Dorina Brândusa Landén

Beginning of the Century

In this part of the world there aren’t mismatches.
The king is returning from hunting.
The Prime Minister is dining.
I have catarrh.
My legs treading on snow
leave black traces on the diffusing white
like a war photograph
where all the dead are the young.
The air in your lungs burst
underwater bombs and my own body
became a deadly weapon
in line with the global trend
of self-destruction.
Happy mornings tumbled down
my life drops like a magic ball
in the world there is minus 38 degrees
and snow breaks the bowed branches.
From an immense geyser of ice
one can hear a vague vibration
as a distant hum of bumble bees
one can hear the too fast beating of the arteries
of those who live
under a law of its own collapse into nothingness.
Reindeers are crawling through the snow.
On the road the elk are hit by cars.
Selfishness
increases like a zygote of an enhanced race.
Candidates to government sneer
from a smattering wall poster
creditors are lurking around the corner
bread and honey aroma
thieves are stretching their cold tentacles
to steal your soul and money.
Shareholders investors
very rich people
overly benevolent
overwhelm us with an equivalent compassion
with our smothered desire.
Losers and bankrupts
failures
people with empty eyes like nests
driven by flocks of mist wander
on roads that lead nowhere.
I think of them as trees in the forests
where innocent wild beasts find death
woods percolated too much
by roots pulling up the sap
from bodies that have perished without a trace.
Suddenly angry blizzards fall
and wave the rolling seas
stormy Atlantic oceans
will cover us later
with the roar of the white foam kissing our faces
the uproar of the departures
towards the paradise where we’ll wake up
on resigned shores of countries that
we’ve forgotten how to serve
due to the mundane life - unbearable -
and to the maddening constraints.
Oh, many things are happening here
and beyond horizons the unfathomable vaults
indifference is strangling us
with braided straps of incantation
of those times when we were sharing
more shadow than light.
In the world we’ve created
there’s no more room between us.
We're doomed
in the anxiety of the beginning of the century
in the circle where we’re locked
me and you
all and sundry
never to leave it again.

Dorina Brândusa Landén © 2013

Art

On the snowy field furrowed by blizzard
with pale drifts you come
sliding on a sleigh of sentiments
from mountains grounded up by frost
towards the lake where the moon washes its metal
a white path flawless carved
hither now and then
let's have a wander: to stay for a moment
up on the hill in the silvery forest
above the smog
from city of glass and stone
which I left
without ever going back.

Knife a Heedless Heart of the Day

Here is the afternoon!
The sun is stuck in a hard orange peel
a bird cries
the sweetness of the syllables is a dewdrop
on a leaf.
A beautiful life.
My blood is loaded with them.
Crossroads of words
friends intolerably bright
in search of their own navels
each saying whatever they believe they should say
with a mathematical logic of reduction
wherewith odds and ends are burned.
The multiplication table is smashed into smithereens
someone is killing the sins the fears
the common places the boredom.
The knife – a heedless heart of the day
cuts the bread.
Fish and wheat. The promise.
Roads on which are returning
hungry children at home
while others eat galore
from their scarcity.
Someone
flips my clarity.
Oceans are pools of water
mountains
are splinters of flint in the forbearingly grass
winter's a village covered with flour.
Midnight
the stars the traffic lights.
Insomnia.
Buffalo and foxes are running
on a half full moon
a nightingale is filling the void
with its golden aorta.
The guard lit its lantern
the hunter recognizes
the pugs.

Nobody saw me crying
though my sadness rakes my temples.

Morning comes as a blow to the plexus.

Dorina Brândusa Landén © 2013