Gabriela PACHIA

Hey, Loppy !

Apricot tree for you, apricot tree for me,

my word of rounded gold divides by two.

Would you be the brunified sour cherry branchlet, too,

– antipickles in the flank of the cucumber-years –,

and the horseradish root of histories, pitying himself,

the Mioritic Shepherd barking Black-Sifting,

the rose moss temerarious under the trough,

flatbread from crunching rye seeds,

the red satiny salmon, the saturnalia of mauve irises,

the steadfast doorstep of heavy water,

my male blackbird with coronary stent,

warbling the everness of your everness,

would you be the comma, the caesura, the mensura,

to vault my hopes, the enclasping distich,

my purple sage, my hydromel in times of florification,

would you be the strumming airy-fairy grass

on the cosmopolitic meadow, constellating

apricot, pear, quince trees, bilberries, rowanberries,

sprightly fulgurations, slipped under Heaven’s door !

Let’s cut through the fustian charade !

Be the one mind die of infiniteness

and the enclosure’s portly crop !


Asklepian vs. Caducean

Much too late, when we recover from peering at the skies,

the saline lanterns have nothing new to advertise…

No longer do the gurgling fountains give us stock troubles

as soon as petit-bourgeois microphones free us from bubbles.


Nightingales would fly as monitorially as falcons float,

sapphires muffle up our memories and the sapience road…

The trunk’s year rings engirdle unimpeachable secrecies,

while we resort for advice to unbridled boomerang fallacies.


The bells of the married garden wake us from the deep slumber,

dwarfs petrified in corn poppy supervise the reading class umber.

With each crack of the circle there rise angels, gush panthers…

Under the clay layer, ammeters heal our lust for wealth heathers.


After restoring myths, the negation of the negation maltreats them.

Oversimplifying, we lay bitumen on partially rhyming love gems.

And soon the motoroebuck gallop confusedly, uneager to risk,

the constellated self-portraits heal the cherished butterfly frisk.


And there’s the hedge garlic tincture, the Saga Spray puffs,

the duets in a world with albumin and hop in excess, love’s bluffs,

predilections for Passifloras, baking chocolate, ghosts and foes,

the cure of anaphylactic darkness, the immature births of ice floes


It’s gruelling work to disentangle from the anaconda illusions…

Urban tendresse broadcasts low-frequency from dome elusions…

Facing Cordelia, we imperturbably pile up bricks of fog,

we potter around, in possession, saturated with life’s weblog.


Low Moderate Blustery

I battle like a tree,

I face down ravenous gusts of gritty winds,

low – moderate – blustery…

Oh, look at rivalry parading around its glossy biceps… !

What a flowery calico cosmopolitism can weave… !

So many diplomas spewed by the meritocracy arpeggios… !

So many blisters of strepsils honey & lemon lozenges

and so much gregarious chamomile tea gargle concentrate

swallowed by the globalised domestic fresh fragrance

powder laundry detergent ads… !

My roots crumble down

the ferroconcrete history of the block of flats,

the plates of tectonic lie, the pestilential basement

boxes teemed with lathes and video cameras,

the earthworms’ burrows first class finishing ,

the family albums of the sedge generations, genetically

malformed, the pollyannas, the mollyblooms…

My roots chat with the existential lilies of the valley,

with the chlorophyll drainage system,

eavesdropping on the death toll

from the freon-addicted cherry tree,

after the violet-blue betrayal of the nipped plum…

The dandelions and the irises realise

how much I loathe the hiccup of the lawn mower

and the milk of lime which mummifies my thoughts,

how I scratch the jungle tramp instigated on the upper floors,

how I tear off the lesson plans, the five-year plans gone adrift,

how I unstitch the sand magniloquence, the limp ephemerides,

how I spit out the chloramine of punctilious overtopping crowns,

the saponification of the rain, the garden shears

of my industrious neighbour, defacing my icon,

how I deracinate licentiated crows

and wolf blizzards, ready to besiege…

Over the grumbling inflatable dreams,

I branch out magnolia purple, the orchard metatext,

the astronomy of the blackbirds, the bamboo flute,

the starry hymn of the hexagonal budding water

and diligent, indefatigable summery crickets,

the crystals of my and your self-oblivion…

I battle like a tree,

low – moderate – blustery,

but I won’t deliver a chest of drawers… !

English version by Gabriela PACHIA