From the Last Week of September (2011, Ab Publishing House)
How, in my view, poems are born?
How let’s say
Verse banal is born? —
You swim in an ocean of words
You catch a few
And get out
Let them dry
Now
How are the other poems born?
The genuine ones?
You live in the ocean
You sleep there
Eat
Ah, what happened? I got lost
What am I having in my hands?
Oh, clams…
OK, clams I can accept
An Attempt to Escape
This is the end of silence
The words opened their floodgates
And there is no stop
They had been tied for decades in a corner
I don’t even know
in which one
I only knew
They were missing
And now, oh dear
No one can stop
This avalanche
Of words
Speeding
Eager
What I want to say?
This is a secret
Now I am hiding myself
In a leaf—
A small piece of paper
which contains me entirely
***
Over the years
My poems became
Even easier to be grasped
What went wrong with me
My Lord?
How Does It Feel to Be 44, Mom?
The world is so beautiful
Being 44, An-Marie
You dream about roads and love
As it used to be
About silence
And noise, eventually
You had seen me crying?
Well, I am genuine, my dear
And the pain talks to me
Like one speaks to one’s peer
Is That Me That Is Not Aware?
Is That Me Who Is Not Aware?
Is that me who is not aware
What a powerful thing is the word?
Me?
Who is giving examples
For words dangerously said and written
Me?
Who got early the message
That some doors crack open precisely
With
“Sesame, open thyself!”
Otherwise, the road to escape
May abruptly disappear
Why then
I wrote so many poems
Half of them already happened
The other are
Waiting for the opportunity
To turn real
My world
I am not giving away
My world
For anything in the world
Because it is mine
And because it is a world
September 29, 2007
Translated by Daniela Nyberg (2012)
