Poems by Patrick Călinescu

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 A Kosmogony

 

intensity outstretched to explosibility

comes full circle into the incipit

of fire begging to be kindled

out of the initial spark

which the unstruck match,

as yet untouched by phosphorous or hand,

barely molecularly contains

or, rather, is liminally tainted with—

only when the kosmos-producing fire,

be it in whatever state of combustion,

rids itself of the kosmos which it has produced—

or, even more radically so,

only when the said kosmos

goes full circle into the complete disappearance of it,

which is to be done massively purgatorially.

 

 

 

 Dying Is Living

 

I wish dying would just go on forever

for, if it did, death would never come

and I would get to be a dying immortal

finally in the capacity to understand

that dying is actually living.

 

 

 

 

Irrepeatabilities

 

transfiguration

of the nuances of the ideas of the things of the minds

with which I wrestle

is not some subtle fight for the supremacy

of these minds of these things of these ideas of these nuances

but an explosion of almost prosodic sophistry

which accompanies, distrustfully, what I perceive

of the nuances of the ideas of the things of the minds

with an irrepressibly repressible bent on

irrepeatabilities

of these minds of these things of these ideas of these nuances…

 

 

 

Lapidary Armageddon

 

I catch a catastrophe.

I throw it at the stars.

They take it in

Apocalyptically.

 

 

 

 What Religion Is to Me

 

the sky in the belfry

is taken captive

by the god serving underneath its

steepled silhouette

towering against what

should all along have been

the free sky