‘The Mother’ and other poems
by Ema Dumitriu
In fleeing me, my wrath,
my fear
a female rat is giving birth
on the hot sidewalk,
steadily,
trailing behind a streak of blood
with child
Perhaps life’s about pre-possession—
And what’s your pleasure, madam?
fresh watermelon, please,
stocked full with grace
You and I
share a mouth
a pair of eyes
the lesser flesh of mirrors
in soluble blue sky
This is my life in the vernacular
cold cellar of fire
breathed out
with every pang
needed and needful
This is my life in the vernacular
keep quiet beyond silence
and root for it
Ars Poëtica
It only takes one or two mislaid stones
To make the river sing, susurrus kindly
A piece of wood turns gelatine in water
Like human bone, susceptible to sea change
It takes whole libraries to build a poem
And I don’t want to think about my life
No, I don’t want to worry
I want to slowly be absorbed into this earth
Softened and cushioned, and I will plant
Myself into these words, like gravel
I am now engulfed and I make loud
Dissonant music, stepping on every chord
And string of solitude, without a hiss
Trees rattle their leaves above me
In echelon inclusion of lisps.
Two men I’ve loved, and endless poetry
Their mining fathers soaked up a film of
Soulful oil, running this salt into the ground.
Split oak trunk, split tree, sutured with iron
Crosses, preventing the river bleed
Tame beasts will cluster near the riverbank
Their fear crouched into silence, white plume
Of fume ascending the crude sky…
So let the woman knead water one time,
Two times, her load is her life
Now rising and falling in frog swelling
Strife, all hops and hearts
Breath
The mask is all you’ve got.
Rest here a while
In summer’s fire and solstice
The croaking lake, a magnifying
Glass. Sun’s trickling perforations
Atonal tree in lucid green
Your puny pupil whirring off
In disembodied beauty.
Bereft of light, ablaze
The meadow’s fine inflections
Keen wrinkles of amputated
Feeling, soldiering on.
For so long I’ve been trying
To catch you
Uncelloed, wispy, soaring
Carried by water, earth, and sound
A robin chained by wind.
Longing
Perhaps the clown
who keeps pulling out those
cheerful handkerchiefs
from his breast pocket
—and they keep coming—
is what that wistful word
denotes
Ema Dumitriu is a Romanian-born poet who writes in English due to a lifelong fascination with this language. She holds degrees in English and Comparative Literature, from University College London and King’s College London. Her poetry has been featured in Midway Journal, Tint Journal, Not Very Quiet and Masque & Spectacle. She currently lives in Bucharest.
Note from the editor:
Hey there, it’s Kate Tsurkan, editor-in-chief. Literary magazines like Apofenie are able to remain up and running first and foremost thanks to the support of their readers. Please consider becoming a paid member today and helping our community grow.
