Four poems by Adrian Suciu

29 August 2019
Author :  

 ADRIAN SUCIU

A cultural tramp, a vagabond in spirit, a literary hooligan. So amazed to have a biography that he forgot it. He has written too many things for somebody who dreams to write the silence. Hadn’t he published books and hadn’t he received diplomas, a bunch of trees would be still alive. Member of the Ash Collectors’ Association and of the Union of the Music Composers for the Deaf. Hopelessly in love with Poetry, which he has never touched and he has never cheated on, neither with women nor with wine. 

 

 

THE GIFTS WE SHOULD NOT GIVE TO WOMEN

A woman can build a house with a single
brick. That’s why we don’t give bricks to women:
the construction industry would go bankrupt.

A woman can create a country with happy people
on a thread of sand. That’s why we don’t give
threads of sand to women: there would not be 
enough kings to rule all the countries.

A woman can rewrite God with a pen.
That’s why we don't give pens to women:
everything we know would be upside down. 
The body would go to the sky
and the soul in the ground, where it would be happy
like a butchery knife that has mercy.

 

 

LONELY THINGS (translated by NICOLETA CRĂETE)

You can’t but come from a beautiful town,
from a street between two oblivions.

There one can hear endless shadow factories
packing lonely things. We talk about them
as if sowing sand in the desert. 
Us, the most fulfilled widow and 
the merriest orphan.
We talk to silences in houses without paths,
when the sun won’t come out 
and the moon goes on waiting.
The sky is darkening with words and 
the blood riverbed is draining.

And your hands are so clean
that you can wash water with them…

 

THE RAGS DOLL (translated by NICOLETA CRĂETE)

 

Nobody is good at love and death. Proof being that

man’s illusions about love are identical to man’s illusions

about death.

We have been combing the rags doll for a lifetime and we expect it to say: mother!

What you say is to be understood by you alone, in your good days. Or not.

But following your loves and your deaths

deserted cats and bricks remain who would long to be windows.

Only your prompter calling lasts within the cemetery of the unknown heroes.

Bring your rags doll with you outside, just tell her mother!

 

PHOTOGHAPHS OF THE END OF THE WORLD (translated by NICOLETA CRĂETE)

 

Nothing is born in the flesh,

even if the wonky eyes see differently. The one who

weeps will rejoice at his weeping

and will become a tamer of birds. Whereas the one who

laughs will take no advantage of his laughter, for nothing

is born out of joy, even if the little ones

are chasing it all day!

 

Nothing moves in the flesh. Neither the blind worm

moves in the flesh, even if the wonky eyes

see differently.

 

We are not in the flesh. If we were in the flesh,

our love for God would waste us like a merry

brushwood fire and nothing would be left

and our love for God would wander by herself in the streets

like a consuming thirst looking for someone!

 

Nor the end of the world comes in the flesh, even if

the wonky eyes see garbage men emptying

dumpsters full of dust-smelling daffodils

in the street. Many are not aware of that, but

the end of the world has already been a few times.

 

I have several photographs of it.

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