`
THE STAGE DIRECTOR
An acquaintance of mine induced me to go with her
and see a play staged by an avant-garde theatre company.
Only afterwards did I realize that she was solely interested
in the director who flirted with her.
She had done her best to be admired.
She wore a provocative close-fitting miniskirt
and a tight leather jacket.
Obvious and not in the least controlled were her fluster,
her blushing,
and every now and then the stumbling of her speech.
She reminded me of a teenager on her first date,
regardless that she was rather getting on.
Everything had an inglorious end.
The stage directorʼs indifference turned her cold
when they spoke backstage –
the romance was immediately dissolved.
The theatrical performance was dull and boring.
Coming back in the cold winter night,
the provocative dress of my acquaintance
was to be pitied.
`
*
SUBDUED LIGHT IN THE BAR
Weʼve known each other for long.
You have become an obsession.
Not even for a second can I take my eyes
off you.
The subdued light in the bar lights only
half of your lovely face.
Looking at you this very moment:
the light and shadows on your face,
the innocent and enchantingly risky,
the visible and invisible.
What enchantingly risky
you might have
hurls me to an unknown darkness.
`
*
STARTS
A stormy efflorescence.
Her beloved is about to appear.
Waiting shakes her
with ceaseless starts,
not even for a moment does she leave the window.
Before he rings the bell
sheʼll see him crossing the road.
A mighty pandemonium,
a stormy efflorescence for her beloved.
`
*
LUSCIOUS MAGIC
How well do I know every inch
of the back street that led to your door.
There Iʼd stand impatient for long
waiting for you.
In your back street was the prelude
to the luscious magic you were preparing for me,
the ideal seduction,
my surrender to you.
`
*
GRIEF
“I feel like jumping off the balcony
and do away with myself, bite the dust!”
She uttered this without crying out.
When you already feel death, you donʼt cry out.
She took care of her mentally deficient child.
Abandoned,
caught in a trap,
confined to her grief.
Her husband didnʼt give a damn.
He enjoyed himself on the seafronts and in various joints
with his new conquests.
`
*
MARGIN
Charwoman for stairs, houses. Taverns.
Now old aged, poor and alone.
Whenever I go by that shack
where she lived,
in me rush her words:
“On a pitiless margin is my life.
Torments suffer death.
I am shrunk up with death.
