English translation

           THE VORTICAL CURRENT

by

ION P. IACOB

ANTI-BIOGRAPHY

hidden in the piano

my out  of tune ear

directed to  the world

you may say

I pawned the death

-but not-

I live in a fruit

as in a house

 it was all built from flower

"so enduring

spacious

beautiful

absent

of the hate`s dictionaries "

streaming for the world 

echo and despair

trough the windows of the house

that we were building

slowly

in a future of petals

closed the  in hard nut

I do not care

" hypocrite lecteur

what counts is that you don`t see me

the poem can also be

a beautiful lie "

 ANOTHER NIGHT  OVERWINTER IN ME

in a gentle tremolo of the wind

over the barely glimpsed  line of  clouds

poetry

has everything

under control

on the frozen map

where a lost star

vibrates

and

ther it is

a false portrait

in full loneliness

close to the heart

this moment that

precedes

another life full

of whispers:

like in a decrepit hotel

in me

 another night overwinters

INTELLECTUAL PERFORMANCES

in one afternoon of the last century
with buddy d. p.
were carrying on our arms
a bed through  the city's central park
somehaw embarrassed by our mission
we were sneaking like thieves
near the bushes that were protecting us from curious eyes
was a huge bed which could have received generous
all  the city`s brath
but
suddenly appeared on a side road alley
the poet g.e.
a bit confusing a bit dizzy from the alcool
"I did not talked for two days
 please host me
among iambus and dactyls "
I politely invited him the east edge of the bed
the city was already preparing to sleep
while we were so awake
of all that poetry
wandering in late hour
until when captive into our words
like  a black rag
 the night has crashed
and finally we fell
in the first sleep

the  amniotic condition
in which we now find ourself

*

on me I hold your hand

God

lest I stumble

in the scruffy dark

of the Beauty

*

what's left

cat jump

a spot of blood

on the road

THE REALM OF THE BEAST

it's easy to get into the realm of the beast

without forcing a door 

or can hear

in infinite illusions

the sound of claw

THE POET OBSCURE

(instead of epitaph)

my friends

the great poets

write masterpieces

They filter

light of absinthe

directly

from the brain

its poems born

directly from viscera paralyzed

of reflection stellar

of the pineal eye

they are cannibals

of the small facts

the great poets

have grass of beasts

and thousands of brute

hide

in their verb

the great poets

will they become

exactly like me

a handful of dust

THE VOICE SOMBER

WICH EXTRACTED ME FROM THE URN

"your melancholy is acid rain

which exfoliates

the unspoken song

also the halos scraped of holy light

far away Homer road

my country is now the dark

and the king is the shadow

of this poem

that you follow him into nothingness”

INCOMPREHENSIBLE

something simplified

slaughtered

by a world too complicated

the denominator

of what would not have

to happen

the binder

of two principles apparently intangible

I am a reductio ad absurdum

in an void plenty

NIGHT SHIFT

three thousand three hundred thirty three nights

with van Rijn

for rounds to be fully

I have no frustration

I am a man some

and now feel nostalgic

words which we have been

  single use

of them

happenings

hang

like leather

skinned

of

a thousand and one wheels

among them

I straining with dexterity

are many mechanisms

useful

wheels of torture

wonderful

ABOUT POET, PROPHET IN HIS 

COUNTRY

he filtered light

 until essentially

in bondage of darkness

now victorious

and blind

he begs

from its own shadow

*

one by one

disappear from the table of elements

one by one

taking with them

the steam

of mirror

friends

leave behind

a memory fog

in the swamps which

I sink

little by little

HIPPOCRATIC OATH

that's fine

brains does not have muscle

and nobody from outside

can not see the effort of the mind

and all have finality

and lies are hot

when a patient wishes

another ill:

health

OBJECTIVE AND BENIGN,ADMIRE MY 

BAGS OF VENOM

are not required to understand

you just need to run the lives of these evidences

dressed in a toga gray

I can not get the Nobel Prize

"elements table" is already full

and

SEPARATION

I would like to sell car of your dream

coarse light of wilted dandelions

umbrella covered with stars

every dream has its world

I for example prefer

unique-verse

on this side of Styx

just the angel wings

are not selling

FEAR OF DEATH AND BROKEN


 PITCHERS

,

SMALLREPAIRS,IDIOSYNCRASIES AND


 OTHERS

 THINGS

(a replay of old papyrus)

heads covered

with diadems of snow

silhouettes

by fog street

the fear for a moment

borrowed me the image:

in a monday

an old man

that crosses street

populated by huns

FEAR OF FINITE THINGS

I do not know to put

a point

a comma

something there

because

I'm afraid that

might as after

the one nameless

should to appears

"to live or not live

I left the day service

and of night

and no matter

song is here forbidden

sirens have chords strangled

and there is no indication

no sign 

to resurrect the Dead Sea "

THE BICKERING OF POET WITH SELF

poetry

is a cell

of which can escape

whenever

the real

you receive

royally

I hunt the silence

of countless flowers

but

only one

is crowned

of butterflies

exiled in empty

 I go on spider web

everyday

I can feel

sword slipped

among shields

which poetry

which real

which butterflies

THE EARTH OF UNDER CHARIOTS.

WOKEN UP BY NOISE,

BEGIN TO TALKING

*

I'm an entity

with clear, precise rules

inhabited

by transience

and unwritten poems

I am free

and I don`t accept

this communion

I am free

and refuse

eternity

*

on me

not claimed nobody

who

would put his mind

with an land

mined

*

are

million

of people

beside which

I careless pass

are moments

in which I legitimize

the stranger man

who now occupy

my book of identity

*

without God

you have to assume the past

by monkey

THE SAME RAILWAY STATION POETIC

we met once

in  the same vers

in fleeting

playful light

in

history

at which you are working

(your skin of snake

tattooed with Apocrypha)

"praise the workers

the one who sown

the last 

to admit his guilt "

on the field

I see

here and there

ossicular of poetry

familiar

for what is more sublime

and sad

same lyrics

in the unknown or large

of course poets like brothers

on the semantic field

I recognize myself

in some

in others

WEBCAM LIVE STREAMING



termites that devour
the white
I see them
from great heights
My smallness of mind
is sufficient
for follow
all creatures
Late Morning
blackheads
on gray background
constantly moving
-I meditate                    are an drone-
terrestrial creature it struggling with life
I could be myself
one termite
but already it's late
and colony
is preparing
same brownian motion
that's fine that I am colorless
how else
the colony I ignore my

*

I will never grow old

because I was born old

and tired

*

a brilliant poet

a candy

in desperation mouth

*

disease

despair

and hate

what resume

can be better

for death

SEAL OF PURE-BLOOD

tenderizer under saddles

now broken

of hoofs

is just the heart

sometime with the little angel

sometime with poisoned arrows

*

Emptied of senseless

small train stations kept

my childhood.

*

are sentenced to nausea

I can not express myself:

the executioners whom

I can not denounce

are here

and keep me alive

HATE DESPAIR RUINS

the great poet

that burned smoldering

in me

was rich

rivers orchards bees

the great poet

was poor

hatred despair ruins

great poet

really existed?

THE SOWER OF MINE

landmines

antitank

the prechamber of poem

in which agonize

are full

of course

by me

perched

on the fence of the poem

I'm just looking around

in the trenches others

What to see

all over

only ruins

one day

 I get bored of me
of mine

*

I whipped

sensitivity

to the blood

presumed

between minus

and plus

in my country

of paper

wrapped like a mummy

in autochthonous air

between God

and atom

NIGHT OF THE NEW YEAR

snowing on TV

a snow

which do not sit

in the light of the night

a whole people

dozing.

.SALON OF ICE

(Poem with tmusical directions)

a lady

with a dog on a leash

enters in the library

and ask a book of Borges

* while 

the dog

sits down

on the ice floor

an elderly lady

recounts about dog

with the bleached eyes of darkness

"Will die soon

is a special dog

which remained from my dead daughter

is my connection to nothingness "

during ** in which she recounts

My soul is spread

as an oil spill

in water

my heart is a country

only good

to be conquer

"a well-bred dog"

in the world beyond

it may be your guardian and brother

your passport

for

death "

in a time where ****

all seemed to be incomprehensible

a lady 

wich skim to infinity

a volume of Borges.

* tempo (cuv. it. "time" to pl. tempi; wide. tempus) 1. (Original meaning) Time (I, 2) the measure *. 2. Degree of rapidity with which a musical work to be executed

 ** (l) primo tempo (Loc. it., "the first

 tempo"), indication of a return to the 

original

motion after one or more changes of tempo

*** IL TEMPO is a 

GALANTUOMO (It.) time

 is a good man - Mazarin's

 motto: show the importance of 

time in solving things. V. and 

Chronos eumares theos gar.

****tempo rubato  (Loc. it.

 "stolen time"), indication and 

hence manner of interpretation 

is to change to metric pulse 

durations while maintaining 

unchanged. Terminological 

confusion between * and tempo 

rubato occurred (after 

Eggebrecht, 1955) after missing 

practice he accompanied. * 

Baroque type, while the term 

temporary * has lost its sense of 

"time value time" and became 

synonymous with the words 

"movement speed".

*

I want to happy

but any miracle

take three thousand moments

enough to sketch out

a nightmare

in a state of well

and tomorrow comes maturity:

I defy anyone

*

when I was appointed treasurer

there was no stain in the sky

the earth was perfect

all were good and angelic purity

but come nightfall suddenly

and gold began to rusted

*

illusion is clear

and the cut is precise

through the hole in the sky

see

 the world
promised

CERVANTES IS MAN AND ACCEPT ANY VICINITY IN LIBRARY

life is a great critic

she did not indexed on me

in any books

exist

a chance

for each

and a death

LIT CANDLE IN WAX MUSEUM

a poet

is loved and visited

as a father

of other 

poets

when they is recognize in it

finally steals his air

full

of seals

RHYTHM BREAKS

indulged storm

close to being

satyr or faun

in the book air

as a precious scribe we note

"under the sky covered with earth

(echo:

in heaven

cover with earth

starts diurnal

from one end to another

only see themselves)

mustard seed growing

together with the thought

until it were broken

the barriers of sky

and

on the blacks horse

with long legs

arrived

reaping time"

THE JAIL OF SALT

  with the teeth of milk
of my brief biographies 
I bit symbolic 
the  realm of gentleness 

on plain paper devoured teeth 
in a time without space 
in an space without season 
Lao Tze 
contemplate for me 
the corpse  a word: 

"untill nirvana 
is a long and dangerous way
most valuable is the light 
of the salt mine "

in a time in which 
 we have forsaken
the  territories wordy 
on  dead horse 
of the fixed formes

SPRING CLEANING

"a step back

certify

perspective haughty "

of the bridge ancestral house

he throws

the old books

the pressed flowers

barrel organ

and made a concession

of the crammed the piano

with stars

"are

out of tune

I work with the mercy "

FAREWELL  MONTALE !

"Poetry is as

honey

in large quantities

becomes toxic "

in the inner courtyard

of my block

a dog

foreign

is a poem

full of bones

(farewell Ossi di sepia

farewell Montale)

He looks me

with respect famished

bring him manuscripts

and do not touch

they chose dust

of my feeling

of communion

I was able

to show him

one ossicular one vertebra

a finger

My fingerprint holograph

tattooed skin with stars

a apocryphal text

about poet

"when is born

draw it

like a hunk of meat "

when a poem is born

I was born

and I am             the scream

THE VORTICAL CURRENT

because I did not know

about the celestial betrayals of poem

I started craftsmen

wooden tongue

which out now

is moving toward me

of the mouth

Hindu

doll

THE KING OF THE DEAD LEAVES

owner of abyss

of night

on the destiny street

vis-a-vis

I tried

to climb

to force

all over

were only doors

painted on walls

I wanted to enter

with counterfeits keys

and

playing cards rigged

in the school of whispers

covered by the orange mantle

there I agonize

are

the emperor

of the death leaves

DARKNESS OF EVERY DAY

Old buildings gray were

with a strange atmosphere

I loved 

because in their halo

Our youth bathe once

another time intervened routine

and then the earthquake from `77

which completely extinguished

light

11/24/1973

OR

A RAID IN FORCE

,

IN BANALITY

with bandages on neck ... a train- to be

passional -last train of mine


 ... personal ... traveling in the area between

 two

wagons ... so-


bellows called ... in a crowded dantesque ... with

 brown leather


 suitcase (shriveled and swollen) lost somewhere

 in the crowd


 ... emaciated ... freshly operated ... literally and

 figuratively


... stolen... hopeless .. no identity without

 emotion without...just a


 strange halo warming my sad reality

 ....Christmas season 


approaching and I go to my parent's house with

 a personal train ...

delicate that the idea of a poet

an orchid grows

discreete

in my heart

.

was a strictly personal

for me

Light created an channel:

often I escaping

of the animal kingdom

HEY... COME

(Words in which are buried words)

I wait you

In the here and in now

where nobody

not able to penetrate

But otherwise, but how

you can see

the hidden butterfly

at me

in fist

*

good words to chew

good words to milking

words in which are buried

words

*

hidden in the mystery

 a people immortal

buried in the  fright

perpetual

FULL MOON

"Poetry is by his nature human

the vehicle that a seducing

is- sometimes - celest "

full moon

yellow echo -

I asleep my despair

on your shoulder

TO BE OR NOT TO BE

in my homeland of words

to be is a cut language

and not a crime

for some to be

e last rhyme

*

Dante's circles :

where I throw my eye

like a stone

LETTERS FROM LENDERS:

"ON THE PERDITION STAIRS AWAIT 

YOU BEATRICE"

"I steal lyrics at hard"

-cried the poet -

"Be gentle when you stir the earth

for my bones wasted "

when they discovered

boundless realm

the relatives the friends

the rigid postman

they no longer sounded

not even once:

suddenly

they penetrated

in the coded gallery

BOUNDARY BETWEEN THE REALMS

a meeting with yourself

an unknown

met

in central square

and a small guide

about working pragmatically:

file of your own book

spread on the ordinary stall

and

mechanichal gesture of the seller

that packs elegant

a cone with seeds

ultimately
lie has long legs
and  the sun of evening
carry me on his back

FLAG OF HELPLESSNESS

one body

a single feelings

dreaming sinecures:

the hate with a thousand mouths

HIDDEN IN LIGHT OF THE QUINCES

the light that pours

is a song

a discrete halo

one kick

in the door fall

in fog

that it dissolved like life

one day

when you drawing

loneliness

from a breathing

on the window with rime

is how to tell others

from outside

comers

are still alive

until up tonight

BLINDS IN THE CHAOS WORK

"Like worm

to swim

in the fat of time

in they size

lacks backbone "

far away

someone wants to open heaven

and the key is the infinite

of an orbit from the other

DEATH OF A MASTER

"It's late are hurt

of the bullet of a verse

Grinding

 prepared my bed of glycine "

coryphaei have breathed a sigh of relief:

sunset was free now

for everyone

ABOUT THE NAMELESS

in all my cells

she digs one black hole

and dig and dig

into light

how far can penetrate

on the border

between

anywhere and nowhere

POST MORTEM GLORIA SHOW THEIR FRAGILE CLAWS

was considered post-modern

but come to hell

was thought about to immortelles

most often passed over them

with heavy boots

WONDER YOU EXPECT

like a train

with the routes and predetermined schedule

Miracle

which we expect

found me

at last

old sick tired

without taking into account that one

could pull the alarm

it could

to slide on rails

miracle that I found

left as it came:
old sick tired

14 JUNE 1974

on its own his arms

worn

I really seen her

was Venus de Milo

reconciled to itself and the world

her eyes over me

I was blind shore

from sea of ​​ tears

I just fear guiding

-when I passed around her-

on dark alleys of the poem

with the heart burn

of the hot steel of that moment

Mr. STATE, Mrs. MOTHERLAND

*

I banished her

after a long cohabitation

I banished the hope

was as old as me

RIGHT NOW

homeland dog

barking at hanging heart

in front of the butcher of books

right now

bulldozers indifferent

pass over a known author

contemporary bones

crackle in the air

easy

*

then they came the journalists

of the cameras

ambulances

firefighters

crowd of onlookers

eager for a hot random

how much squandering

to Good day

to respond with a million words

*

about the condition of my people

about his mood pacifist 

about how succeeded

to how sublime

to disarm

the concrete

INFLATION, LYRICS, PHONEME

 I read verses

"Dead Sea

wait

other peoples

other written of salt

tattooed on body

of the poet

thrown on shore

yellowed papyrus

the great sea

his heart lying on the shore

eggplant cloth still palpitating

in the clutches of a seagull

which will bear

to the living world waiting

to taste

blood

fresh hunk

nice boneless "

still alive

I read verses

in dying languages

ON ANOTHER VOCAL COORDS OF SUNSET AN POET BANKRUPT

I want to write a poem tragic

deeply serious

but I cried Madame Bovary

from off from stalls from underground

"Broke down the kitchen sink

an intergalactic Icicle is ready

get away from the balcony

dog and still appeared adenoma

canary cage toy repaired

a gentleman undertaker

came with offers of holidays "

all are like conveyor belt

  not first in the world

and already a lady came rent:

"Tomorrow leave home

country town

  planet

What to talk it down

do not forget

to take and trumpet

but

hurry

to catch the evening boat "

over Styx

is discretely insinuate

 the polar  light

UNDERGROUND

" to be is now

follows the final station

someone down

in eternity? "

BOX OF CANDOR

if you are sad ... and what?

Open box of candor

and then

a change destiny of the amarylis

pupils will achieve

rising freshly invented

cold winter will be discharged directly into the rut heats

will escape from prison contemplation

of course will be applauded

crippled hands of powerlessness

you should know

Your sorrow does not help the world

Your smile is just a face

the slaughterhouse pictorials

a dry leaf

the area next season

just a moment

Lost in the light of the world

et cetera et cetera

your eternity

is already a monstrous past

a broken pocket perpetual search of history

that write right now

our eyes

blinded

*

exceedingly sweet

and beautiful

my despair

iridescent in wax caps

of planetary the beehive

whoever can blind

*

hmmm... is O.K.

I did not care for tomorrow

are a poet nesting

in the hot dough

of bread

*

poetry

is a piece of rock

like a snake

in the midday sun

there I hiding

I'm not alone

in the realm of outlaw

helplessness

working in me

like a car

of writing

TIME OF ANATOMY

arcades

vaulted skulls

aura of stardust

here

silence is operated

of angels

Memories

blind sad and lonely

thrown into the abyss

by my friends

Spartans

S.O.S.

an angel

clean my dreams

and I borrowed halo

"saved my life"

a raindrop fallen

in the desert

*

may be

a whiff of past

of the present

which eludes me

a shred of the future

my angel

guardian

*

a life

toiled the angel

for me to become man

a lifetime

how an illumination

of angel

*

an angel

on each eyelid

what blindness

can be

the brighter?

JACOB'S LADDER

on angel scale

fine and precise

on angel scale

I are

the missing step

*

have finished our time

and purpose?

like a breeze

the infinite patience

of our Lord

MEMORIES ARE BEATIFULLY


 PRESERVED IN THE

WOMB`S  HIVE

I forgot my luggage in the train station

what crappy

there was and my

heart

coated in wax