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Five Longing Notes on a Counter-note

A poetic game in five stages.

by Ioana Jucan

 

Hand-Made

 
Lying
in your own hands
at the time that was riper than ever before and again
was not the situation
entirely.
 
All along
were you planning on
making the step to move forward and beyond
that coming together for the first time
with that that was supposed to happen.
 
Reachable
with the empty hand
began to become the impression of being here and somewhere else
altogether not home
not home all together.
 
Handed down
from generation to generation
of those who enact by those who enlist
your remaining
open-handed
stands no reserves.
 
 

Longings

 
For how long?
I have been hoping you’ll come
For as long as I’ve been saying it
 
I have been
Longing all the time
Pining for a sign
Leaning against
The long edge
Of the old door.
 
A long time
The light
Stayed on.
 
Before long
Time grew
Out of joint
Switched out
The hinges
In the house
I grew tired
Never seemed
To be rusting.
 
You are coming
Are you not
Playing. Hearing. Rattling.
 
I cringed
You did not
Call.
I called
You did not
Write.
I wrote
You did not
Text.
Back
Where
I began to hope.
 
Long-drawn out discussions never followed
Long-distance calls were never made
Long-playing records never got listened to
 
The odds
Were long
Before I
Cut you
Off.
The list
Grew longer
And longer
Before you
Got crossed off.
The longest
You could
Take you
Took. Longing
The door opened. You went off. On and off.
 
Stop
Watch
So long!
 
 

Replying

 
Immaterial page: four lines, a name
hit              loading
off off it goes: send sent
 
Play back the news
Make the link anew
Let the ongoing line
Remake love in time.
 
Fold the expectations one
on top of another:
on surfaces of desires
exquisite and twisted away.
Twist the whole way
through old piled letters:
through a pretended grin
exquisite and twisted away.
 
Until it begins crumbling
Tumbling line over line.
 
 

Faces on Sunday

 
People are sleeping. People are always sleeping.
– Pippins peeping through the looking glass
Bitten by the peep of dawn
When they peep their heads through the door.
 
A smiling mouth smiles only in a human face –
Turning the lips into lines and the cheeks into apples
Into circles
Moving, staring into the sun
Until the day gets lost.
 
People are talking. People are always talking.
– Asking and replying with their mouths
Full of words
Longing, making signs with their hands
When they are feeling misunderstood.
 
A smiling mouth smiles only in a human face –
Making it look like a sundial
A hand-made sundial
Turning its hands, staring into the sun
Until it becomes obsolete.
 
Finally, it’s time for a break.
 
 

Tea break

 
The day was begun with a tea
followed
by a tea break –
a cup break
meant to wake
the entire house up.
 
It brings. Luck. Make it. Stop. The alarm. Clock.
 
Breakfast was made available
plentiful
like props on a stage –
at an early stage
of cherished
development.
 
Almost fallen. Off. The edge. Of. The table.
 
The rest was spent in no time
followed by tomorrow
timid but melting –
melting into oblivion
as only clocks
are known to melt.
 
It remains. Unclear. Why tomorrows. Come. Much faster. Than. The days. Before. In spite. Of. The theatrical. Beginning.

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3 Comments

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