Kafka, the Conductor

If he would be around today,
And signs are that he lurks everywhere,
Franz Kafka would be a music festival director
For the US Congress, playing only during recess
To atone for the absurdity of the power dance,
Or the high pitch screams during the lobbying incest,
And for all the aborted laws favoring social rape
Knowing that even though the chosen ones
Beg for limited love
When the building feels so far removed from its
Original score
Kafka, the un-elected conductor, would continue
To play, to move his hands up and down
Rearranging the notes to fit the clowning
Around, to appease the audience with
Promises of sanity and harmony
Like any good leader of a mad choir would do.

If you don’t have anything else inc.

we call him the chicken-man

everyday, against the 78^th street’s walls

against many imaginary enemies and memories

mumbling about and demanding

warning the moon to come closer and kiss his forehead

while sipping his free coffee from Burger Factory

his steady audience hardly notices anymore

the absence of his wings, the fakeness of his chicken sounds

and in spite of any noise, threat, smell, push, nip, nudge or call

to civilized citizenry, they come and listen

hey, the chicken-man is here!, come and listen, folks!

and laugh about

write about

shudder about

tell about

worry, wince, curse, berate and

walk away

just walk away

why not

he’s just another crazy street parrot

a Broadway relic, with a hoarse voice and scary smile

or, maybe, he’s a champion of dialogue with strangers

a fine observer of our perverse way of ignoring the moon

who should be closer to our forehead by now

its light, felt like a kiss of cosmic meaning...

could this be the chicken-man’s dialogue

with me

with you

with all the pedestrians

that never stop

never listen

even me

or you

never…

What you are saying and what we are

Any other time I would be surprised by your comments

Not now though, as you look stunned and puzzled by my looks

Youthful you say, despite my mature and somewhat conservative behavior

Additional proof, if ever one was needed, that who we are may be deceptive.

I listen to the rapid fire of your carefully picked words and only

Once in a while I detect hesitation, mostly, it is your mind’s flow

Appraising the untenable details of our magic encounter,

Nourishing, not only on the surface, and tender in so many ways…

Tempting like a rare perfume is your subtle suggestion

Whispered between an invitation and a soundless wish

Only to be heard and understood as miraculous possibility…

We radiate like stones mounted on long lost rings

As dazzling and as unnoticed as the imploding stars of a

Neutral and all important universe known only to a handful of

Dedicated observers…

It is said that what’s good for the fourth century

Elevates our own, yet we haven’t even started to practice beyond

Reluctant and timid gestures… we learn more about power

Intercepting our own weak signals on the way, spells of innocence

Nested in our wandering souls, we learn new strategies of hiding our

Good side and new ways of using our cynical strength…

Sit and tell me stories

Or walk with me to the park

Under warm and gentle wind

Let your words flow

Stay a while. Here. Yes…

The Parable of the Key

There are those who have heard about your key

And there are those who have seen pictures of it

There are those to whom you described your key

In vague terms, offering more illusion and hope

And those who think that they know it in detail

Just from the way your lips make a perfectly round giggle

When you’re generous enough to tell your key story

There are those who had a glimpse of your key

And those who have seen the key in all its splendor

There are those who have used your key only once

Although they now imagine or brag that they actually owned it

And those, perhaps drunk at the time, who can’t remember

How it felt to have your key in their possession

There are also those who have used it a lot

And can’t remember at all how they could live

Before they started using it…

And then, there are those, happy ones, who are still using

Your key, blissfully ignoring your signs of separation,

And those few mad ones who threw it away

When they couldn’t get the meaning of its two blades,

Sharp sentinels to a tumultuous realm of pure pleasure,

And finally there are those who are still dreaming

Of a key just like the one you possess,

Not even knowing that it actually exists…

And you, always dangling your key, proud of it,

Touching and caressing its random forms,

And dreading the day when you’ll be forced

To keep it in your purse, forever…

Tanglewood Nights

You move your arms

in anticipation of danger and harmony

a music of gestures born early

to anticipate perhaps a colorful dawn

accompanied by silvery reflections

in the nearby woods

a changed emphasis is on the way

we see it, leaves balancing their moves

while trumpets shiver and violins howl

through dark corners of the past.

They are sitting in the comfort

of their week-end loneliness

perennial hunters lying in wait

scattered all over

the great lawn of music.

Some look like heavy birds

fallen from the sky

others are whales or albatrosses

somnolent silhouettes, short-lived shadows

in love with a meadow, a bush or a flower,

a spear of grass.

When the music ends

(and it never will) they stand up

and walk arm in arm

happy with what they were made to feel

happy that they were able to rejoice

in a heaven they never knew that existed

until tonight…

Along every path in the woods

there is the history of fallen leaves

one that even the old trees remember only faintly

during summer nights of music

when young leaves are becoming acrobats of love

jumping towards the ground

ignorant of their lasting immobility

once they touch the unmovable earth…

luckily, the wind comes to the rescue

engulfing them in a new symphony

a quest of love, like a small passion-hurricane,

at the feet of new lovers

one night, after the music, at Tanglewood…

by Ioan Serban

at Tanglewood Concert Series, 1997

PARTICULARITIES

You rise in the morning, young man,

and worry about mistakes you must avoid, correct or amend.

You are what you do

and what you believe will purify the diagram of your prayers.

Follow yourself

and every hour after the noon meal

renew your promises

in the name of grace and reverence

and for every sin you had fallen into

these are the steps to take:

one, place your hand on your heart and

let the people around you hear about your sin

they like to hear about others’ mistakes while they

carefully hide their own

their way leads to madness

ours, if destiny provides, close to wisdom

two, return into the solitude of your strongest belief

and then let all the questions of the crowd

thrust your heart…

the tears will just make you stronger…

Like a woman in love

Wouldn’t you wish to be like a wave

in love with the ocean

and when the ocean gets angry

your body is turned upside down

whirled into the winds

but when the ocean is calm

you’d feel the womblike embrace

you’d never want to let go…

Wouldn’t you wish to be like a wave

in awe with the ocean

although when the ocean gets tired

of your adoring stares

you might be sucked into the abyss

but when the ocean accepts

your heartfelt praise

why, you then may dance and wave your body

like a woman in love…