FIONA SAMPSON

Schubertiad

After String Quintet in C, D956 –

1.
The moment before it starts –
a breath –

Light stills
in the drum of a meadow,

stalls at dark oaks on a rise,
the river’s silver line.

For an instant
your stomach turns over –

as if you’ve already gone

and this minute
and the next

are memory, sweet and sharp
like iced sherbet –

Tobacco,
morning air.
Rooks call from the Vienna elms.


2.
When everything works,
world segues from beat to beat –
an almost-tuneful
falling into place

like sleepiness after sugar.
Afternoon fills
with lokum’s evasive scent,
deep notes of cherry;

it runs on like the river,
that limitless inventor
tirelessly resolving things
beside the picnic –

saucers of honey, smeared cutlery,
peaches in white linen,
and someone leaning back on cushions
to sing:

open your notebook,
catch the way she throws out notes –
lightly – as if juggling them up
to bounce back,
each the blown shape

of that burgundy-stained rose,
glottis and tonsil…

Light-soprano bloom
of meadows now thigh-deep in pollens –

3.
Wanderer, the wide river
shines in morning sun.
Between the country and the city
it runs, it runs.

You would like to run with it
to a quiet place, in fields
time and sickness never visit
and joy shields:

to follow it into the blue
beyond these suburban hills,
villas, intrigues, billets doux.
So you will –

Soon the flood and battened sluice,
detritus of a life
unrecognizable as driftwood,
on this tide

which once seemed beautiful and bright:
mere backdrop to a kiss
you borrowed from brief daylight
and brought to Dis.

4.
Waiting – the stateliest of modes –
among scrolls, acanthus,
shuttered glass
and light caught on stucco,

where each facade rises
in stillness
and stone grows,
infinitesimally:

you feel the blocks
creak and strain – Spring ice
yawing
on its tethers.

Important to keep breathing
against the freeze,
to see the city swell
with your own afflatus –

this warmth hauled
from ice
by your coke-
engine lungs.

Poor soul,
without last summer’s garlands and girls
you’re bare,
bespectacled and alone

in your rumpled bed –
where nausea rises
and falls –
which tricky god
nipped your heel, out in the fields?

Was there a gleam in the grass,
a ripple of gold?
Did you dream, in the June dusk,
you’d tie your cornstalk

to the mysterious One
with blond tendrils slipped from a chignon,
wavering in evening sun?

Short-sight veils your world.
You touch the bright curtain,

distant music –
All you can do,
slurred now with sulphur,
is wait for it to play out.

Lavinia Zainea

Scubertiad

Dupa cvintetul de viori in Do major

1.
Inainte sa inceapa-
o adiere-
Lumina stagneaza
pe denivelarea unei pajisti,

se opreste asupra stejarilor intunecati in crestere,
asupra marginii argintii a raului.

Pentru o clipa
stomacul ti se intoarce pe dos-

ca si cum ai disparut deja

si minutul acesta
si urmatorul

sunt o amintire, parfumata si puternica
precum serbetul inghetat-

Tutunul,
aerul diminetii.
Ulmii Vienei rasuna de chemarea ciorilor de camp.

2.
Cand totul functioneaza,
lumea se invarte ca pe portativ-
un deznodamant
aproape acordat

ca somnolenta dupa zahar.
Amiaza se umple
cu parfumul evaziv al lokumului,
in note de cires;

curge ca un rau,
acel inventator fara limite
rezolva neobosit lucrurile
langa picnic-

farfurii de miere, tacamuri manjite,
piersici pe lenjerie alba,
si cineva intins pe perne
care sa cante:

deschide-ti caietul,
fii atent la felul in care scoate note
usor-ca si cum le-ar impinge
sa sara inapoi,
fiecare suflate in forma

acelui trandafir patat in rosu,
glota si amigdala

O inflorire de pajisti cufundate in polen
Pe un ton usor de soprana.

3.
Ratacitorule, vastul rau
staluceste in soarele diminetii
Intre sat si oras
curge si iar curge.

Ai vrea sa te lasi purtat de el
spre un loc linistit, pe camp
timpul si boala ne ocolesc
iar bucuria ne ocroteste:

sa-l urmezi in necunoscut
dincolo de dealurile suburbane,
de vile, intrigi, billets doux.
Asta vrei-

In curand suvoiul si ecluza fixata,
detritus al unei vieti
la fel de nerecunoscut ca si plutirea,
pe aceasta mare

ce odata parea frumoasa si stralucitoare:
simplu cadru pentru un sarut
imprumutat din efemera lumina
si adus la Dis.

4.
Asteptarea- cea mai demna dintre stari-
printre pergamente, acanturi
sticla sfaramata
si stucatul scaldat in lumina,

unde fiecare fatada se inalta
in tacere
si piatra creste
la infinit:

simti caramizile
scartaind si incordandu-se-Gheata de primavara
cascand
la margini.

Important e sa respire in continuare
in ciuda inghetului,
sa vezi orasul umflandu-se
de propria-ti inspiratie-

caldura asta transportata
din gheata
de plamanii tai
ca un motor de carbuni.

Bietul de tine,
fara ghirlandele si fetele de vara trecuta
esti gol,
singur si cu ochelarii pe nas

in patul tau ravasit-
unde greata creste
si scade-
ce zeu viclean
ti-a ciupit din calcai, acolo pe camp?

Ai vazut o stralucire in iarba
o unda de aur?
Ai visat in apusul de iunie
ca iti legi firul de grau

de acea entitate misterioasa
cu carcei blonzi alunecandu-i din coc
tremurand in soarele serii?

Lumea ti-e intunecata de miopie.
Atingi perdeaua stralucitoare,

muzica in departare-
Tot ce poti face,
patat cu sulfura,
e sa lasi lucrurile sa curga.