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CAUGHT IN THE NET 132 - POETRY BY CARMEN
FIRAN
Series Editor - Jim Bennett for The Poetry Kit -
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|
now I know that each departure is nothing more than the self-importance of not being the one who stands waiting on the platform a tree grown in the cracks of the asphalt
from; crackups by Carmen Firan |
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CONTENTS
1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY
soon eclipse differences crackups counter-season a peaceful afternoon requiem for the sinking city uncoupling heirlooms game festina lente what remains |
3 - AFTERWORD
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1 – BIOGRAPHY: Carmen Firan
Carmen Firan, a poet and fiction writer, has published twenty books including
poetry, novels, essays and short stories. Among her recent books are Rock and
Dew, Sheep Meadow Press, (selected poems, 2010),
Words and Flesh, (selected works of
prose, Talisman Publishers, 2008), The
Second Life (Columbia University Press, 2005),
The Farce (novel, Spuyten Duyvil,
2003), In the Most Beautiful Life
(poems with photographs by Virginia Joffe, Umbrage Editions, 2002), and several
collections of poetry, among them:
Afternoon With An Angel, The First
Moment After Death, and Accomplished
Error. In 2006 she edited Born in
Utopia: An Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Romanian Poetry (Talisman
House) in 2008 she co-edited the anthology
Stranger at Home. Contemporary American
Poetry with an Accent (Numina Press, Los Angeles). Firan is a member of the
Pen American Center and the Poetry Society of America, and serves on the
editorial boards of the international magazines
Lettre Internationale and
Interpoezia. Her poems appeared in
several literary magazines: Arshile,
Asheville Poetry Review, Ars Interpres, Barrow Street, The Broome Review,
Breathe, Connotation Press, Exquisite Corpse, Free Verse, Hanging Loose, Hubbub,
Interpoezia, Literary Chaos, The Light Millennium, Notre Dame Review,
Osiris, Ozone Park Literary Journal,
Paper Street, The Poetry Miscellany, Salt River Review,
Talisman, Words Without Borders,etc.
Her works are translated and featured in anthologies of poetry in France,
Germany, Italy, Poland, Israel, Sweden, Ireland, and UK.
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2 - POETRY
soon
soon
I’ll grow old
you won’t hear me
snow will cover my traces
one morning I’ll
wake up beside you
and open the
curtain
convinced that
through the window
I can see the
Himalayas from above
a cynical miracle
achieved without the least effort
lion cubs will
spring forth ravenous
tear out my heart
bolting it down
you don’t believe
in the devouring word
until sound and
soul join each other
you’ll hear only
the crunch of the poem
in their young
jaws
eclipse
everything passes,
you told me,
as when on a
high-speed train you look out the window
and the trees rush
behind you
with the mist of
each word on a winter morning
everything passes,
you said,
with the thick
soup dribbling from grandma’s chin
to the edge of a
hospital bed
with a pressed
violet in an encyclopedia
whose pages no one
will ever turn
everything passes,
the waters grows
calm
the blare of
sounds will blur—
the shadow sets
upon the body
differences
the
difference between solemnity
and a rigid
pair of shoulders
is the same
as between pretended silence
and speechlessness
the parallel lines race each other leaving no trace on the skin
they flow between heaven and earth
linking big infinity with small infinity
the
difference between loneliness and a languorous woman
recumbent on
a divan
is the same
as between imposed exile and running in circles
far enough
from home
with your
fate recast halfway
through your journey
in the
midst of others’ silence
you could die and no one would hear
crackups
in my late thirties I killed my ego
in the bathroom
I slowly twisted its neck with my own two hands
the Adam’s apple thudded to the cement floor
one by one I cut the threads
from which I drew my power
strong enough to keep me upright in a hunchback world
I knew I was mistaken to love my crackups
more than the patch of earth granted to me
now I know that each departure
is nothing more than the self-importance
of not being the one who stands
waiting on the platform
a tree grown in the cracks of the asphalt
in cold blood I watched the warm, proud, salty stream
snake down its chin
washing away the arrogance of forgiving nothing
the sweet venom of my daily solitude with an impudent body
the bread and butter of my youth
counter-season
winter is yours
the city empty and
quiet as if evacuated
it gets dark early
and stays dark
you approach me
quietly
and at each step
something disappears irrevocably
swallowed by the
earth’s hunger for mystery
summer is mine
only the echo of
packed-down snow reaches
the tremor of your
voice in an open field
white as a bed
sheet
I press my palms
over my eyes
in the end
darkness looks the same:
the tunnel that
spits you out and the one that sucks you back
I draw the
curtains over a counter-season
from which no one
has ever returned
a peaceful afternoon
the sky congealed in a cup
yolk spilling over the rim—
sunset above the hospital
in the windows white gowns wave
a surrender to night
tomorrow some will be carried out on their shields
I lean on the casement sill and listen
the boats come home empty from the sea
the fishermen disembark
a natural death of a peaceful afternoon:
youth hurtles like an avalanche in the mountains
then drifts like a summer vacation
requiem for the sinking city
it takes naiveté to believe the tales
of the old knife thrower
the blues dancer on the alligator’s back
from which he’ll fashion evening bags
and binding for books
written in the language of dream
madmen who with sound and fury besiege
the streets of the Vieux Carré
shutters from colonial houses float downriver
coffins wrapped in Mardi Gras beads
carry the last pharaohs of the food-can pyramids
the blind saxophonist sets his shoes to dry
in a voodoo-shop window
it takes naiveté to believe that this century
will ever wake up
from its bloody hangover of the senses
the world’s placenta bubbles muddy waters
death swims on her back
pulling behind her the last streetcar
uncoupling
angels are neither
bird
nor mankind
it’s useless for
us to represent
their chubby
child-like body
with pelican wings
over a bed
or in a bitter
corner of the temple
coupled words
are angels
born from the illusion of another life
impossibly perfect
heirlooms
our objects will survive us
with pride in their own faith
liberated from the soul
we lent them
ready to obey
a new master
just as on the morning after death
the light will fall the very same way
on the red-poppy quilt
your aunt’s gift
to calm our fear—
the new tenant will use it
to wrap his hunting rifle
game
death has
withdrawn in a corner
curled up in a
ball
tired of sucking
and gnawing
yet she’s just an
old crone
gently she rebukes
me:
—dearie, would you
like me to go away?
so I invite her to
stay
I try trading the
bird’s neck for my own
this way it will
be much easier
I know her gnarled
hands must cause her pain
the old woman
cackles with glee
thinking I was
scheming to fly
not die
—put back your
stony neck, please
don’t you see I’m just trying to tease?
festina lente
it is always too late
even
the philosophy of the Greeks
must be taken with a grain of salt
you can plunge sink without a trace
and your body weight
will not
raise the level of the ocean,
the weight of your soul is valued at
.0003
and this only if you die forewarned
by the eternal festina
lente
things are always much simpler:
a baby's cry, the air of
a summer night,
the books from which all that remains
is the
happiness of a few synonyms,
the regret at the end
that love gives
you everything
but time
what remains
poetry,
a rare snake,
binds hands and learns how to perform
coiling insidiously
in the service of power
but wait, don’t throw
the mantle of clouds off my shoulder
remember, in the beginning was the word,
at the end, the word distorted
eventually
there will only remain
poetry, a rare snake,
insinuating itself
into our full cup of tears
3 - Publishing History
soon
(Published
in Rock & Dew, The Sheep
Meadow Press, 2010)
differences
(Published
in Rock & Dew, The Sheep
Meadow Press, 2010)
crackups
(Published in
Notre
Dame Review)
a peaceful afternoon
(Published
in Rock & Dew, The Sheep
Meadow Press, 2010)
requiem for the sinking city
(Published in Barrow
Street Review)
game
(Published in
Hanging Loose Review)
festina lente
(Published in
Talisman Review)
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4 - Afterword
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