not eaten you. Rose, you are a fighter. Rose, you are a rosy armed soul,  Flower. Follow your future, Rose, I will call you Poemy, flower. You are my rosy companion though it is winter, Flower. Flower, do you want to marry me, Rose? You are the near past, Flower, you are the rose of summer, you are so pretty, Rose.

 

« Poemy, was I myself a rose flower? »

 

The flower lays a delicate petal in the beggar’s hair. Nothing tells him to speak. She says nothing to him.

 

« Say yes, say no, Poemy, speak to me, say something! Enrose me, Rose.

 

She dies on him, on the Poem himself. Falls on his knees. And turns revolutionary, very mad and very

Other.

 

 

Amnéville, September 12-13, 2009

 

 

 

KILLME

(Attempts at substance)

I remember the waves in my room:

……………………………………………………..

from an object in the hand of a little girl

rolling around herself:

my eyes open in my closed eyes

face inside another face

tears lit complicated candles

a series of birthdays in the little mirror

………………………………………………

The room rolled around itself

My faces around the room sang:

…………………………Where are you going snowing fire

Snow your god lazybones

Snow me snow it 

 

…………………You and me where are you?

Let’s savage the good Lord

 

 

Every birthday scared me

The people who ate my cakes scared me

Flash! They all wanted to shut me up in photos

 

Goodnight! I blew on the candles and I made dark

The dark lit me up like a beacon:

 

…………………You and me where are you?

Let’s savage the guests

 

 

At my place:

a blonde doll

sitting at the table.

Long live phosphorescence! 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Famished they cry

 

I had hidden everywhere in the dark

Talking dolls: She’s not there now!

She’s not there anymore! Long live urgency!  Long live (…)!

They were out of batteries

 

 

MaadamSir number 1, SirMadam number 2,

Lela number 3, Lela 4, go, come all

 

SERVE YOURSELF!^°°°°°°°°°°^^^°°°°°°°°°°^^^^^^^°°°°°°°°°°°

 

//////////////__________________–––––––––––––______

 

I’m no longer 6, or 10, or 18, or 20, or 29

I am a whip

EASY IN THE SOMETIMES OF THE LIGHT!

 

MaadamSir number 1, SirMadam number 2,

Lela number 3, Lela 4, go, come all

 

I continued to change the adults sitting at the table:

 

 

Stuttgart-Amnéville, Mars 2007

 

 

 

Dorothea Fleiss

 

 

 

Perrault’s Fairy Tale

 

 

Motto: « Don’t be afraid of happiness. It doesn’t exist. »
Michel Houellebecq

 

 

My image bites into all summaries, all eternity.

 

I couldn’t show you that image, it’s no longer there, it is searching for someone in the prime of life.

 

Struck down by its own blackness, Image died last night. I couldn’t imitate its death, it’s instantaneous, it changes times, pink and equal, the sides of its square praise a girl praying knees in the air at the age of seven. How can I show you the girl? Flesh of internal words, she moves from mauve to black, from crocuses to lilies of the valley.

 

I am her white shirt, where she no longer lives, but with which she plays in the sand. Sinking in to the tip of her nose, she contributes to the composition of boreal concrete, speaking rock, between shirt and sand, making the buttons ripple: number 1, linked to negligent thought, number 2, to sentimental rustling, number 3, to the omniscient mouth, 4, tender caressing truth, glancing over the entire approaching body.

 

The shirt girl. And I, the jungle of buttons.

 

To show you that death? Day after day, its sounds grow in strength, and amplitude.

 

I happy sorrows and sorrow happinesses, unless the Devil jumps me.

 

How can I show you the « he jumps me »? That breath of, that angel huddling against my lips.

 

Ideal black, slightly outside white, the Devil doesn’t know how to knock or stroke, hence discord of real-unreal, like the clock in a discothèque.

 

That reality died yesterday morning. It was my last witness. Its image lays a chick in the hurricane eyes where tears formed a Red Ice Age.

 

 

If I had to choose another death to return to the world, I would like to strangle myself with a Perrault story.

 

P.S. Otherwise, for the last 3 years, I have been a magically frozen red frog…

 

 

Stuttgart, October 24, 2004

 

 

 

The elevator of images

(dialogue between two belovers)

 

 

 

                               Motto: « Do you see that huge moon? »

                                                                    (…)

Ask questions of this world, borne itself of a question, know in advance that any answer is only another question, question by questioning the question, and that the question answers you through an echo of syllables;  justify the direction of the wait through the receiver device for luck.
But no,

The ray that takes the place of sight

is not only the cigarette that you smoke.

 

 

Poor blind, beautiful and deaf,

suffering loses of catastrophic nuances,

the sun does not wake up and got to bed in the same minute,

perception is only will more than anything, will after all.

 

And the sky? Why does it vibrate? 

 

You climbed onto god without having seen him,

and you sob like a church bell under the moon.

 

 

Listen, god does not wake up and go to bed in the same minute,

perception is only a worry sewing machine.

 

And god? Why does he tremble? 

 

Listen, you cannot be charged now,

blind, deaf, numbed in that silence,

a black star on the mouth, we’ll do it later.

 

 

Go away, your sky is below,

where in mud a thousand stars ripple,

lynx-eyed thistle petals.

 

 

« And the beard of the downy god?

Why does it trip me up

if I look for you? »

 

 

The beard of downy god

where time dances, dances:

first born, first death, second born, second dead,

is only a ritual of the trance.

Go away, my sky is too high

and if you climb up there you will fall the opposite way,

floating like a trial balloon.

 

« And the poppies? I picked them for you! »

 

Good, okay, I’ll wait for you on the blade of a saw:

 

they’ll defile your white eyes,

like two hypocritical myriapods,

putting on airs before boring into the apple.

 

« And you who I find filter on the world?

Why do you have fine sand in your words?

Do you take me for an hourglass? »

Pssstttt, god is not in good shape today,

he lost his white tailcoat in the marshes…

pssstttt, or else he’ll make you tell the truth

and so what…?

 

« And does the sun queue up at the moon? Why would it take the chance? »

 

 

psssssstttt, blind child, lost by the blind,

deaf child, lost by other deaf people,

psssssstttyou, first born of absence,

I will shoot nails at you in the water

(pssssttttt, in my sky the water is reversed,

only sounds: u, a, e

u ultimate, a abandonment, e egoism or elimination),

pssssttt, I will push you sensually toward the edge of the margin,

not torment you for so little

Like the tongue of the bell

penetrating my mouth

against my sandy mouth

you will collide pleasantly

behind-in front, behind-in front,

you will stretch out in my ears

as if in an optimistic sanctuary,

you will fall into my flesh

you will crawl in a straight line,

you will gratify my heart,

hanging on the air it gives off

you will speak on forgetting:

 

Being this world itself and have no one inside. Answer yourself by bouncing by the question, let yourself be carried away by this phenomenon that vibrate constantly and of which you know neither the why or the direction! And in this direction from nowhere to elsewhere, in a straight line or in a wide curve, have the revelation that sounds do not constitute truth, but rather those codes of languages or those electro-acoustic roads, from the lack of language logic.

 

Stuttgart (Germany), July 10, 2004

 

 

 

 Dorothea Fleiss

 

 

 

The Angel Doesn’t Come Anymore

 

As

As if

As if not

As if since

As if always

As the as it showed

How a disoriented world

Started to commit timid, tangible crimes

And horrible crimes, as it should be.

 

As if the only goal was a shared and savage rutting:

Homicide, rape, abortion, abandonment, looting, cloning,

Agreeable interchangeable shouting,

As if death was

Only a not too bad, thank you!

And since the dawn of time,

Time sees dark

And space doesn’t even see

As if the other dimensions were

Only the hubbub of a frugal, clinking and fractal grey:

Arrows, spirals, resounding, soiled squares

Grieving for wars and the birthings of mothers

Half-way from us all,

A stone grey, in salty bitter drops,

better and better, worse and worse, a stone cry.

A grey cry from ourselves, between lie and dream.

 

The walrus grey of hunger. The mauve grey of failures. The black grey of crowns and crests. The pink grey of gulfs and incests. Purging grey. Urging grey. The red grey of crimes and victims. Vengeance grey, sentence grey. Absence grey. Lead grey. Dead grey.  Innocent, ascetic grey.  Astral grey. Arctic, cerebral, grey of an angel who loves us no more, of an angel who lifts us no more, who comes no more.

 

The art of death is disappointed angel grey:

The weak weeper

Lips sealed

Speaks shrinking smaller.

 

I’m hungry,

I am the have of the one who is no more

I am the bearer of nothing

I can no more

I am the not desired

I give up the ghost

I inaugurate the end

I take the instant

And I close and I enclose with:

 

Far-off, wild lands.

I decline, I pray, I cry,

I polish the image

I am no longer absolved.

Blacker and blacker:

Black at the far end of black.

I crime in the absolute

I stoop, I soften, I bend,

I lower myself

 

The art of crime is a disjointed art:

Imperialism, industrialism, nationalism,

Extremism, Nazism, chauvinism, 

Xenophobia, megalomania, scarcity

Mob exploding the art of the cry.

Crimes, complicated cries,

Incriminated differently.

 

As if the present was merely a straitjacket

As always the how gleamed the flaw of the moment

From the how of the beginning believing itself end and leading nowhere,

And how the end believed itself beginning and inaugurated from the heavens the world of God

Through a snake eye.

 

 

P.S.: Police science argues about the how of pain and the painful, from one generation to the next, from one heaven to the next.

 

 

Amnéville, June 1, 2008

 

 

 

Dorothea Fleiss

 

 

 

Pan Flute

 

 

The miracles of thoughts think not

The miracles thought reject the thinker

On the surface of the tongue

Where God speaks mutely

Like Spinoza’s intuition

Like Bergson’s eyes

Miracles mini films

 

It’s raining

 

I write of weeping and dissociate docilely

Shots of the rain.

Face-to-face with the liquid spirit

And its grammar submerged

I weep for the simplicity of an alibi

 

Solely authorized the complaint recognizes

The following order:

 

    1. to be the one I am not
    2. I write
    3. to not be the one I am
    4. I do not write; I situate myself in the continuum of confusion
    5. ^^^^^^^^^^–––––………^^^^^^^^/           /…….––––––––––––
    6. ––––––                /…–––––––^^^^^^°°°°°°°^^
    7. confession is a positive force, renders positive the distinct tears
    8. I do not fall in line with the noises of lasting
    9. to escape from myself and the elements that haunt me
    10. mouth full of other mouths
    11. matter and consciousness mingle
    12. I spew out my happiness
    13. to get rid of my others
    14. between silence and noise the inexpressible expresses the rest

15. I am only a talking hand that takes care of this deaf-mute side
16. hand in hand, between hands, vouched for, my thoughts manipulate the miracles

 

Before and after there is meaning

Which is less a thing pushing into the void

Than a Bergsonian movement

 

And now Bergson has no right to think

 

 

Stuttgart, April 5, 2004

 

 

 

EX(o)ilium

What did I put

In my suitcase starting out?

Old scars and clever tricks,

Social misery and emotional demons,

Vices and fairy tales

 

Source language

With words on the other side of the word:

Muted, bruised and damned,

Itinerary words.

 

What did I keep

In my suitcase arriving?

The coloured batiks of my mother,

The dor for seedy places,

A fleeting proverb

The fever of tested illnesses,

Mud pies, dusted with clay,

My first toys of wood and wool,

The sparse rains, the winds and frosts of the pousta,

The woodcocks and storks brooding rebel roofs.

The drums and fires in the streets at Christmas

 

Target language

With its mirror words:

Avoir ou être, naître ou mourir,

Être ou avoir, mourir ou naître,

No time to win,

No time to lose.

 

The tongue is no more

The heart organ in this case

Instead the organ of knowledge

And of power.

 

Where are you birthplace

When you become un-quietude

A place in a postcard

With no future, never mailed

Trace stored deep in the eyes,

Trace banished in the space of writing

 

Homelandless, stunted, hidden, isolated,

Alone with the world, beat on and bet on,

Unreal traces of your own reality,

Tainted traces in your own ownership,

In a state of inferiority or superiority,

Of opacity or heroic transparency

 

Source language

With words from the other side of the word:

Muted, wounded, damned,

Itinerary words, earth words.

 

Where am I, I among all these countries

Always at the window, at the border,

Always on the margin and on the march,

Always solemn,

Too tall or too short,

Pretentious or pretending,

Like a cognitive fly

 

Target language

With its mirror words:

Avoir ou être, naître ou mourir,

Être ou avoir, mourir ou naître,

No time to win,

No time to lose.

 

Where are you birthplace?

When you become only clairvoyance

Drawing, a line to please and move

Hollow place in the frightened hand,

Passing landscape, scrapes of image

Empty or full of comical mud

On top of which the painter pasted

His frescoes of a young artist:

 

Drawings, lines to please and move

One die, one horsy, one nanny and

Missed appointments.

 

Source language

With words from the other side of the word:

Muted, wounded, damned,

Earth words, itinerary words.

 

Where are you exposed place?

With your reveller atheist god

Rootless and ill humoured,

Who danced the circle dance of oblivion

Its wings too human, too off-beat,

Outlining indulgences from cloud to cloud

 

Avoir ou être, naître ou mourir,

Être ou avoir, mourir ou naître,

 

Where are you my games of forgetting and shifts in meaning

With your three-coloured, bug-eyed Bolsheviks?

Your silences and your guilty tears

Your red melancholy, running out of syllables,

That they were afraid of from memory to memory.

 

Your kindness as apostles of the neam,*

Your life-long, acid insomnia

 

Where are you all those who

I heard knocking on the doors of my childhood?

Like an ode, like an anthem,

Like a drinking song:

Avoir ou être, naître ou mourir,

Être ou avoir, mourir ou naître,
……………………………………
 

Note: dor (Romanian) – nostalgia; neam (Romanian) – people; pusta (Romanian) – plain

 

 

 

Text with crank and butterflies

I committed suicide before birth

Every component part of my body

Had a crank of butterflies

That I turned

To change the colours of blood

Into something like a forbidden creamy white

COME HERE I’LL KISS YOU

I said to myself as I hid in the mirror

 

And the butterflies changed into fingernails

Of all sizes

(Big, confident fingernails and little fingernails

Loving spirals cut in star shapes)

YES: I WAS NOT

It was a heap

And they named my fingernail joy

With the idea of mama (cut the « m » cut the last « a »)

 

When I turned 18 toured 18

I wrote my poetry with my fingernails

(No one could imitate me

They realized it and it made them scream)

 

I did my utmost in writing

On the walls of maternity

Every component part of my body

Was foreseen with fingernails

They went across everything

 

COME HERE I’LL KISS YOU

Screamed at me the mirror people

(They transformed equally above them

In great birth movements)

 

When I turned 30 toured 30

I wrote my poetry with the facts

(No one could imitate me

They intellectualized in vain,

wiping their heads with the edge of a blade)

 

I committed suicide so beautifully and so well

With every part of my body

Tasted like a mellow bee honey

(Exhausting sweetness accustomed to saying so badly

what touches on perfection)

 

MAKE PEACE WITH YOURSELF

They said to me one by one in the mirror

The man and the god with baby feet

(The same colours poisoned

that you drink when the dusk comes)

 

WHY DON’T YOU WANT ME

 

I wanted nothing from myself but a fleeting instant

(Faultless is the instant faultless the dying being)

Announcements on all the beds

On all the doors

 

I plunged into writing

From the angle of orgasm

Between the world and its shadow

 

Each part constituting sin

Made a splendid detonation resound in the manuscript

(The bones of the letters as they say)

 

In answer to the poem in its embryonic title

From the last floor of semantics

jumped onto the paper the initials the interjections the arguments

by all the emperfumed who were lying in wait for me

Resuscitate

 

Every component part of my body (in chorus):

MAY SHE COME MAY SHE BE

Every component part of my body

Had foreseen with me

I crossed everything

In order to obtain my woman certificate

I gave birth to a man to provide an example

I was the aura of the die of chance

A kind of letter date of luminous fact

Extravagant shape

Shipped before she gave birth to a whole body

 

YES: I WAS ONLY A

Stuffed birth

Opening on a future of mud and mist

(The bearing of the head, the elevation to the rang of wife

Subtle offerings, foreseen seeds

Through the myth of custom)

 

I was far from distant,

I crossed the nothing at all,

The full of absence

(The gallop sweat marked off

the lands of white oceans,

the tall reeds of silence)

 

No one could imitate me

They looked at what they didn’t see,

They listened to what they didn’t hear

From time to time they jumped out the window of fire

In hope of setting me ablaze

With pleasure they wipe their heads with the

Edge of a blade

 

At age 108 toured 108

I committed suicide before taking my place

Each part of my double

(me + Me + mE + ME)

turning over a new leaf (mirror after mirror)

through the eroticism of a sage

 

MAKE PEACE WITH HIM

the woman and the saint with green lips said to me

GET DOWN OFF YOUR HORSE,

SHOW YOUR WARM SNOW BODY

 

Exhausting sweetness accustomed to saying so badly

which touches on perfection

 

My name — I loved it in the beginning

I dug down into me by shovel-fulls to free it

And in the bottom of the abyss I placed a poem

 

Each part of my abyss

Manoeuvring with disgust for the self

I breathed in out turned

the mirrors the shadows

I battered my fingernails my teeth

On the butterfly crank

I existed as the father of nothing

Like a flight of the gaze

Like the mother from nowhere

 

I suffered and gave myself permission to cry

between the bee honey and the poison of the self

(No one could imitate me

They all swam but didn’t know that

in books water

is not liquid)

Exhausting nastiness accustomed to saying so well

what is brewing in the hourglasses the paper

 

MY LOVE IS HIM

 

Every part of my love

has the luck of not being without us.

We two days together

were / are crossing everything

Born one for the other

we will be an example

Let us play our role in Waldorf pedagogy

 

We two always alone,

born one in the other, one against the other

For the length of a poem

 

This love with myself through him

(Leave stains

that carry his name)

 

His name — I loved it in the beginning

And I asked that he be stuffed with me

 

COME HERE I’LL KISS YOU

he whispers to me before and after

tired, dead with longing,

alone and together,

no one could imitate us

no one could judge us

 

tired, dead with longing,

alone and together

 

Timişoara, June 20, 1999

 

 

 

 

 

 

TRANS POETAM

 
Motto: But what is beyond the poet is there something?

 
The poet lives, suspended between the loves he never had. He knows not how to love. Between yesterday and today, hanging, he knows all the places of emptiness. Triple-edged in the darkness of names, like a rocket full of bees, his 3rd eye leads him to the flowerings of the past. To stay in the air, he uses his fingers as a single wing, following the caress of scent to which his troubles will be given.

The poet walks on his hands and feeds on the abyss of his feet. He cuts himself on the angel tongue. In his mouth, bloodied names pile up for the following flight. Like any emotional maturation, it incorporates the nakedness goddesses are finished in the night. De-corporealized, he is reborn of the ball that can no longer hide him.

What the poet says is already tattooed on the wrists of our hands, like hunger on the necks of wolves in winter.

 

 

 

Step

 
Each step is an infinite field of steps
An embryonic beam of steps
A hem or howl of steps
Step mills too red with steps
Land of doubts that fear their steps

 

 

© Rodica Draghincescu and Howard Scott (Translator)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_________________________________

 

RODICA DRAGHINCESCU             

 

(romanian – french writer, born in Romania )

 

has written poetry, novels, and essays.

 

She has five books of original poetry published in Romania, five books in French (novel, poetry- published in France and Canada), and four  translated into German, published in Germany.

 

Among her books of poetry written in Romanian and French are Everybody Has Some Photos Under His Bed That He’s Ashamed of (1996), A Sharp Double-Edged Luxury Object (1997 – the poems here came from this book, which I have translated), Gâteau de terre (1999), I-genia (2000), and Fauve en liberté (2003), and the novels, The Distance Between a Clothed Man and a Woman such as She (1996) and Vagabond (1999).

 

She is currently pursuing a doctorate at the Paul Verlaine University in Metz, France.

 

So far, her poems have appeared here in Watchword, Jubilat, Fence, River City, The Drunken Boat, Ezra, Respiro  and Puerto del Sol.

 

In 2006 she was awarded the International Prize for Poetry “Le Lien” in Metz, France.

 

Homepage: www.draghincescu.com

 

 

_________________________________

ARTIST: Prof. Dorothea Fleiss,

Book artist – painting – installation – video Stuttgart, Germany

www.dorothea-fleiss.com

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