SCARLET LEAF REVIEW HAS JUST TURNED SIX!

Hello, dear readers and writers,

Six years have already passed since we started our journey together. 

It's been an adventure, with lows and highs, but I think we have learned a lot from each other, and we have come enriched in soul and minds at the other end. 

Maybe you don't remember, but this review is dedicated to Mihai Eminescu, a treasure not only in Romanian literature but also in the universal one. Eminescu, The Morning Star of the Romanian literature, as the poet is often called, touched every corner of people's life.

His poems speak about emotions, tribulations, political and social unrest, and traditions and historical events. 

Eminescu was born on January 15, 1866. This literary review was born on January 15, 2016, 150 years apart. Still, I am convinced that the diversity of the works published in this magazine would have delighted the poet. 

In his honour, but also to celebrate the sixth anniversary of the review, we present one of his poems and the poems of six contemporary poets. I have no doubt that they would have made Eminescu proud of those who came after him. 



​

​Sibanda is the author of Notes, Themes, Things And Other Things, The Gushungo Way, Sleeping Rivers, Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing, Football of Fools, Cutting-edge Cache, Of the Saliva and the Tongue, When Inspiration Sings In Silence, The Way Forward, Sometimes Seasons Come With Unseasonal Harvests, As If They Minded:The Loudness Of Whispers, This Cannot Be Happening :Speaking Truth To Power, The Dangers  Of Child Marriages:Billions Of Dollars Lost In Earnings And Human Capital, The Ndaba Jamela and Collections and Poetry Pharmacy.  Sibanda's work has received Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations. Some of his work has been translated into Serbian and German.

A Pain She Paints With Poetry 
​

​he says a poem that shines a light
on her tenderness is a delight
she says a piece that pieces
together the intricacies
of their union
is a canyon
 
an ache she can`t dislodge 
is an infinite and unseen gorge
whose river patters, pours with passion
into her like a cloud that carries an abrasion 
she claims that there is sweet poetry in her pain
that drives her hurt heart to prance like a pounding rai

A Pretty Prodigy From Binga 
​

​she had been written
off by prophets of doom
who define and confine
one based on their whims
 
hailing from deep down
in Binga, rustic and poor,
the diviners of disasters
looked down upon her
 
but professors  professed
that her sharpness was
on a raised, rare podium,
an acuteness`s stadium, 
and her  accessories and
clothing were intuitions
  
on a rump, Ntombi cruised
and danced and devoured 
a feast of words, a fashion
show of figures and facts
 
a studious student studied
like a supermodel catwalking
to high acclaim on a walkway
of elegance and intelligence, 
her confidence conferred rays
of sunshine, polish and  poise
 
on the pages of assignments, 
exams and heavy cogitations,
she shamed scholarly schemes
and hypnotized her professors
 

People, Please Pour In Some Adoration and Awe 
​

​I cherish the magic of words that shows a reader
how I am in love with trees, sunsets and sunrises,  
poetry is my potent love and my labor of love,
yet people say poetry is one of the most
uncelebrated and underfunded artforms,
a pull-down poetry syndrome does not
in any way mean I am not enamoured
of poetry and its power and its role in life, 
for without poetry how would I sing, swim
in the ecstasy of the wild and nature?  
for without poetry how would I hear
the voices of the deeps, brooks, birds?
how would I explore the landscapes,
the human condition, the weather
patterns, the finery, controversies
and complexities of life? 
poetry, I pardon humans,
I am here to bare realities
for, I think,  they err
on fostering fairness
as they fail to give
you what you merit!  
 
lovely, lively, fathomable, fun poetry,
please pave way for the perfect pour
of my thoughts, blood and emotions
so that I may not long to escape
the insanity that rules and marks
your words ,world and wisdom
and call them a misplaced family
for in your oddness and boldness
is my safety, soundness and sanity,
and where I see the world through
the prism of probe and preparation,
products that baptize me with visions  
and hence it`s my superb, stable family! 
 
please profound, philosophical poetry 
bond me with your voltage and verve,
protect me with your prime punch-
your profundity, power and precision,  
bond me in a bold and intense fashion   
as I savor each page of your digest and devour
each word ,each sound, each line and each stanza,
allow me to unwrap your splendor which empowers me
to capture all the magic and wonder of your ageless urgings,
let me seize my hot and much-loved cup of Ethiopian tea
and nestle under a comfy blanket and be transported afar! 

Face-to-face With A Faceless Face 
​

​the sun had rolled and retired
into the cheerful cuddle of its mom,
giving way to a dense dusk to dance,
and nocturnal creatures to creep,
shamble and sing their silly songs,
 
late, she was stomping and singing
in a bid to give herself a false sense
of fearlessness, freeness and fun,
a hunch herded her to turn around
and take an abrupt look, and Lord!
  
there was something unfamiliar
about the fast fellow’s familiarity,
she couldn’t figure out who he was,
but his gaiety appeared like a sight
her eyes were used to slapping on,
 
but who is he? what is he up to?
is he rushing to catch up with me?
would he not harm me? would he say
hi? would he propose to me? would
he accept a direct or diplomatic snub?
 
there was an air of awkwardness,
quickness and foreignness about him
that made her hair to stand on end:
who is this long-limbed loose rover?
look at his robotic speed, his lankiness!
 
if only I had a cheetah`s legs that are longer
and leaner than those of other cats .. .then
I would lift them off the ground and cross them
underneath my body while abounding along!
If a were a horse I would lengthen my stride
 
and transition from a careful ,cute canter
to a  faraway, flying and fierce gallop,  
if a hole could just heave up and swallow
me up, if I had left home earlier…if…
if that man had just left me alone…
 
she lamented, labored,  reflected;
pondered, prayed as she purred;  
was he an alien with a faceless face?
the shadowy lanky loner paced
past her quaking frame without
 
as much as a care or a sound
along a fine forested footpath,
as a result a mammoth mass
of gathered firewood fell off
her flighty flummoxed head!      
 
 

The Thighs Of a Tortoise 
​

​Thoko was looking for foreign
currency to make a  payment,
 an international transaction  
highlighting the scantiness
of forex, her father indicated
that it was the sight of none
but the thighs of a tortoise
 

​Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.  The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.​​

​Stationery  

​Inside the drawer, scented with
cherry-aroma pipe tobacco,
was personalized writing paper.
His identity, etched on granite now,
had no need to appear as a letterhead.
Bittersweet choice:
to use one sheet and envelope,
or to use-up all that remains
with his name.
 
 
July 2019   Eunoia Review
 

​Lo Mein not included  
 

Crunch.  I slid the paper strip from
the broken cookie.  My fortune was
clearly printed.  No, this wasn’t a
prediction, or some silly universal
horoscope shown in daily papers
everywhere, it was baked inside the
odd shaped treat, and was truly mine.
Unlike a Ouija Board where a
question must be posed, this crumb-
coated rectangle waited for my hand
to release it.
Coins were inserted into machines
where a mannequin moved and
indicated my future.  While I could
never be serious about that device,
I so enjoyed inserting money.  A
girlhood magazine had a monthly message
but wasn’t really private and special.
Wishes on stars were, well, wishes.
This pale brown crunchy treat, sitting in
a wooded bowl, waited for me to pick it;
I placed the predicted circumstance
in my purse assuming when ‘such’ revealed
itself, I’d smile and then affix the written
words to an empty spot on my desk blotter.
Halfway through young adulthood, I
accepted the folly.  What’s been fortune,
fortunate, fortuitous has little to do with
cookies or Ouija, rabbits’ feet charms,
yet there’s a temptation to ‘believe’ when
I feel that cookie give way, erupt to
allow a thin stip of magic to appear. 
 
 
published September, 2016   Halfway Down the Stairs 
reprinted Spring 2019   Shemom
                                               
 

​Priorities

Did it matter
that it rained
for our outdoor party?
Did it matter
that humidity
wilted our garden plants?
It only mattered
that we laughed,
held hands, and
as a family
shared.
 
 
 
spring 2005    Shemom
 
 

​Everything Leaves Traces

Crosslegged she sits
watching me wash my hair.
She doesn't speak when
fragrant foam covers
my head, nor as I rinse
and towel dry.  Reaching
her tiny arms upward,
I lift her, and as we
leave the room she
whispers into my moist
hair: "Mommy, you smell good."          
           
 
 
 ©1994 Green's Educational Pub.
Reprinted: 2001 hardcover book anthology  Harmony/Random House, “Mothers and Daughters”
reprinted spring 2019 Westward Quarterly
 
 
 

Ribbons and Spools
​

Rubber platen rolled.
Keys often stuck.
Fingers turned
red and black
when ribbon
spools were
inserted.  Ding.
I shifted a line.
Oops.  Forgot
to notice I’d
typed too far
down the page.
A relic.  My young
days went through
the passageway as
newer technology
was created.
 
No ding, platen,
ribbon, nor
margins to
constantly
observe.  How
might I kiss the
inventor of my
first PC with its
9-pin dot matrix
machine?
Run-off pages,
I commanded
the computer
as it figuratively
laughed: the printer’s
out of ink.
 
Published May 2017   Indiana Voice
 
 

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran and prize winning poet from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. A proud member of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire, he has five poetry collections to date; 'The Cellaring', 'A Taint of Pity', 'Zephyr's Whisper', ‘The Cellaring, Second Edition’ and ‘Sonnets and Scribbles’. Ken's been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and six times for Best of the Net. He was First Prize Winner for the 2018 and 2019, Realistic Poetry International Nature Poetry Contests. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.

​Radiance of Mortality

​Perched upon
gray branches in leafless trees
blackbirds rest
on their journey to nowhere
an icy red wine sky leaps into our mind
just over the horizon
a mysterious radiant mortality looms
as it waits
church bells toll in the valleys
a pain in my head reaches a crescendo
the illness rages
dirty linen is left here
 the body quakes and quivers with the fever
night brings a moonless horror
crickets sing
raspy breathing slows
body stiffens as the woeful spirit releases
death arrives in a radiance of darkness
as the sun rises
eyes open to a different view of life
is death the absolute end
or just a new beginning.

​Căsuță
 

​In a kingdom full of lodges
my knights, I could not awaken.
I crave the happy, historic huts
the green, green-way gardening.
I am shorn of my chestnut horse
an echo whispered, 'weeping willow!'
And so, you came gently sauntering.
The trumpet flowers glared in red.
There stood a thorn-less flower child;
who could be more purely of faith?
Eagerly I looked for the cottage,
but my mind always strays to tipis,
the ingenue brought such sorrow
I threw its thought into the root cellar
as I am without my healing ginseng.
'It's that wooded sorrel again,' I cried,
removing the stress from my intent.
The celadon white hut complexing
my thoughts are astray into woodlands
somewhat louder than hounds on a fox.
Back, back into my memories receding
I had dreamed of chambers sharing,
instead you uncovered the ovenware!
The silver birch bowed in the winds
as life crept in a shaded stained-glass window.
Beyond is a retro cottage - a little Căsuță.

​A Soft Silky Breeze

​Light winds danced with tall trees.
Bare branches swayed in a slow harmony as
 roots spread during an opus of a crispy moon.
Frosted leaves lay in gathering heaps;
victims of the equinox and winter’s dearth.
 
I communed with fairies upon a branch;
never argue with them while the lunar orb is high
lest you become lost on a path to nowhere.
I sang a hymn to the winter queen; hastily
a snowflake gently kissed my cheek.
 
It was cool but savory, like first passions on lovers lane.
 Her breath seemed real and tasted sweet in darkness.
The full moon was hanging like a slice of fresh lemon.
An epiphany created in the mind of Van Gogh.
Some, wrapped in dark cloaks, prayed to their goddess.
 
Peace finally returned to a cool, bewildered forest.
I simply sat quietly in a soft silky breeze.

​Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in a state of desperation engineered by late capitalism, within which his mind is a mere subset of a much larger hallucination wherein men are machines, machines are men, and the world and everything in it are mere dreams whose eddies and currents poets can channel briefly but cannot control. ​

​the blast lights of the dying street

ignited red for walking

the tired sheep in their wheelchairs wave sadly

to denote their glory


the sleep of the sky comes closer in his white

***

​we say the devil but it's more a color

or a cloak

temptation the costume before the curtain


shall you invest your body

with the robe


the way a thought might climb into your head

rope to rock

on ascent


sometimes ants climb grass stalks

higher, higher

so the mushroom germ can explode inside their head

spreading spores over the valley


but the performance

and the theater

the script, direction and the music

all of the lights

the furniture and props

in the show


wait to be covered with the seeds

to be transformed

your own face

your own body

gait look and smile


out from the theater

closed or burnt

abandoned

the road needs no show to shine with its own light

a few notches down

underneath the spot


glasses flipped or tongues geared in

the carriage of your mind

jittery but fast

over the canyon of desire

launches its name and right

***

​as you might gloam the deep

with your hand

trim the sand and sleep

for all the trimming in their keep are lying of the ocean

how it cares and scrapes your body for its food


the driving fill

not drowned but baked

cooked to ten degrees of aching

on the marrow field

each drifting each turning binding in its sleep the name

​Alan Berger has a few films on Netflix etc that he wrote and directed.
He lives in West Hollywood with the memories of four fine Siamese cats.​

GOOD GOD
BAD GOD

​Partners all along
Different words
Same song
 
Two evil charismatic goons
Same intentions
Different tunes
 
Same techniques regarding interrogations
That includes
Redemption salvation damnations
 
In the end everyone pays
Everyone drinks from the same bucket of kool aid
 
Both, of these guys are extremely mean
Didn’t know
They’re on the same team
 
They got kicked out of Mars
Many moons ago God Damnit
Surveyed the stars
Then decided on this planet
 
Same preach
Different speech
 
Same scent
Different accent 
 
Then one day
They said that’s enough
They gathered their stuff 
Went together
Looking for greener pastures
For the new version of biblical disasters
 
 

​I DON’T KNOW

I don’t know who I am
I don’t know who I was
Please keep that a secret
Just between the two of us
 
Don’t let it get out
Don’t let it get in
It’s not for the public
It’s for the private within
 
Out of gas for the future
No memory for the past
Might as well say to myself
Alone at first, Middle, and last
 
Thought I had it made
Until I submerged from the shade
I found my way
Had become waylaid
Doesn’t really matter
Tomorrow is another decade
 

​I’M OK 

I know I’m ok
When I laugh to myself
I know I’m ok
When my inventories
Align with my shelves
 
I know I’m ok
Knowing I’m breathing
And not under dirt
I know I’m ok
Handy handling  the hurt
I know I’m ok
Escaping the worst
 
I know I’m ok
With this attitude
Maintaining this altitude
Water and heat
Followed with food
A clean windshield
A horn that still toots
And still receive haircuts
That makes an old man look cute
 

Andrew Hubbard was born and raised in a coastal Maine fishing village.  He earned degrees in English and Creative Writing from Dartmouth College and Columbia University, respectively.
 
He has published books on business, gemology, and sales, and more recently, four collections of poetry.
 
He is a casual student of cooking and wine, a former martial arts instructor and competitive weightlifter, a collector of edged weapons, and a licensed handgun instructor.  He lives in rural Indiana with his wife, a giant, black German Shepard, and a gaggle of semi-tame deer.
 

Family Matters

When I was a little girl
Mommy would sometimes sit
At her place in the kitchen
And hug her shoulders and cry
As though her heart would break.
 
I was little, I thought maybe
I’d done something.  I’d hug
Her knees and say I was sorry.
She’d pick me up and rock me
And say, “Oh honey, it’s not you.”
And then she’d say the same thing
Every time, like an incantation,
“How long can love last? 
I need to know if I’m going to hang on,
How long it lasts.”
 
It didn’t make any sense to me.
 
She never did any of this
Around my brothers or Daddy,
So it was kind of our secret
But it was more mystery than secret.
 
 
 
We were a normal family
And life was on an even keel.
Daddy was halfway through
A forty-year career at the Ford plant
And Mom had four kids and a house to manage.
 
Most holidays Dad’s brother, Uncle Grant,
Came over from Illinois with his family.
The boys all played touch football,
We girls locked my bedroom door and told secrets.
 
When the guys came in
The boys took over the TV room
And the Dads went to the basement
For beer and cigars.
 
The wives were in the kitchen
Doing the food and sharing their own secrets.
Some of them.
 
Twenty years later the family
Was together in a hospital
Around Mommy’s deathbed.
She asked to speak to me alone
And she gave me a very special task.
 
As soon as I could get the house to myself
I got a stool and went to the hall closet
That had held so many Christmas presents
For so many years.
 
On the top shelf, in a nondescript bag
Was a Quaker Oats box, sealed shut.
Inside there were two black and white photos
Of Uncle Grant in his Navy uniform,
One alone, one with Mommy.
 
There was a four-leafed clover
Taped to a little square of cardboard
With tape so old it was brown,
A little cloth bag of seashells,
And a packet of letters
That I had been told not to read
Rolled up and tied with a ribbon.
 
Tell a woman not to read
Her mother’s love letters?
          Honestly!
 
But after the first one
I knew she was right.
I put them back in the box
And when I had the opportunity,
Destroyed everything as I had been told.
 
Another twenty years went by,
And now my time is close.
I’ve begun writing some stories of the family
For the kids, grandkids, and those to follow.
 
I thought hard about this story and left it out.
Some things go to the grave
Because that’s the best place for them.
But it’s hard and it’s painful
That a passion like theirs
Should be lost in a black tunnel of time
Without trace or memory.
 

And now, Mihai Eminescu: 

Mihai Eminescu (Romanian pronunciation: [miˈhaj emiˈnesku] ( listen); born Mihail Eminovici; 15 January 1850 – 15 June 1889) was a Romantic poet, novelist and journalist, often regarded as the most famous and influential Romanian poet. Eminescu was an active member of the Junimea literary society and worked as an editor for the newspaper Timpul ("The Time"), the official newspaper of the Conservative Party (1880–1918).[2] His poetry was first published when he was 16 and he went to Vienna to study when he was 19. The poet's manuscripts, containing 46 volumes and approximately 14,000 pages, were offered by Titu Maiorescu as a gift to the Romanian Academy during the meeting that was held on 25 January 1902.[3] Notable works include Luceafărul (The Vesper/The Evening Star/The Lucifer/The Daystar), Odă în metru antic (Ode in Ancient Meter), and the five Letters (Epistles/Satires). In his poems he frequently used metaphysical, mythological and historical subjects.
​
Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mihai_Eminescu

EVENING STAR

There was, as in the fairy tales,
As ne'er in the time's raid,
There was, of famous royal blood
A most beautiful maid. 
 
She was her parents' only child,
Bright like the sun at noon,
Like the Virgin midst the saints
And among stars the moon. 
 
From the deep shadow of the vaults
Her step now she directs
Toward a window; at its nook
Bright Evening-star expects. 
 
She looks as in the distant seas
He rises, darts his rays
And leads the blackish, loaded ships
On the wet, moving, ways. 
 
To look at him every night
Her soul her instincts spur;
And as he looks at her for weeks
He falls in love with her. 
 
And as on her elbows she leans
Her temple and her whim
She feels in her heart and soul that
She falls in love with him. 
 
And ev'ry night his stormy flames
More stormily renew
When in the shadow of the castle
She shows to his bright view. 
 
* *
 
And to her room with her slow steps
He bears his steps and aims
Weaving out of his sparkles cold
A toil of shaking flames. 
 
And when she throws upon her bed
Her tired limbs and reposes,
He glides his light along her hands
And her sweet eyelash closes. 
 
And from the mirror on her shape
A beam has spread and burns,
On her big eyes that beat though closed
And on her face that turns. 
 
Her smiles view him; the mirror shows
Him trembling in the nook
For he is plunging in her dream
So that their souls may hook. 
 
She speaks with him in sleep and sighs
While her heart's swelled veins drum:
-"O sweet Lord of my fairy nights,
Why comest thou not? Come!
 
Descend to me, mild Evening-star
Thou canst glide on a beam,
Enter my dwelling and my mind
And over my life gleam!"
 
And he listens and trembles and
Still more for her love craves
And as quick as the lightning he
Plunges into the waves. 
 
The water in that very spot
Moves rolling many rings
And out of the unknown, dark, depth
A superb young man springs. 
 
As on a threshold o'er the sill
His hasty steps he leads,
Holds in his hand a staff with, at
Its top, a crown of reeds!
 
A young Voivode he seems to be
With soft and golden hair;
A blue shroud binds in a knot on
His naked shoulder fair. 
 
The shade of his face is of wax
And thou canst see throughout -
A handsome dead man with live eyes
That throw their sparkles out. 
 
-"From my sphere hardly I come to
Follow thy call and thee,
The heaven is my father and
My mother is the sea. 
 
So that I could come to thy room
And look at thee from near
With my light reborn from waves my
Fate toward thee I steer. 
 
O come, my treasure wonderful
And thy world leave aside;
For I am Evening-star up from
And thou wouldst be my bride. 
 
In my palace of coral I'll
Take thee for evermore
And the entire world of the sea
Will kneel before thy door. "
 
-"O thou art beautiful as but
In dreams an angel shows,
The way though thou hast oped for me
For me's for ever close. 
 
Thy port and mien and speech are strange
Life thy gleams don't impart,
For I'm alive and thou art dead
And thy eyes chill my heart. "
 
* *
 
Days have past since: but Evening-star
Comes up againd and stays
Just as before, spreading o'er her
His clear, translucent rays. 
 
In sleep she would remember him
And, as before, her whole
Wish for the Master of the waves
Is clinching now her soul. 
 
-"Descend to me, mild Evening-star
Thou canst glide on a beam,
Enter my dwelling and my mind
And over my life gleam!"
 
He hears: and from the dire despair
Of such an woeful weird
He dies, and the heavens revolve
Where he has disappeared. 
 
Soon in the air flames ruddy spread,
The world in their grip hold;
A superb form the spasms of the
Chaotic valleys mold. 
 
On his locks of black hair he bears
His crown a fierce fire frames;
He floats as he really comes
Swimming in the sun's flames. 
 
His black shroud lets develop out
His arms marbly and hale;
He pensively and sadly brings
His face awfully pale. 
 
But his big wonderful eyes' gleam,
Chimerically deep,
Shows two unsatiated spasms
That but into dark peep. 
 
-"From my sphere hardly I come to
Follow thy voice, thy sight;
The bright sun is my father and
My mother is the night. 
 
O come, my treasure wonderful
And thy world leave aside
For I am Evening-star from up
And thou wouldst be my bride. 
 
O come, and upon thy blond hair
Crowns of stars I shall crowd,
And more that all of them, up there,
Thou wild look fair and proud. "
 
-"O thou art beautiful as but
In dreams a demon shows,
The way though hast oped for me
For me's for ever close. 
 
The depths of my breast ache from the
Desire of thy fierce love
My heavy, big eyes also ache
When into them thine shove". 
 
-"But how wouldst thou that I come down?
Know this - for, do I lie? -:
I am immortal, while thou art
One of those that must die!"
 
-"I hate big words, nor do I know
How to begin my plea;
And although thy discourse is clear
I don't understand thee. 
 
But if thou wantest my flamed love
And that would not be sham,
Come down on this temporal earth,
Be mortal as I am!"
 
-"I'd lose my immortality
For but one kiss of thine!
Well, I will show thee how much too
For thy fierce love I pine!
 
Yes, I shall be reborn from sin,
Receive another creed:
From that endlessness to which I
Am tied, I shall be freed!"
 
And out he went, he went, went out,
Loving a human fay,
He plucked himself off from the sky,
Went for many a day. 
 
* *
 
Meanwhile, the house-boy, Catalin,
Sly, and who often jests
When he's filling with wine the cups
Of the banqueting guests;
 
A page that carries step by step
The trail of the Queen's gown,
A wandering bastard, but bold
Like no one in the town;
 
His little cheek - a peony
That under the sun stews;
Watchful, just like a thief, he sneaks
In Catalina's views. 
 
-"How beautiful she grew" - thinks he -
"A flower just to pluck!
Now, Catalin, but now it is
Thy chance to try thy luck!"
 
And by the way, hurriedly, he
Corners that human fay:
-"What's with thee, Catalin? Let me
Alone and go thy way!"
 
-"No! I want thee to stay away
From thoughts that have no fun. 
I want to see thee only laugh,
Give me a kiss, just one!"
 
-"I don't know what it is about
And, believe me, retire!
But for one Evening-star up from
I've kept my strong desire!"
 
-"If thou dost not know I could show
Thee all about love's balm!
Only, don't give way to thy ire
And listen and be calm. 
 
So as the hunter throws the net
That many birds would harm,
When I'll stretch my left arm to thee,
Enlace me with thy arm. 
 
Under my eyes keep thine and don't
Let them move on their wheels
And if I lift thee by the waist
Thou must lift on thy heels. 
 
When I bend down my face, to hold
Thine up must be thy strife;
So, to each other we could throw
Sweet, eager, looks for life. 
 
And so that thou have about love
A knowledge true and plain,
When I stoop to kiss thee, thou must
Kiss me too and again. "
 
With much bewilderment her mind
The little boy's word fills,
And shyly and nicely now she
Wills not, and now she wills. 
 
And slowly she tells him:- "Since thy
Childhood I've known thy wit,
And as thou art and glib and small
My temper thou wouldst fit. 
 
But Evening-star sprung from the calm
Of the oblivion,
Though, gives horizon limitless
To the sea lone and dun. 
 
And secretly, I close my eyes
For my eyelash tears dim
When the waves of the sea go on
Travelling toward him. 
 
He shines with love unspeakable
So that my pains he'd leach,
But higher and higher soars, so
That his hand I'd ne'er reach. 
 
Sadly thrusts from the worlds which from
My soul his cold ray bar. . . 
I shall love him for ever and
For ever he'll rove far. 
 
Like the unmeasured steppes my days
Are deaf and wild, therefore,
But my nights spread a holy charm
I understand no more!"
 
-"Thou art a child! Let's go! Through new
Lands our own fate let's frame!
Soon they shall have lost our trace and
Forgot even our name!
 
We shall be both wise, glad and whole
As my judgement infers
And thou wouldst not long for thy kin
Nor yearn for Evening-stars!"
 
* *
 
Then Evening-star went out.  His wings
Grow, into heavens dash,
And on his way millenniums
Flee in less than a flash. 
 
Below, a depth of stars; above,
The heaven stars begem, -
He seems an endless lightning that
Is wandering through them. 
 
And from the Chaos' vales he sees
How in an immense ring
Round him, as in the World's first day,
Lights from their sources spring;
 
How, springing, they hem him like an
Ocean that swimming nears. . . 
He flees carried by his desire
Until he disappears. 
 
For that region is boundless and
Searching regards avoids
And Time strive vainly there to come
To life from the dark voids. 
 
'Tis nought.  'Tis, though, thirst that sips him
And which he cannot shun,
'Tis depth unknown, comparable
To blind oblivion. 
 
-"From that dark, choking, endlessness
Into which I am furled,
Father, undo me, and for e'er
Be praised in the whole world!
 
Ask anything for this new fate
For with mine I am through:
O hear my prayer, O my Lord, for
Thou gives life and death too. 
 
Take back my endlessness, the fires
That my being devour
And in return give me a chance
To love but for an hour!
 
I've come from Chaos; I'd return
To that my former nest. . . 
And as I have been brought to life
From rest, I crave for rest!"
 
-"Hyperion, that comest from
The depths with the world's swarm,
Do not ask signs and miracles
That have no name nor form. 
 
Thou wantest to count among men,
Take their resemblance vain;
But would now the whole mankind die
Men will be born again. 
 
But they are building on the wind
Ideals void and blind;
When human waves run into graves
New waves spring from behind. 
 
Fate's persecutions, lucky stars,
They only are to own;
Here we know neither time nor space,
Death we have never known. 
 
From the eternal yesterday
Drinks what to-day will drain
And if a sun dies on the sky
A sun quickens again. 
 
Risen as for ever, death though
Follows them like a thorn
For all are born only to die
And die to be reborn. 
 
But thou remainest wheresoe'er
Thou wouldst set down or flee. 
Thou art of the prime form and an
Eternal prodigy. 
 
Thou wilt now hear the wondrous voice
At whose bewitched singing
Mounts woody get skipping to skies
Into sea Island sinking!
 
Perhaps thou wilt more: show in deeds
Thy sense of justice, might,
Out of the earth's lumps make an empire
And settle on its height!
 
I can give thee millions of vessels
And hosts; thou, bear thy breath
O'er all the lands, o'er all the oceans:
I cannot give thee death. 
 
For whom thou wantest then to die?
Just go and see what's worth
All that is waiting there for thee
On that wandering earth!"
 
* *
 
His first dominion on the sky
Hyperion restores
And like in his first day, his light
All o'er again he pours. 
 
For it is evening and the night
Her duty never waives. 
Now the moon rises quietly
And shaking from the waves,
 
And upon the paths of the groves
Her sparkles again drone. . . 
Under the row of linden-trees
Two youths sit all alone. 
 
-"O darling, let my blessed ear feel
How thy heart's pulses beat,
Under the ray of thy eyes clear
And unspeakably sweet. 
 
With the charms of their cold light pierce
My thought's faery glades,
Pour an eternal quietness
On my passion's dark shades. 
 
And there, above, remain to stop
Thy woe's violet stream,
For thou art my first source of love
And also my last dream!"
 
Hyperion beholds how love
Their eyes equally charms:
Scarcely his arm touches her neck,
She takes him in her arms. 
 
The silvery blooms spread their smells
And their soft cascade strokes
The tops of the heads of both youths
With long and golden locks. 
 
And all bewitched by love, she lifts
Her eyes toward the fires
Of the witnessing Evening-star
And trusts him her desires:
 
-"Descend to me, mild Evening-star
Thou canst glide on a beam,
Enter my forest and my mind
And o'er my good luck gleam!"
 
As he did it once, into woods,
On hills, his rays he urges,
Guiding throughout so many wilds
The gleaming, moving, surges. 
 
But he falls not as he did once
From his height into swells:
-"What matters thee, clod of dust, if
'Tis me or some one else?
 
You live in your sphere's narrowness
And luck rules over you -
But in my steady world I feel
Eternal, cold and true!"
-----------------
Poezii
Romanian Voice

 
As a little present for our anniversary, we launch the online Scarlet Leaf bookshop on the review site. However, the time has been somewhat short. Please, keep in mind that there are still a lot of books to feature. 
Still, I hope you will enjoy it.