Laurentiu Ion lives in Târgovişte, Romania. His poems have appeared in Instigatorzine, Istanbul Literary Review, Pif Magazine and elsewhere. In 2010 he published his first poetry collection entitled Destulă pace pentru un război (Enough peace for a war, Humanitas Publishing House), winner of Unicredit Literary Debut Competition.
______dozens of insects
______glowing and small
______keep crashing on my window
______pebbles are rolling on the roof
______a little of that epic state and
______enough peace for a war
______for me and
______come press my finger with yours and
______before having triggered
______an entire library
______just by lowering the angle of a book,
______a beautiful form had been tossing like a tumor
______and not long ago, until I believed that the butts
______could even move under
______the carpet, my own voice had provoked
______bruises on the throat
______I catch unawares: the kodak dissipation on which
______I corporalize terror, photographs I delete;
______and what comes rapidly in my mind is the purplish of
______those august meteorites
______to later on allow myself some kind of gust
______like in Das Boot
______and keep on ever after
through the light there floats a satellite that
spins some dots—
They glow fixedly then fall hot.
When they push each other, other lots
come to the surface, as if rubbing two slices
of bread and then crumbs would fall.
black pixels multiply in the light
like some bacteria.
They move intensely—every freeze-frame
starts tossing. A fish full of sand
and granules jump in all directions.
When I least expect it, I get out of bed.
a moment long in coming.
I take half of a lemon and squeeze it. First,
the glass is steaming, then drops start flowing
on the edge. The hair on the hand is moving,
spreading the light. An unusual transport
of ions to certain cells, in a slow process,
as if following a disaster of tastes.
The last drop remains on the table. I could have
bitten from the cold peel.
—Only to leave the lemon
dry until the morning.
The drum in my chest is holding its breath—
po’ boy sits
under the vineyard and smokes;
the wind catches some tufts of leaves and
twists them back-and-forth.
It hangs the smoke and writhes it, only to
sweep on afterwards from tree to tree
—this means that the lukewarm air seizes
the bark and, moreover, the people may rejoice.
I shove my hand then push:
from its light, the flash pulls
a flock of birds and a glance; I startle along with the fulguration
around— I can manage and I silently enjoy.
In fact I am waiting for a music to
stop on, to take pictures. Then is the moment!
pebbles rolling and hovering about some hollows
under my feet— rustlings of all kinds
there would be one and then another
enough to trouble themselves
—and I don’t get to transmit life to the device -
this thing has nothing to do with what was
before; it’s totally different not to press
and then leave it click
po’ boy knew what is going on —
“press the button!”,
it’s good to never know what you’re catching.
With my finger I deliver life—
the rumour starts to clear up from among the trees.
Beyond the thicket, another flash light
stirs us up with this crossing over ● by a click,
I fade away.
Here and there, the people rejoice,
some more or less than the others.
There comes a moment
when I turn to stone: the story goes that in the woods
there is an overturned satellite.
The gale blows
some boughs down
: we have to be
from the body that
we don't take as
and then I understood why this space,
why the longer, colder water still preserves us
I say something until I get to say anything like a restart
I am confined to
a sign on the water or
to the commitment of the soap
to the skin—
I make an attempt to a surgery on a healthy neck,
upon which I get sick
unmindfully as if
I were straightening my collar with a wild wind
on the back,
while both my feet are searching for each other
to find themselves in the simplest,
most natural position—
I breathe slowly, regularly; the chin up, until
perspective tubes●tubes spring out from under the jaw
and press the water,
the floor tiles
In the water you have to behave like a water,
with a certain sex,
stature and religion
The air carries the coldness;
its mild grace crossing the darkness
plays us around its fingers:
the bass almost explodes, in the headphones
there is something that comes close to music.
It’s tender! I sniff the murmur and then articulate.
I will let the ground go mad.
a whirlwind gets tangled into the branches,
look —there it goes off
under an eave, now hanging out over there.
The forest might
crush: its branch cover will fall apart
black flocks of birds are also to rise up.
Let me keep record of this—
somewhere, inside the mind, my nature
is snowbound. The rest is nothing but water and light
crossing the city.
The music is jumping disturbingly out of the ear drums;
its smooth bulb above us, with its thickened cover.
My image starts up—
the video display shows
a pixel wrongly placed.
From the other side of the road, there goes a car— in the boxes,
the rain goes cluck-cluck! And two moths
fly up and down crossing their ways, in suspended ditches.
I don’t know
how they hang in.