A keresés eredménye

Twelve Cat Haikus

***
 
At midnight, the cat,
sits in front of the window –
what is he thinking?
 
***
 
My dictionary
is checked out. It serves
as the cat's pillow.
 
***
 
The cat, all dusty,
and covered in spider webs, is
back from the cellar.
 
***
 
Cat fur,
in turns both dull and lustrous,
sunny and cloudy.
 
***
 
He doesn't hear me.
The cat is much too focused
on the ladybug.
 
***
 
Between thin branches
of a thuja, a cat's eyes
considered me.
 
***
 
Passing through a dream
of a cherry tree in bloom,
a white cat walks by.
 
***
 
It is the third night
that the cat has not come home:
a lump in my throat.
 
***
 
The cat returns,
nonchalant, from a walk,
escorted by fleas.
 
***
 
My many neighbors
applaud at their windows
for the cat's return.
 
***
 
He meditates on
the impermanence of things,
this full-bellied cat.
 
***
 
Truly, he deserves
none of my haikus –
the cat shreds them all.
 

In Praise of The Catnap

Versions: #1
Today I want to sing the praise of the catnap,
voluptuous shelter of languid afternoons
amidst blurred features, as in the darkened room
the words get lost and fade and hands slide off the lap.
 
Behind the shutters sit idle vale and prairies
as slowly the body between the sheets goes numb
and on the soft pillow splashes the dozing scum
of otherworldly waves, in divine harmonies1.
 
Full of bliss, eyelids shut, one gives in to slumber
airily overflying regions filled with wonder
still nonchalantly brushed by some wisps of senses.
 
A bronze bell, however, tolls to keep me abreast2
striking from far yonder as evening commences
heralding the coming of a good night of rest.
 

• 1. Wesh comment tu m'as trop embrouillé la tête, là
  Avec tes anapestes, nan mais j'hallucine, quoi ! :D
• 2. 'tenir au courant', mais je ne suis pas sûr que ça marche

I am not killed my love

Versions: #1
There is no sleep for us, my tired soul
Because of the destiny that is flowing through our veins
Our destiny is a deep river
Great and wide, and without a shore
 
I am not killed, my love
I am not killed by a red wine
I am killed by your unfaithful love
Unfaithful, damned you
 
This life can not be called a life anymore
Why should I hide it, when it is the truth
I can not live without you
And I can not offer much, it's over
 

Oh Bummer!

Hail thee, dear old country of jubilant culture
where merry Gaul fellows used to dwell and prosper!
Hobbling their way past rows of sadly closed storefronts
nothing but crazed zombies are now roaming the streets.
 
A virus, swooping down on us from distant lands
came to spread fright and gloom in our every home.
The death toll is not high, but still its deathly breath
puts blue and white collars in an equal dismay.
 
Don't raise your hopes yet, friends, the worst is yet to come,
as painful as might be this regretful announce.
The stock exchange gives in, 'tis no laughing matter,
the jaws of the abyss are poised to engulf us.
 
Farewell, proud fellows, farewell, slender nymphs!
Our life was not as bad as we used to see it.
It's over. Here we sit, cloistered in our homes
running out of pasta, of rice and of bog rolls.
 

Twelve Autumn Haikus

***
 
Poplar trees at dawn,
rich dark green furs as the wind
tells of September
 
***
 
Bursting into gold
in the vale, a lone tree crown
pointed out by light1
 
***
 
Unbearable blue
of plums scattered asunder
on the still green grass
 
***
 
Shadows grown longer
A chord rings on the keyboard
Echoes from the past
 
***
 
Low October beams
made some leaves lose their bearings
drifting off their trees
 
***
 
An apple bobs there
where used to slumber last year
an ancient goldfish
 
***
 
An autumn garden
roamed by a mendicant wind.
Each tree gives its alms.2
 
***
 
A damp rain patters
over train tracks and treetops
as memories flee
 
***
 
Such a wild North wind!
Yellowed letters exchanged by
two departed souls3
 
***
 
End of the journey.
Above the border, the cries
of circling jackdaws4
 
***
 
Is the colour of
leaves being digested by earth
truly a colour?
 
***
 
Traveller, you now
step into the realm of fog
and appearances
 

• 1. '[is it being] touched by a finger?'
• 2. I really like this one!
• 3. 'bunches of yellowed letters / from a dead to a[nother] dead'
• 4. technically, mere crows :)

passing through

a so narrow and winding road
foliage barely rustles
a grass snake, you slide into it
without the slightest trace
 
at the still water threshold,
no more path, no more land
the last imprint of your naked foot
liquefies and fades
 
an unsigned silence page being
forgotten by the unhurried landscape
time stretches and dilates
you never went through here