“Terrible World” by Benjamin Zephaniah

I wrote about this poet on my Romanian blog – plutacupaparude – where I “post” my own poems. His poems are disturbing, I already read two books – Too Black, Too Strong and PROPA PROPAGANDA  – and almost everything I found about him on the Internet. For me, Benjamin Zephaniah is a modern-day François Villon.

I hope that Benjamin Zephaniah will not be upset on me if I write one poem on my blog.

Terrible World
I’ve seen streets of blood
Redda dan red
There waz no luv
Just bodies dead
And I think to myself
What a terrible world.
I’ve seen pimps and priests
Well interfused
Denying peace
To the kids they abuse
And I think to myself
What a terrible world.
The killer who’s hero
The rapist who’s indoors
The trade in human cargo
And dead poets on tours
I’ve seen friends put in jail
For not being rich
And mass graves made
From a football pitch.
I’ve seen babies scream
Nobody cared
Civilians starve
Whilst troops are prepared
And I think to myself
What a terrible world
Yes I think to myself
What a terrible world.

‘Fire and Ice’ by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desires
I hold with those who favor  fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I  think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is  also great
And  would suffice.
It is one of my favorite poem. Shortly, sharply and directly.
Not to many words, but a sincere exteriorisation.

On Sunday

It’s a fresh rainy evening
I climb up to the nacreous clouds
you stay lean on your elbow you are famous
you write in your notebook:
‘nothing could be simpler that this water notepaper
it’ll be sun tomorrow her words will disappear’
I climb up to the stones I’m soaking wet I tremble
stones tremble you tremble
wolves of December look
at us with sad-eye
I arrived home I closed the all windows
I opened the written session
till on next world I have an open-house
for those who want to read
‘The Diary of The One Single Sunday’
by Ela Roseni
P.S. A resounding Sunday
(read here in Romanian)

The soul of waters says me something… I cannot understand it yet…

On Friday

my body is a place of constant protest
all last night I wove the frost in your hair
and it was well. and it was one night
a night which feed us with white plants of frost
we saw a lot of people like us – freezing
on the big playing field of the illusions
we could see the universes in motion
the places of constant protests
we are standing in our frost nest
we are eating some of the apples of winter
and we are drinking rum till walls of tobacco turn white
everything is white. an uninterrupted strip of white paper
a white pool in which we are safely entering
to pick water lilies and irritate swans
we don’t know on what day we are
we don’t remember in which day we met
and I cannot write my name on you.
and you cannot write your name on me

(you can read in Romanian here)


On Thursday

there are the paper clouds
where I write words with the black wine
the angels will read the angels will recite
my poems
the angels will get drunk with my poems!
it’s Thursday in the city of dark glass
and it is snowing now in the city of rains
in my veins other worlds grow up
untill the morning
the grey city will be covered by paper – 
the signs of writing
(read in Romanian here )

On Wednesday

It’s raining. I am going out on the balcony. Black angel, don’t rebuke me! I’m so thirsty!
I am hearing thousand of white horses and the fight dogs of the city
And the Subway has no destination
a golden beetle is sitting motionless on my sleeve
black angel, don’t drag me in the sand of clepsydra!
black angel, don’t drag me in the sky!
don’t feed me with so many chimeras!
I am singing on the balcony about
this sleepless night
which I inebriate with a bottle of sweet wine
from the cellar of thoughts squashed by the quiet lights
(read Romanian version here)

On Monday/Lunea

In every Monday/ In fiecare zi de luni
I write about the roads of the dry forest/ scriu despre drumurile din padurea uscata
A brown squirrel runs through the room/ o veverita maro alearga prin camera
It stops near my desk smashes nuts/ se opreste langa biroul meu sparge alune
a white wolf with bright eyes sits on my scarf/ un lup alb cu ochi stralucitori se asaza pe esarfa mea
from my heart gush a lot of ink planets/  din inima mea tasnesc o multime de planete de cerneala
and cling of antlers of the red deer /  si se agata de coarnele cerbului rosu
like a soap bubble full of life/ca un balon de sapun plin de viata
everything while I still browse among thoughts of snow/ totul in timp ce eu mai rasfoiesc printre gandurile de zapada
In every Monday/ in fiecare zi de luni
I run barefoot in Hyde Park / alerg desculta in Hyde Park
I run and I  run then I take over again and again/ alerg si alerg apoi o iau de la capat
perhaps I will have much more luck in this life/ poate voi avea mai mult noroc in aceasta viata
(Other days
– We know: days go one by one –)
In Kensington Gardens

In Hyde Park



mă dor îngrozitor palmele genunchii ochii
vinerea trecută m-au durut plămânii
se crapă o uşă ies văd
boschetarul deschide o conservă îi aruncă o privire câinelui fără stăpân
îi aruncă un sfert din conservă
la fel ca toată lumea astăzi am trecut pe lângă situaţii dramatice
am trecut…
dacă nu e deţinut sau câine sau animal de circ omul este atât de ieftin
îl păcălesc angajatorii politicienii bancherii asigurătorii vânzătorii ghicitorii
pe toată durata contractului lui de viaţă
eu plec să mă stabilesc pe o frunză poate mă ia vântul poate
mă ia cu mătura angajatul primăriei poate mă ridică
un poet ajung semn de carte între
paginile unui volum de versuri…
marinela şerban
bat la uşă:  bibliodevafiliala3   almanahe   flaviusobeada  turistclujan dumitruagachi
dordefemeie gabrielailies  dragoscalinescu  androxa  stropidesuflet 
revistapensionarul  pluta