I AM THE FINE PERFUME OF A PERFECTLY FROZEN LAND

And not to fall in the middle of the street
tonight
I will write a poem made of stone.

Tonight I offer myself to you
calcine in pain
broken in silences.

I look for your body among words
and my verses are filled with sadness.

A silently dying sadness.

Ochre compact stone where I engrave
with unsuspected precision
the history of your bodies:

Feeble multicoloured butterfly
quiet
without wings
without ambitions to fly.

Rolling stones of a dead beach
beach forgotten by the frenzy of the sea.
Disquieting desire
that of your gagging body.

Disquieting love
that of your buried sex
under the quiet sand of death
where the wind will never pass again.

I have also known
your incomparable body
open

Great occasions
where everything is destroyed
or everything is forgotten.

Your body
fragile petal in my lips.
Your body
full of multitudes and gales.
Human flesh
to turn mad or live,
your body
beastly flesh of light
bird elated by its flight.

Your body in the embraces.

Kisses where your mouth
architecture of magic
pulls out from silence
pieces
brief shreds
howls of freedom.

          Menassa reciting Poetry (3.11 min.)

 

She, early in the morning, when waking up, says to me:
The new man needs a writer like you.

I have to be patient, I wanted to answer her,
the world is mine but in the page,
when I draw the diagonal of a gaze
with infinite fire, you, beloved, are here,
exactly, where I have placed you,
beautiful as ever waiting for my kisses,
the inferno, that is like saying
the eternal fire of my kisses.  

When we meet in the park,
it is difficult to look at you for a long time,
or touch you or have you or let you part. 

You don't say anything to me, but I listen to it,
I see words coming out of your lips:

Go, write verses, love me till you are fed up,
until the limit where what is perverse
injures our life with its fatal pleasure. 

Make me yours in a prolonged verse,
without gaze, without flesh, forever.   

Bird of light, you will say, bird of light,
and I will appear
over the blank paper
and will call you animal,
so that you can write
with your own hands over my body, beloved,
that poem of love
where the poet lets the quill fall
to caress the body of the beautiful one.

And the poet lets his writings fly away
and lets his money escape
and he drinks everything from the body of the beautiful one
and she, before dying, will say her things:
Today, maybe, I shall die, held up by the beast,
that insatiable thirst for love of the poet
but in this poem, I shall be alive forever.
When I realised that her reasoning
was very shocking and little commercial
I could say, sheltering myself in the bread:
I shall write some thing, but afterwards,
we shall make love in full freedom
and if enjoying we reach some peak,
with infinite tenderness, I will read you the poem.

          Menassa reciting Love letters (3.o6 min.)

CERO CLASSROOM OF FRENCH

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   PERHAPS I WILL NOT EVEN BE ABLE TO SAY IT

It was a love lost in the distances,
from the Mediterranean to the Andes.
Love of a mother who didn't have a child.
Hope of a poor without a job.

It was a love which, when imagining,
it imagined the south wind being stopped.
It was a love which allowed itself to be loved,
without passion, without fire, without songs.

It was a love which denied its existence
even in the most beautiful dreams.
A love which no one in the world
would think of it as love.

It was a love of the skin and of the stone.
The desert and a small tear.
It was a love which no one would reach:
the love of the exiled from his home town. 

         Menassa reciting Psychoanalysis (1.58 min.)

 

        Today, we shall make love like the blast furnaces
          which bend the steel without stopping its shine.

Menassa reciting Eroticism (1.18 min.)

What do you think?

Pornography   or     Eroticism

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       ALIEN TO DISTANCES I WENT TRAVERSING THE WORLD

Alien to distances, I went traversing the world,
the world of others, strong alien cities.
I never asked anyone where we were.
I was from all the countries and, at the same time, from no one.

I never knew the name of the village parties
nor the secret places, nor the flower market
and I couldn't, not even wanting, remember the dead,
their triumphs, their battles, their perfect loves.

Alien to the histories of the world, of its wars
I started creating a history where love was made
in the poem, in the deserted night, in the work,
in the stubborn turns of life, of pain.

I could never think that the world was ours,
that our love, that the food was ours,
we were singing birds but the singing was alien,
we flew with wings stolen from time,
but the road towards love was not ours,
it was time which was taking us to death,;
we flew knowing that they who waited in the highest peaks
were oblivion and nothingness,
he who loved to fly with the wings of time,
it was darkness and darkness to which insecure steps
were chained, eternal doubts about everything,
to the poor fallen bird, homeless and with no homeland.

Menassa reciting Politics or garbage recollection (2.o5 min.)
             ( Don't get desperate while downloading the video)

LETTERS FROM THE EDITOR

   POETRY ARRIVED AND TOLD ME

A yes or else a no, they made me
open new roads, abandon roads.
Until I bumped, one night, into Poetry,
I spent time flying from one side to the other
according to the whim of my tender beloved
whom from love, only knew how to make love.

Poetry told me with solvency:
To live, a man doesn't need to fly
even less going from one side to the other after his beloved.
A man must have his feet at the level of the feet.

The soul at the reach of a brief caress,
the sun over the earth at the time of the sun,
the body and the word as available rivers
and at night some dream, a love story.

A man has all his hopes on man.
A man has as a flag, freedom.
He offers water to the thirsty and fights for a piece of bread
and loves, he does as if he loves, but he doesn't know how to love.

A man, Poetry said severely,
a man knows that he will die and doesn't care.
He knows that he dies while writing and nevertheless, he writes.
He knows that each love kills him and nevertheless, he falls in love.

A man, I told her, ambitions to fly
and even though he cannot fly, he does not care.
He ambitions to fly, he loves the illusion of flying.
To feel at that instant that some day…

A man, Poetry, is capable of killing,
he is capable of eating the beloved heart,
revoltingly he erases a love kiss
and loves, from his captive lovers, their money.

Also, any afternoon, a man
allows himself to be caressed by a breeze, an air,
a feeling hits his chest
and the poor man collapses while falling in love.

And he acts as if he had blood in his veins
and jumps and runs and caresses himself frenziedly
and wants to surrender completely for love
and, then, the police comes and puts him in jail. 

Do you follow me Poetry? Man is what we are talking about.
He is capable of dying for false ideals,
capable of making war for almost no cause,
to let his other half die, in silence.

He gets into the middle of the volcano and challenges it.
He wants to pierce the oceans with his body,

To touch the immensity, the sky with his verses,
To make a hole in the womb of the mountain, the rock.

Man wants to reach with his heart beats
the unknown centre of the earth,
the intimate life of all his lovers,
he wants to reach the heart of things.

And he falls in love, Poetry,
and he rotes like a flower under the sun
when someone dies or abandons him.

Menassa reciting Letters from the editor (4.48 min.)

Indio Gris

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   THIS MATERIAL WAS RECORDED LIVE IN THE SPACE
 "AWAKENED POETS"
 THE PAST MAY, 23^TH, 2004
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