A SCRIE PREA APROAPE DE HÂRTIE

ce-ar fi ca intr-o zi, oamenii să-şi lase zâmbetele şi cuvintele pe trupul meu, ochii închişi cu genele smulse şi să mă privească soarele, să devin lumina în care ticăie cuvintele. şi dacă mi-ar desena două sfori subţiri prinse de mameloane şi cuvintele suspendate şi-ar învinge inerţia? ele ar coborî pe coastele mele reliefate şi-ar dispărea cine ştie unde, sub piele.în singurătate sunt eu şi cu teama de-a mai fi. acum sunt cu tine, cu voi, fără eul dublat, fără iluzii, doar în ticăitul cuvintelor şi într-un permanent poem.

(Sabina Penciu – fără titlu)

Elevă la Liceul Emil Racoviţă din Galaţi, Sabina Penciu îşi caută drumul în literatură oscilând între poezie şi proză, între fragmente de text ce pot fi apreciate ca proză poematică şi fragmente de poem prozaic, ceea ce presupune, de fapt, un bogat conţinut de trăiri interioare şi o anume intensitate şi sensibilitate de consumare a acestui conţinut. Altfel spus, o oscilaţie între pasaje de un lirism sufocat de dramatismul realităţii şi pasaje epice invadate de lirismul unui suflet sensibil în care s-a încuibat prematur tragismul unei existenţe expusă la vicisitudini.

„În textele prezentate în seara aceasta, o găsesc pe Sabina Penciu mult mai confesivă şi mai diluată liric decât în textele anterioare; are un tragism cutremurător al existenţei care derivă dintr-un raport doborâtor cu lumea reală; nu şi-a găsit încă expresia rotund lirică – dar, are potenţial.” (Stela Iorga)

„Atmosferă rece, sugerată, care presupune o stare de ataraxie profundă, eul liric venind, parcă, dintr-un alt eu.” (Elena Donea)

„Prea directă, prea sinceră în exprimarea senzaţiilor, sentimentelor etc.” (Alexandru Maria)

„Texte calde, tonalitate prea confesivă, prea patetică; să fie mai disimulantă, să filtreze mai mult textele; dozează bine metaforele.” (Andrei Velea)

„În ciuda unui oarecare sadism din unele texte, cred că scrie bine; secvenţe din viaţă puse în text aşa cum au fost, fără retuşuri, fără ocolişuri.” (Mădălina Radu)

„Pentru mine, ca un text să fie bun, trebuie să-mi determine o stare de plăcere; dacă nu reuşesc – nu au valoare; pot spune că textele din seara aceasta – cu mici rezerve – mi-au plăcut.” (Cezar Chiorcea)

„Este prea aproape de hârtie când scrie; textul/poemul s-ar cere întâi recitat, apoi scris; să se detaşeze – altfel, par nişte file de jurnal.” (Simona Toma)

„Autoreflexivitatea mi se pare prea densă; prea multe epitete, printre care, unele - cam banale, ca să nu spun fumate; să scrie mai concentrat; să revină asupra textelor.” (Cristina Dobreanu)

Ion Avram

Vineri, la ora 18,00, la sediul cotidianului Viaţa Liberă, citeşte Marius Chiru.

(Relaţii privind activitatea cenaclului Noduri şi Semne – tel. 0746167284)

poems by Michael R. Patton, USA

Michael R. Patton, author
sky rope poetry blog: http://skyrope.blogspot.com
dream steps blog: http://dreamsteps.wordpress.com
myth steps: http://mythsteps.wordpress.com
web site: http://michaelpatton.tripod.com

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BLESSED DESCENT 9/27/04

My fear was the cause–
the reason for my selection--the reason
I was placed in this basket
and lowered down
into the narrow ravine
to try to find
what can only exist
in such precarious places.

When the overseers scanned our group
they could see I was the one
trying hardest not to be seen.
The one afraid
that the earth beneath his feet
was only cloud.

They realized
I needed this trip
--this ordeal--
more than anyone else.

So I was cranked down,
slowly lowered down--
accepting my fate
because I am only
a stone cutter,
a thresher,
a courier for king and queen,
a fool who follows
the piper--

and I am lowering still,
down farther still,
into the joyful darkness
that welcomes me
despite my fear.




A BETTER SISYPHUS

I present myself as an exhibit
of a necessary human hunger--

necessary

even though this hunger nearly kills us--
kills me. I fight
not to be eaten alive
by my hunger.

Nonetheless,
this goat in me
has goaded me
higher than I ever
could have imagined--

back into--deep into--
those hungry black mountains

to try to satisfy
my hunger--a hunger
for something that
I do not know
and so
try to discover
if it actually
exists.

Blind, I touch and in touching, know--
know every round stone
as part of my foundation--

know every cave I find to be a kiln.

Alone, in my quiet lifting, I come to realize
how every mundane moment surfeits me.

All those tedious steps--
I love them, one by one.

So I'm not disappointed
that I still feel hungry
when I reach the mountain top--

no, I can hardly wait for Morning
when I start back at the bottom--
but the bottom of a higher mountain--
because by keeping to this climb
I feed my driving hunger.

GENTLE ESSENCE

Knowing that the mist

of a gentle spirit

inhabits

that room...

draws me inside.

I know I will not see her.

But if I stand very still,

open my skin,

allow my heart to fill

and my brain to stop

long enough

for my nerve endings

to unclinch

their tiny fists--

I may be able to sense

the faint rhythmic waves

of her breath,

the warm vaporous touch

of a hand in shadow--

an essence collected

then dispersed again

through the darkness

the darkness within

the altar of my chest.

WAR SUN 5/22/06

Often I’m able to ignore

the static tension

tightening my joints

until I lie down

in the dark

then I again feel the heaviness

of the wave

rising in my chest,

again see nervous flashes

of lightening

behind my eyelids--

in this way, I’m reacquainted with my war--

humbled once more

by my losses, by my failure

to exhale the water

that has bled deep

into my lungs.

Yet I continue

to struggle towards surrender--

and once in awhile,

when I give up trying to win,

I win that surrender.

Which has the affect of settling

the toppling wave, settling that wave

into a dense pool

that rests

at my knees,

my knees lowered

to the earth‑‑

a pool that reflects

my torn face,

the rubble of my eyes.

Yet when I place

these empty, hesitant hands

into that still water

I can feel the sun of love

spreading through

my whole world--

despite my fear,

a peace undeniable,

resolute.

OPENING 8/01/07

Their whirring wings

I could barely hear

and so,

could hardly bear

but by listening

I could feel

the winter bees

building back--

that’s how

I made connection

in a broken shelter

that worked like a trap--

that’s how

I found a door,

a loving door--though dark--

past which, I discovered

another door--a massive door--

a door of heavy light--

that I decided not to open

yet--some feasting must wait

while I curl on the floor

against a tree, a tree

of strong soft bark,

strong soft hands--

wait, while I sit near

the dark threshold

and decipher river sounds

echoing from below.

The earth is much too rich

at such times. Yet I’m impatient--

how long must I wait? Impatient,

though I know completion

will be bittersweet:

when I must rise, when I lift--

the way a leaf

seems to float

as it brings in

the breeze--

as I move

to the door

the blank door

the new door

with splinters of light

bursting from its seams.

THE KISSING FISH

The kissing fish

arc out of the lake.

One coming from the north.

One coming from the south.

The two trout

meet in mid-air

and for one still moment

their mouths adhere.

And all the people who’ve gathered

round the bank

to witness

the twilight summer ceremony

see something that looks like magic

and may very well

be perfect--

because in that brief interval

a dream hope

becomes a union made real.

But once complete

the rainbow must fade--

the lovers break

with a collective sigh

from the crowd

as the empty bodies

flutter helplessly down...

and when they smack

flat on the water

in double ring of spray,

those vessels fracture

into a mass

of orange autumn leaves

rolling with the waves.

But like all that falls

the leaves decay, become

a scattering of feathery seeds...

and as the small fish

dimple the surface

to feed on the new remains,

again we recognize

Perfection.

UNLIDNESS 4/18/06

What if you had

another head

inside your head--

a better head

but hidden.

A head that would call

to you, though hard to hear

with your big head talking

all the time, unaware

of that muted voice

trying to get you

to listen.

Unless--as can sometimes happen--

one day you tilt, tumble, hang upside

down

then the lid on your big head

flops open

and what comes out

in that shocking moment

is an opera

sung by ravens and lions.

But

by startled reflex,

you shove that lid back down

with a firm hand--

ravens and lions are scary, but

even scarier when

they sing

Opera.

Thereafter,

you’ll keep the lid securely in place...

unless...

as can sometimes happen--

one day, while I’m distracted

by the mountain clouds,

waiting for the sun to touch

the highest peak--

that lid on my big head

--quietly, secretly--

floats up

floats away.

And this time

as the ravens and lions

raise their choir,

I accept the music

because the singing feels

just like something

that’s supposed to happen

whenever I witness abundance.

During such moments

of unlidness

I feel as if

I am beginning to be

the way I was always

meant to be.