The holy figure simply heads to you,
while the book of saints cries out in
the shadows. My Lord, I’m between
pages and rages as anything before.
I’m begging you, I’m emptying you,
I’m standing like a light post on the
street. I’m humbling myself to grey
out all historical and hysterical time.
The knowledge went out of my skin,
while fairies pinch with deep pencils
the surface of white through the ink.
I grew out of silver to melt into gold.
Alchemy is my middle name scratched
with waxed fingers into the tree trunk.
Kabala is my stepmother married with
all my unknown fathers on an Irish hill.
Mephisto(pheles) to Faust
Last letter dated “September”
Dearest friend, I’m writing to you with
most pleasure and hopefulness, looking
forward to receiving from you an open
answer to my dark questions and marks.
I’m not yet alone, but sentenced to be in
a couple of weeks. Your holly buddy sat
with the book on his knees frowning to it
and scratching the sky with bony memory.
I’m set to sail to the vicious world of sin,
to tremble and to mumble here and there,
bound to eternally bridging the gap between
ever-lasting and ever-drastic. For the sake
of time: Latin is the language of the adverb
Quandoquidem, nequiquam, postremo, nunc
With Herodotus’ voice, verbs and adverbs of
a story plot to be truth’s guardians and ghosts.
Faust to his friend
a letter to be sent by the next post
I have red on my fingers and red on the page,
I have life-red words on every walk through
the ancient tale. Her name comes scarlet-y as
a hint in a social conversation. Little by little,
veil and hair blown by time, inflicted on the
wall-mirror, change in leaf, branch, smell or
road, winter and white lines. Same red on my
steps: I travel by boat, train or by thought to
reach the time of her whisper. She was a dark
present, you were a light messenger. Together
you built up the most amazing legend of love
and betrayal. I still have red on my fingernails.
Prologue in the forest
If your left and right hands are tied
to silence and despair, say out loud
the words of the song until they dip
into your mouth like wailing sirens.
When suddenly you receive a letter
with signs, finger prints, and sweat
on the paper, listen to it: a preacher
for your personal use in the shadow.
With glimmer, the past comes back
to haunt and to slaughter brows and
wrinkles, lips and smiles, tears and
pillows, nightmares and nightstands.
During the summer, the body moves
easily, faking a shape or a deep desire.
As for the winter, something gives up
to return later covered in smoky eyes.
Diana Andrasi completed her studies in philology at the University of Bucharest, followed by a master’s degree and a PhD in Comparative Literature at the University of Montreal. As cohost of Struggling Academics videocast and book-reviews blog contributor, she addresses various topics ranging from contemporary literature to history and philosophy. She wrote articles, poems, and essays in both English and French. She lives in Montreal, Canada.