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THE SNIPER

I shall not die in Paris on a rainy day
I shall not see Paris I gave up
that woman who might have undoubtedly persuaded me
with her public charity kiss to die in Paris on a rainy day
before growing old here
where the sniper is hiding

where the sniper is hiding in his native bush
before growing old here always counting my money
for the glass that was given to us
for the glass that was taken away from us
let the name of that glass be forever blessed
before growing old here always listening to the rain-
with the exiles and the dead-its nocturnal humming
spilt over the roof tops over Mr.Sniper's native bush.

Oh yes the initial bush with flowers and birds with bells and
churches
namely the bush where six feet under the earth did I bury
on a November day by the feel of dark
as a dog named Gustav would his good old bones
my home my spouse and(for just a little while)my inner
voice.
May you grow mushrooms,may God protect you!
Nice and easy did I arrive where I set out
to my native bush with bells and an owl-
where wretchedness is pink-coloured and prevailing where
the batrachian's atheist laughter prevails over the spirit of the
place
where the rattle-owl is'fly-fly'flying
to prevail upon the spirit of the place.

On my first face-to-face discussion with the sniper
my good old faithful dog named Carl Gustav being present
in the underground atmosphere of an outskirts bar
overwhelmed with cigarette smoke
oh that music vodka mystery
of any outskirts bar

in the afternoon,at 5 o'clock,perceiving my life to be soaring
to the skies
with each glass I was having
the sniper could not withhold his tears
and neither could my good old fox-terrier.

Such a sentimental guy this Mr.Sniper,after all.
Whenever he is drinking a frog is leaping
the batrachian is sniggering at his sniper tears.
Those few customers have just vanished away
that rascal barkeeper
the bodyguard and the striptease-girl all seemed to have
disappeared
fearing the approach of the sniper.
This is always the case in any outskirts bar.

I was just telling my good old fox-terrier
it was time I had left after tumbling my last glass
made to the door and up to the skies with my glass
and that mental rose within
when Mr.Sniper started producing
rough typical belching,one of the most personable
voices I have ever heard:

...Sir,hic

The string's ghost is haunting the world it is rounding up the
millennium, hic
with more than a justified grudge,h[c-h[c
I was born into a world (sorry if repeating myself) pulled by
strings
in the winter of '53 . I can see strings stretching out in the air
as telegraph wires and swallows upon them
invisible wires swallows everywhere
in quite any position one might be pulling the strings
swallows are flying
over and through my head everywhere nice and easy have I
become a puppet on a string I gather
I came to feel the string in my stool
like one who had been fed with strings ever since early
school.

Wherever one goes one can see one's fellow creature being
pulled by strings
livings one's tough life by the string's
religion
in churches made by strings new string-made people are
kneeling
praying with ecstatic tears
towards their string-made God...

The string's metaphysic is death by hanging.
Its love : the votive light oil the flickering mystic flame.

So many massacres behind the string-made inextricable
texture
Yalta - Malta.So many horrors.If for instance I the sniper
you the poet and that damned fox-terrier
endeared all with our glass do forget for a while
that somewhere someone is pulling the strings of our lives

hand head and feet-strings
we are as if dead. Well the red thread
linking the White House to the Kremlin is but a little string,is
it not?
all that secrecy , the pulling at the strings,the co-called
diplomacy
without a string,without any string-spirit
are inconceivable-peanuts.
The palpable,the sole reality
is the string itself.

So many nights on end have I heard the string wailing
and the string-maker lies in his tomb.

All as one with either awe nausea or with grace
as flies would we are struggling in the old string-maker's net.
Blood and bone string,that is the daily / pocket cocktail.
In the seas,in the string-makers's net the big,the small fish
and in between the man-bait-nothing-at-all...

While he was beating about the bush,the sniper kept
recovering
his inner strenght,his balance,his calm.
Customers reappeared-the barkeeper,that striptease-girl,
(the bodyguard did not jump over the fence)-in recollected
liveliness.Again the cigarette smoke the outskirts music
thick noises a certain mystery.And suddenly soaring
in that stale air the night's revelation-the sniper's iron fist
Then in spite of myself my body dashed
in just two jumps out through the door tugged by
the old fox-terrier his soul itself
the frog that blood-thirsty batrachian
splashed into the glass

from the sniper's mouth straight into the district pool.

Last night the angel did not show up I did not write
Last night,waiting for the sniper
with Iova Bocoa plus my good old fox-terrier Carl Gustav
in the so-called"At the fine artists'Cafe"in Sf. Voievozi
I felt that my well-being of an exiled among people
had been somewhat blurred.I did not write.
I did not make any photo of my poem although
I myself am the camera to shoot the sniper.What
I want to say is that a Roman-Catholic nun is not only
claiming that she has seen the Christ,but that she also made
a photo of Him.
Augusto P.who developed the film maintains:
"This nun is not lying.
I have no doubt at all on those photos' authenticity".

This night I let myself carried away by sleep the animal the
hippopotamus plunged in the waters of sleep.I did not write
at The Guide on the Poet's Survival,although I was
purposely born
to write The Guide on the Poet's Survival.
The impossibility of writing anything has wrung me out as a
dirty rag
the mere though of my impossibility of writing anything
made me feel exhausted before I put pen to paper.
Days and nights and weeks on end have I been haunted
by a great poem G.P.S.,its breath
especially now in springtime when Saturn enters Pisces
is about to be blooming on the white unwritten page
it hesitates it's withdrawing just now when I begin
to fervently sketch its contour the flickering

from behind the white unwritten page. What I mean to say :
Is it possible that this could be one of Christ's faces?

Archbishop Milingo :"I was there while sister Anna
was making those photos. I did not see anything
but she rapidly made to her feet took the camera
and started making photos as if
someone had been there in front of her".

Sister Anna 27 years old coming from Kenya:
"ever since late 1991 I lave had more than 200
visions of Jesus.On each occasion before starting
to talk to me I felt like in a trance
and began writing down His messages. He told me:
There are many who would not listen to what I say because
they do not believe in My existence.I make myself seen in
order to pick up the souls that belong to Me".

Yesterday night I did not write. I did not make any photo of
the sniper although I myself am the camera to shoot the
sniper.
There's more to it: Carl Gustav was right
to have patience with us (while caressing his goatee
sorry:his little pad) over a glass: gentlemen,it's no use
telling
other stories than those about the way in which
eternal life runs through provisional life,is it?
We laughed without saying anything.
Our embarrassment made us strike a match
and light up cigarettes.
Iova astride the old fox-terrier's bite:
"when out of Beauty's sight I choke".
George that was bit by his glass:"during those three endless
months
when detained in Satu-Mare I wrote in my mind the volume
The Doomed Railway Station.
Each morning at four o'clock I would be playing chess
all by myself.And suddenly I would write one poem.
One poem after the other,one morning after the other-when
leaving
I asked the director-Sir,would you keep me in here for one
more month
to write poetry-that son-of-a-bitch would not let me".

After this at the break of day the thousands legs
of my faithful dog were flickering in my glass.
I drank no more.
After this politics money the atheist batrachian
the poor devils striving for a poor discouraged art
beside a small brushwood fire
drank no more.

After this there was a feast of the Jews and Jews went up to
Jerusalem.
Now there is at Jerusalem by the sheep market a pool which
is called in Hebrew tongue Be-thes'-da having five porches.
In these lay a great multitude of impotent folk,of blind,halt,
withered,waiting for the moving of the water.
For an angel went down at a certain season into the pool and
troubled the water:whosoever then first after the troubling of
the water stepped in was made whole of whatsoever disease
he had.

And Jesus kneeling down was writing with His finger on the
earth.

Would it be possible that this poem did not comprise old age
death and resignation
(I do believe in Thee,oh God help me with my lack of faith)
when a young wife on her death-bed
had been waiting for nearly ten years sometimes resigned
sometimes praying with tears
that her one and only God
sent her a sing of recovery
grew old without receiving anything during these endless ten
years
but her daily glass of milk the uncooked meal
and the certainty of en ever crueller destiny
and the helpless man not being able to ultimately seal death's
spectre
into a magical poem.

This cruel destiny finally came to disgust her
not less than her one and only God and the daily glass of milk
the uncooked meal and the dully smiling heart
of the helpless man.

There is no way back
to the initial state of your face
as God in His benevolence sent us diseases and death
to try our smiling heart its limits for ascent
through those years of facing failure
after the common burial.
That is what God was meant for.

Yesterday night I did not write for the Guide on the Poet's
Survival.
I drank with my friends in the Sf. Voievozi Plaza
we picked up a quarrel with the Bite.

That is what friends were meant for.

I did not make any photo of my poem
although I myself am the camera to shoot the poem
although I am sister Anna born in Kenya and living up in
Rome
archbishop Milingo good old Carl
Gustav the fox-terrier that is caressing his little pad
my young wife on her death-bed I am
the impotent folk at the pool in Be-thes'-da the finger with
which
Jesus kneeling down wrote.What he actually wrote down
there
in the dust we shall never know .As we do not know
whosoever of us will die in Paris on a rainy day.
As we do not know the place where the sniper is hiding.
As there are so many things that we do ignore....


March 1995

English Version :Alexandra Diaconescu - Popa