from The House by the Sea II

by Lorand Gaspar / translation by Daniela Hurezanu

I listen to the wind
the big wingbeats of the invisible body
mixed with the sea, the trees and the roofs

to everything beating, feeling, breathing in my body
as it lifts the waters and fumbles through the depths—
stirring up thought’s leaves

all this water, gathered, bent, broken, quickened
doors slammed, the stretched-out moan of a pine

of a very old curved pine next to which
passersby known as wise men or saints
poets or madmen once used to meditate on a balcony of mists—

between them and the unimaginable
a few heartbeats—



September, still waters, like a stretched-out sheet—
a fermenting mist over there
sketches a boat on the horizon
a fisherman seems to walk on the waters
his feet stir up a translucent vapor
variations on a theme by Debussy*—
blue-grays and washed out greens,
slidings, erased confluences
perceived by something in the body
and maybe in thought—

[* “The fairies are exquisite dancers”—Préludes]



September, no one knows
who’s air who’s water
or mirror—

at times a tremor—

deaf colors, muffled
slidings, fugues, confluences
strolls through the distant shades of a watch
perceived by the body
without thinking of anything—

God who’s no one is always the one who walks
and breathes on the dawn or the evening waters—

the hand needs and the body
of these wine-colored, deformed blocks
of sandstone with protruding tumors—
in the moss’s ochres
only a water ripple clipped with scissors
betrays a presence—

far away in the blurred brightness
a fisherman still for a long time
then it’s as if he walked
dazzled dancer on a sheet
of translucent shivers

the limbs’ and the body’s segments
held together by the trembled air

(seven thousand of years ago all this
already drawn on a sandstone wall
except this rasping shrubbery
at my back cicadas—)

you think without really thinking
of September years
where the space-source springs forth in the heart
and no one knows how far
this bit of clarity
showing in the you and the I
of gestures and words will be his—

have the nail, the pain
become closer, more familiar?
I listen to the call of the wasps
as they gather for takeoff—



your hand slowly fingers
the blue paint, flaking off
the cracked wood, falling in places
from the window frame

the glass is magical, when you move
the trees wave, make faces at you
a sunray cast as if in its beehive

sketches with the watery glass
the branch of the almond tree in a single stroke

even though the house by the sea
is now gone—



once again summer like a scream
pulled out of the sea’s dark womb—

mirror days when we
can’t tell up from down—
heat, rocks,
at times a nocturnal shiver
water diluted in the air
and the rays in the depths
where blind fish swim—