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'THEATER'
poems by Raz Popescu
Cat with Aura Predictive of Snow
the whisper-sized cloud
enormously indefinite
pretended humming
hinge-like.
the cat shaped its eyes
into the tiniest ice,
floated bedraggled on fur halos,
a long worn winter arrival...
actors!
hourly depot of innocent lies!
exhaling flakes and
the mute somersault...
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Annunciation
Brittle black tresses of braided twigs
jutting at nodes like rusty knights
and falling limp and coal dust black over
the autumn-winter face.
charred thorns eyelashes, long,
not surprised by the external world.
the pigs are fenced,
the river logs
slamming into one another,
the mud is covered by the snow.
inside this house the night is farther
from the country's crossed electric wires than
in any other.
inside this house,
the wind knocked out of its chest,
the round faced moon wanders suspended
through corridors, the light is smoky,
the air is clear
and in its heart you are twice enveloped,
in black beam corset of splintered pine
and in velvet folds.
late in the afternoon
green alder branches stir
and visit briefly through the row of windows
two doors removed and then two more
from the two doors which if i opened
you'd look up drying the ink in its thin river.
tonight the narrow searchlight falls at your feet
from a great distance, hesitates, continues elsewhere,
chased by a streaming tail, bent by the fossil trunks.
you have been telling me with wide winged gestures
the giant guard dog sleeping outside your window
has sensed this winter
a radiant ant with trembling legs prowling the sky.
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Drumheller
Sandy light on the coastal California hills
and a river meandering to the ocean.
Floating under the willowed bank, pivoting
about his head like a pin, dead man, facing
the weaving of lines, the cavorting horses of hair,
the crackling yellow beams of the oscilloscope,
the arrival of violet clouds,
waves' lips springing surprises,
all this late mixing thread.
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Dusk
Number one
dust.
Numbers like beans on a string
5
dust in your eyes.
number...faint number.
sweaty eyes drinking
faint order. tree trunks melting
each other. black forests falling.
village is still
blue skies mingle with blue smoke
through worn doors
omelets mix number 5
atoms of day are dust
under the gate
by the road now
untraveled
green willows slender like bridges
dust looks up from under the gate
sparkles in the moonlight between a dog's legs
five numbers
together hammered in dust,
cold drafts speed in the street
as fast as night travelers.
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Home
I always wear my watch at night
closed-eye skies blue, dark and bright
grasses swaying by the road,
will each dog sleep in its own house,
or will they trade?
Loneliness
the boy stood years
across his senses
with fingers spread over the whirlpool
following murmurs flowing
for an embrace.
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***
Monday, Tuesday,
star of vacuum sparks.
Wednesday, No.
A high speed absence.
The silence archers are trembling and tensing their bows,
clouds drift in sparse flow by the eye of the moon.
Oh muse, aim well
the chance to never be seen.
Capers
moon crossing silently
the white and humid clouds
free falling rain over a broken tree
its leaves are pressed
under the heavy streams of water
entwined with water falling from sky
and waiting around
the dark matte sky
and falling and waiting
parallel lines
accepting day accepting night
branches and trunks
stopped in the current
and heavy air
holding the stagnant water
caught in the rain
caught in the night
you'd have done better
take to the moors
but for a sudden
flash of wings
guarding the entrance.
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Parting
The kindly desert is overflowing with light
There is nothing but death in every remaining pore
Of its crying retina
Dry, airy space separates the sand grains.
From above, a black ant searches these crevasses
For the footholds of its advancing, trembling leg.
The eye flutters, ready to despair in cascading tears.
The purple clouds have settled horizontally in the distance.
One headlight coming this way.
the night virgin in the tree
the scratched height of lengthwise variegated needles,
the point i looked up at, wide open eyes, two, and peripheral
help
from furious clouds arriving in silence, the one star of frozen
blue,
your retinue, wooden and knighted, disinterested in your dangling
limbs,
long silvered fingers on a medium branch, head bent forward,
eyes
pouring inky light from aquatic irises with hollow rivets held
in opalescent lace, oh armoured sigh,
i pray you will walk slowly at night among my remotest wishes
the tibia will lift the winged ankle, the long shape brand
permanence
into the tangled steel of the imagination.
the hand unfolds, the arm reaches behind the tree
the fingers rest on bark,
a knee is drawn up and clasped
and on the lowered leg a backbone of seventeen pewter
buckles release a dull reflection of the absent moon.
"what is your wish?
your wishes are forever granted in my sing song voice, a rusting
heron cry
your wishes, as you advance through the forest, will be anticipated
in reward for resting where others flee, at the root of this
dusty smile."
i never felt the long strides.
i look at the brown carpet of needles at my feet with mirth.
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Revolver
We dreamed they would establish a utopian
colony
Far in the warm South Islands
of the North Pacific.
At night,
the different skies
revolved over the tall barrel of the world
and they could see the chasing constellations
shift as the vaults of empty chambers
clicked into place.
Spring
Lucky he,
for it might be spring, or a lover
(like time in the trees
a long, long time ago,
water trickles in the morning
over the head of a dead deer,
come to drink,
now it shines.
may the mountain forest
close all around it and guard it
from all sides).
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The Stairs of Sleep
the space is braced
with black fish ribs,
black stone rosettes
lifted from windows.
a girl holding an orange
turns to me:
how high,
how low,
on which shelf makes
this orange fruit
your order quiet?
We Know Who We Are
(or Daydreaming)
Noon hours wait bowed down,
tangled and heavy branches,
One eye read,
the other waited
(we read with one and thought another).
Atoms of light zigzag through windows
the eyes align.
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Yellow Ascension
The nocturnal path to heaven is lined
with a scattering of yellow pears,
freckled, glowing shyly in starlight.
At a glance all doors open and close,
flustered, neither admitting or expelling
sorting the air
in advance
of the walking son.
dedicated to my father, Dan Popescu (1934-1997)
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The Glamour of New Orleans
New Orleans...
you are my glass cup,
with gates of handles.
My nose in your clear theater -
this Spring day chop
I'll blow up to the rim,
& rise will fall.
New Orleans...
your backstage wall
I straddle in the night,
holding curtain tips of green,
shimmery yellow, purple,
some crystals hanging just on darkness,
some crystals stolen, wrapped and crushed...
your theater is folded mud,
You beckon.
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