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