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Ivy on the Wall

Ivy on the Wall

I push the vacuum cleaner
Up and down,
Stairs, bedrooms, stairs, basement
Laundry room, stairs and sitting room.
On the attic wall, green, contorted – an ivy
Is struggling to get to the roof.
It is not alive – is painted on the wall;
The old soul of the house wanted
Its signature there, a mark on the house
Over the wood ceiling of the kitchen.

Is it a curse
Ivy is not for good luck
everyone knows that.
I have seen,
This house was not a lucky place
Should I paint over it a four-leaf clover
When I leave the house?
No way to leave the ivy there!

Noise, songs in the back yard
cardinals, squirrels, doves
the entire garden is under the spell
of a big blue jay; having
no fear of anything and no one
a small woodpecker makes
itself busy on the lilac.

No, I wont leave the curse with this house
I’d better take a brush and
paint a green,
luxurious four-leaf clover
over the ivy in the attic
The four-leaf clover is for good luck
Everyone knows that.


I followed the grassy way near the river bed
Slopping up, slopping down

The way was widening into the sky
One side lined with pastures,
The other side, to my left,
With a forest of young dark-greenish pines.
Houses, barns, decrepit stores followed
And amazed cattle witnessed my wanderings.

Suddenly in front of me
The large horizon emerged
Projected in the open space.

Stunned I hung there between the sky
And the bright-golden wheat…
I was dust, lit by the sun in the brutal midday light,
Blinded, I sought the horizontal line
Where the blue-marine sky dissipated
Into the deep yellow of Van Gogh’s champ de ble.

Dizzy, at the mercy of the burning sky
I slowly melted into golden wheat.

Who said Van Gogh was insane?


A big wind is blowing in my garden
bending the little acacia tree.

Alone outside in front of my window,
the little tree is afraid.
The little acacia tree tries
to win my acceptance
Bent over again and again
is knocking at my window;
He doesn’t know how he’ll survive
His first winter.
The little acacia tree wants
to be let in the house
And is knocking at my window

The little acacia tree, alone outside
Tries to win my confidence
It is knocking at my window
It wants to win me, to be let in my house.

My heart is tearing apart. I ask it:
“Do you want to come in?
This will be at your peril!”
The little acacia tree, alone outside
By itself try to win my heart
It is knocking at my window
To be let in my warm house.
“Are you sure you want in?”
Later on, almost stiff with cold,
The little acacia tree said:
“No! I’ll stay outside; I’ll survive!”


White August’ sky, deserted streets
Deserted parking lots, dry bushes
and yellow willow trees,
A sordid town this town of Marcovaldo.

Alone in his empty city,
Marcovaldo had nowhere to go, nothing to do
But Marcovaldo is not unhappy;
This way the town is his
The coin has yet two faces:
To him, deserted town is friendly again
No cars, no horns, no noises…
No traffic jam in intersections
No people pushing at the entrance
of shopping malls;
No crowd to wait in stations for the train.
Marcovaldo chews his sandwich from
his lunch box; gulps his coca-cola and
walks the middle of the streets.

As long as it has but only him
The town makes friends with Marcovaldo.
Empty of cars, the streets open wide before him
Inviting him to stroll around.
Austere some other times, the buildings -
Still sealed in theirs ramparts -
Look friendly to Marcovaldo
As a bird he whistles.

Then Marcovaldo realizes the truth:
The unconscious life of things took over town;
water main bust out;
trees roots’ invade the asphalt and push it up;
moths jam under the fabric shop’ sign;
Chinese bugs proliferate under the bark of trees;
ants follow the track known only by them

which goes under the scarab beetle hard shell;
caterpillars go up in every tree busy themselves turning the leaves in laces

A car in middle of his street!
Oh! what a nuisance! lost in thought
Marcovaldo is almost run down by it.
A bunch of youngsters take him for a target; put
Lights on him and ask him questions;
Marcovaldo thinks he is interviewed…
and almost faints
When a beauty of a girl descends from a red car…
She’s to be filmed while bathing in main town's fountain

Does Marcovaldo dream? He rubs his eyes
“Here I am in midd’ August,
Pushing the heavy movie lights-track
around and around the fountain”
People are splashing in the fountain, laughing
And Marcovaldo doesn’t know a thing.

The town, this traitor, offered the place of honor
to strangers, forgetting Marcovaldo;
But Marcovaldo understands:
the beautiful woman is the reason

Marcovaldo knows in crude September
the town will be his and only his;
He will remember and treasure this moment…
Seating in town’s welcoming lap,
eating his sandwich
He’ll dream about this summer;
He’ll keep the summer secret to himself.

Nota Observator;

Poezille de mai sus fac parte din noul volum de poezie pe care Mariana Popa il va publica in aceasta primavara

Mariana Popa este freelance writer in Toronto si se specializeaza in articole despre arhitectura, decoratii interioare, calatorii si natura.

Poate fi gasita la ada@info-corp.com

by Mariana Popa    3/3/2007


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