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VALERY OISTEANU Homage to Brancusi"s "Muse Sleeping-IV"The Muse is a lifeless form that dreams She was made out of white cube of marble An oval stone with shadow underneath The weight of stone holds her in place She is almost an indestructible egg Suddenly she opens her eyes and smiles Poets are inspired by the curvature of her brow The nakedness of her lips inspires artists Women measure their beauty by her Slipping through time, holding the time The white is whiter when dreaming in the dark She is the sculpture for the blind Touch her muse is sleeping, Caress her, stroke her, and kiss her She is a limestone-Kiss, A song of a giant wood rooster A fragment of an unfinished torso sheds a white tear A young bird with veined skin takes flight, A flight shiny as gold, movement shiny as stillness An abstract head of a woman dancing A newborn"s shout of pain A Miracle in the middle of the rotunda: a white seal At the Guggenheim "Princess" looks like an erected cock Man in a wheelchair rolls forward and backward in disbelief She is the beginning and the end of the world She is the polished stone embracing unpolished stone She is Prometheus, a sleeping child, and a flying turtle The Creator all covered in white powder Recreates the world according to his dreams Brancusi ascends to the heavens on his Infinite Ladder. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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LINDA NEMEC FOSTER with Ewa Lewak, tr Moj DomMoj dom to nie jest dom mojej babci. On jest duzy z wysokimi oknami i z bialymi scianami. Pokoj mojej corki ma kolor poranku. Pokoj mojego syna ma kolor nocy. Nie, to nie jest dom mojej babci. Moj dom nie ma zapachu ziemi, czy tez zielonosci polnego kwiatka, czy tez delikatnosci mgly gorskiej. Moj dom moze jedynie marzyc o tym. Translated by Linda Nemec Foster and Ewa Lewak Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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LINDA NEMEC FOSTER My HouseMy house is not the house of my grandmother. It is large with high ceilings and white walls. The room of my daughter is filled with the colors of dawn. The room of my son is filled with the colors of dusk. No, it is not the house of my grandmother. My house does not have the scent of earth, the green of wildflowers, the thin mist of the mountains. My house can only imagine these things. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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