Poem 1
Conversation Between An Artist And A Museum Curator
A tiger from outer space landed on my shoulders. What can I do, except give the wild beast’s claws my brushes? Here’s what came of it.
Museum Curator: Yes, that’s very nice, but what are you going to do with all this? No one will buy it. You’ll starve to death. You’d better go to the employment office.
Artist: No one will buy it? Why? This thing is so brilliant, it’s shinier than all the gold in the jewelry stores. See for yourself… don’t you see?
MC: Maybe I do, but the buyer can’t see it. He won’t believe his eyes, because he’s been fooled endlessly. Besides, he doesn’t need art anymore. I keep the important works of art in the museum and everyone is welcome to enjoy them. The buyer gives me absolute trust.
A: I understand. They won’t buy my work, because its sample is not in the catalog of the museum you founded and so highly value.
MC: Yes. Your intuition doesn’t lie. Works of art cannot be homeless. They are taken into account by art historians like me, and sold as required at spring and fall auctions. It’s all for the buyer’s convenience, there’s no muscle here. That’s why everyone appreciates, loves and I would say pampers us.
A: Everything is calculated except for one thing…. What will happen to the Artist? There is no room left in your perfect machine for us, not even one inch.
MC: Of course, artists are unknown and harmful bacteria, which must be isolated and neutralized as much as possible, if necessary they go to yeast. In most cases, the rooms must be disinfected to make them clean after these artists.
A: Your majesty, perhaps I can hope that if the tiger cannot overcome me, and I do not die of hunger.. and if at the employment office they won’t hurt me… perhaps I can hope for your blessing, Your Majesty, even in the distant future?
MC: I doubt it very much. You do not seem to me a person suitable for my blessing. Look at my feet, they are tired- can you bring spring water and wash them? Look at my hands, they are dirty and covered with wounds – can you wash them with tears and cover them with kisses? Look at my pockets, they are holed and worn – can you fill them with silver and gold?
A: I’m afraid not.
MC: That’s what I thought too. Nowadays, no one dies of hunger, I hope you can find another way to die. I share your sorrow in advance. I want to wish you health and success. Live faithfully!
Poem 2
We Die Often, Not Always
We die often, not always.
Prisoned in a circle of reincarnation.
Shamelessly invading
the lives of strangers, families or cities.
We forget our costumes
people, sex, the mountain’s curve, weather.
In oblivion we all, we all
spend days, often years.
We are like tourists arriving to ourselves
passing in front of relatives, as in front of strangers
We go to wars and even there
cannot keep ourselves from shooting,
as if in a distorted mirror, we are broken in half.
We multiply without any means
of contraception for our existence.
Our memories reach the brink
that is out of our delirium’s reach.
Coming home only occasionally.
Like a guest, like a thief, like a detective.
We rummage through closets
We are looking for something.
From ghosts, we are asking for a glass of water.