Lacrimae Rerum

“This culture refuses to affirm death. And it is the central myth of our
culture, but we refuse to affirm that we have been expelled from paradise.”
— Leonard Cohen.

At the East of Eden
I shall die,
defenceless against
the garden wall
— the page printed
the hurt inflicted
yet, a thousand mandolins
in my mind.
Among so many
animals gone mad
such frail violets
piercing rocks —
even if something
might turn wrong
I am still calling for
an encore.
At the East of Eden
we shall die,
misled, bereaved,
broken by lies,
so let’s go down
to the rose bush,
talk a little,
drink wine —
The door is open
on the Spring night,
come on Love,
there is time —
let’s defer the tears
a little while.


Something went wrong
on my way up to the Shining City,
the stairs were no stairs
they smashed like porcelain,
and left me hanging there
on a floor that was no floor.
Naked under a light robe,
too naked, childlike
I didn’t see my keeper
sitting in the sun,
ready to lift me off my feet
to set me high over the void.
Alone I stared into the darkness
with broken hopes and bones,
even the mind,
my own mind,
didn’t answer me anymore.
I couldn’t retrace my steps,
neither recall the fall.
It happened long ago,
so long ago ―the shock,
the Exile from paradise.
Now I was stuck
in that center ― Nowhere
that point ― wearying
every compass.
Like Eurydice
in the dirtiest corner of Hell,
waiting for an Orpheus
who wouldn’t come
nor care,
I felt a penchant
for every fallen man,
a craving for every
leaving train.
But I couldn’t recall a start,
it had always been there.
Oh my keeper,
these memories I’ve got ―
It’s like a blood red flag
I will plant one day
on the shining top
of that City of yours.


And entering these Daedalian years,
the loneliness, the cold delicacy
of the dark, entering slowly, step
by step, hand in hand, we couldn’t
help but watch each other stumble
— fall. Time took us by the knees
like water.

Separated from the ground, gone,
we could only lay, utterly worn,
utterly clear — as suspended
in mid-air. The distance between
our lips infinite and microscopic.
I was with you, you were with me.

After the deluge, after the struggle,
only the freedom of this place
was given. I could kiss your most
fragmented days — you held mine.
It was as simple as a musical
phrase. The worst part — over.

No one tried to adorn it with
words. Having to be satisfied
with drops from the tap, when
the highest lakes or an ocean
move in you, never soothes.
We were cut from the same stone.

So we just kept on getting through.
Accompanied by an aria in the most
hostile places. And those who saw us
dancing concluded we were insane
— they couldn’t hear the music.


I do not dream, I watch the sea
feathered by a light wind,
the city of pale silver, sharp-cut,
small churches filled with an idea
of grandeur, death woven in poppies
and violets along the roads —
and I know not if this is real.
It would be unfair to say
I deserted this world — I was
deserted, the sun bathed
the empty space I left behind.
I became an imitation of light,
a lamp under a bushel.
And I no longer know which one
is the miracle — the world over there
or that flame burning with so little oil.
Tell me, Elisha, which one
is the mirage — I did dream
once — of a lighthouse.


It’s 4am — You write to me
from another land, another sea,
the city is waiting, your voice
upsets a structure of shadows.
The wind blows everything around,
I feel as though I return to being
a creature of flesh and blood.
It’s so hard to pull the soul away
from the body, like an ill-timed
offering — now words
stitch them back together
by a single thread. I think
I saw you through their fine lines
painting wisps in a red house,
a photograph upon my eyelid,
turning the winter pallor to amber.
It seems a fire lives in the lining
of our skin, after the destruction
of things, after the death of others,
a frailer but more persistent
flame burning upon the ruins.
It never tires and rises
like a lucent question,
somewhat unanswerable,
amazingly quiet. It’s 4am —
the words are gone or far,
I simply wish you were here
or I were drunk, or something
like — going to St. Petersburg.

The Breach

I walked through the night
to some place unknown
when I could no longer see
on any map any road,
waiting for the sun
to blanch the cliffs —
their quiet, untold past.
My sextant lost under
the hard stars, I began
to long for you on that
path, wanting to call
the darkness a lie,
wanting the curve of
your back as a halt.
Still it was too early
to know, but not for
that stone inside me
to crack — a chalk
whiter than my skin
and my bones, your
words came cutting,
cutting bright. It was
not on any map,
that line not mine,
and I tried to ignore it
I don’t deny, yet
it kept running,
running into chalk,
as if ceding to rain
and also, to light.

The Favorite One

—  For Charles Pictet

There was a scent of lemon, cedar,
almonds in bloom filling the air
long roads of dust waning away
—  It was all about the wind,
everything dissipated,
everything was like breath.
And the sky was warm as blood
at dusk, since to forget someone
you loved felt like the slaughter
of a lamb. No one could tell
if God foresaw that pain
in the finitude of all things,
or if pain came as a surprise
with black draperies, flowers,
cries —  If he howled himself
to the center of himself then,
growing roots of Silence.
Had he dreamt, in his retreat,
that one would listen closely
to the wind — believing
it carried more light
than sorrow, when crossing
the frontiers of a body ?
Had he dreamt of Abel before
he came with that beast,
had he seen him leaning
on her neck, whispering
her low, nonetheless
—  letting her go ?
“This is for you,
this is my full heart”,
said the youngest, and
that echo cut through
the very stone, the willow trees,
the streets of all cities,
the high offices full
of secret arrangements,
the knife of Cain and the
constellation of The Snake.
The night filled with perfume,
humming a pact timeless as air,
and God held on to this tune
—  beyond all repair.

Girl Blue

They have all gone
the dear ones, like birds.
And no trains ever come
from those blue regions,
no plane fly there.
Absence has become
a solider season —
Spring, a violent effort
of the imagnation.
All these letters
I have sent, they
twisted my heart
into a curious shape.
I’ve gone to war.
I don’t want to talk.
If someone ask, just say —
She’s gone for a walk
or something equally

A Scream

Was the sky blue. Or light-bleached.
An answer wrapped in the rags of its banner.
Or forever sealed in the sun.
I don’t remember.
Had Silence ever desired a house.
The synagogues were closed.
The churches were closed.
I walked for hours, down
down to that door —
no one called me in.
It was a simple shelter,
an empty oratory
in an empty city.
Outside stayed the battering
of wars and all the gibberish,
inside — an echo
and the arch of the covenant
floating in a golden fresco.
The red enamel squares
forming the archangels’ wings
sparkled as scalpels,
the stones, in the walls,
annuled them by tender ocher.
I fell there, more than I knelt.
Watching the mute
vault. Yet I cannot
tell if it was bluer or redder.
Attention, they say,
taken to its highest degree,
is the same thing as prayer.
Attention is poetry.
But I didn’t come to pray.
And this is not a poem.

Enough of these calls.
Enough of these words.
I could have screamed down
a thousand shrines,
I could have stayed there
forever, howling like a beast,
all I got was silence.
So many sufferings,
secrets, having gone
through so many lungs,
stomachs, mouths.
And all we get is always

Only sometimes,
past these walls,
past these stones,
however frail and perishable
— a breathing and a beating
of a heart to disturb it.


To Rimbaud, Van Gogh and all the others.

When you will have lost everything,
the private ground on which you stood,
the sweet geometry you had learned,
the roots, the roads, the maps
leading home,
when the ways to seek God will be
obscured, when the muse will bring
only a false flavor of laurel,
when you will find no escape
in carmine wines or drugs blue,
and yet, will keep on breathing,
then maybe, all the shadows
will combine into light.
When all the music, the paintings,
the books will be of no use,
when so many people
will have entered your life
to teach you loneliness, when
the marble of statues,
empty of complaints,
will watch over you
lying on park benches at night,
when tears will be
proportioned to thirst,
then a wound will open
in a late ray of sunshine.
To heal this wound
that never closes
will become
your only ritual
your true creation.
You will go out solitary,
unanswered, breaking
against the world —
but your song will blow
the prisoner’s window,
and its clarity
your anti-destiny.