Melting Colors

by Vangjel Canga

  * * *

  once again through words that walk slowly

  I cleared the mines from the dandelion field

  like a child I looked for a tree on the hilltop

  that once, in time of war, had extended me its hand

  Commander and winner

  all soldiers have put a lock on their rifles

  which no one can open, except for an old commander

  who can't remember where he mistakenly has put the key

  as the war game now has no meaning

  all soldiers have gathered and kill plans with cards

  and from uniform pieces build a fabric rifle

  - - -

  the commander found the key! - and war started again

  this time for who could first open his rifle

  based on the quality of the card on his hand

  among the general confusion only one soldier

  built a key from his card and opened the fabric rifle

  and went back to his home a winner - and commander!

  The Market of Earthenware

  I am the maker of earthenware

  It's a profession - or just a hobby

  And it's confusing - who shall decide

  me or the market - its real status

  I learned by practice - went to no school

  So, no support from academia -

  No BSc-s - no MSc-s - no PhD-s

  Yet, all of these - without diplomas

  I saw much ugliness - and looked for beauty

  I saw no thinking - philosophized

  I saw much darkness - and looked for light

  I saw greyscale - and painted colors

  And worked and worked - until 'twas perfect

  Until I thought that I was ready

  Until I reached the goal I set

  And time had come to make it public

  So I reserved a market place -

  And found a sea of earthenware

  Sitting unused, sitting unbought

  But I was not a bit discouraged

  For I thought that somewhere, someone

  Surely would look for things of beauty

  Surely would like to look for depth

  Surely would like the style and colors

  But there were none - or very few

  And I began to doubt statistics

  Or blame poor marketing efforts

  Or blame the plastics industry

  The dust then covered through the months

  All shapes, all colors, all designs

  And there was ugliness - and no thinking

  And there was darkness - and greyscale

  But when I polished all my work

  It brightly shone and made me happy

  And made me sad it wasn't valued

  And made me think what I could do

  Therefore I thought it might be useful

  An earthen monument to effort

  As sculpture, art - or literature -

  In one of the crossroads of the world

  Not that there wasn't all the same

  A sea of earthenware - not only

  But iron, plastics - and what not

  Filling up all important places

  But I thought I should try - regardless

  Of me doubting most statistics

  Or the poor marketing effort

  Or the blame on the plastics industry

  So now it's sitting in some place

  In some half-forgotten road - I guess -

  Unless they moved it somewhere else -

  One more monument to effort

  And I am sitting in the market

  Of earthenware - but also others -

  Some days in one - some days elsewhere -

  And some days in half-forgotten roads -

  And what to do - I fill the vases

  With flowers - decorate the places -

  They brightly shine and make me happy

  They make me sad - and inspire my work

  And what to do - I am still inspired

  Even in these deserted places -

  O traveler, if by chance you ever

  Come here and read this inscription...

  The Return

  I returned to that place of memories

  Although, in truth, I had never left -

  For that place had never left me -

  And the colors had not faded

  Neither had dust settled on furniture

  And how can one call it a memory

  What is still real and present

  And living?

  But still I returned -

  Back to that place of gentleness

  Where the song of the water still went on

  Under the orchestra of the poplar trees

  And the sunflower turned towards my song

  And the dandelion flower watered the grass

  And the firefly lights danced in the night

  As if welcoming me again

  Though I had never left -

  Though I had traveled far -

  And it may look like a contradiction

  Or like a daydream of beautiful feelings

  Of childhood days that are gone

  With the paper airplane and the paper boat

  To chase travels of grown ups

  And a million other things to remember

  Except this one thing -

  This one true feeling that is here

  Once more today -

  To tell you, the friend whom I've never met

  And yet, that I knew all along so well,

  That today I returned, though I never left,

  To tell you -

  To return

  The Bouquet of Poems

  We, who are still at our first session,

  You, as the unaware model - and I

  As the photographer of words,

  Should both be a bit more patient

  Till the inspiration studio

  Processes the ideas -

  Till the main editor decides

  The overall concept -

  Till the emotion stylist

  Decides on the makeup and dress -

  Till the light director

  Decides on the mood and time -

  Together with all the support crew

  And the various assistants -

  You know - and do not know -

  These people being present, and yet

  You know - and do not know -

  That it is only me here -

  I, the editor, and the stylist

  The light director, and mood maker,

  And self-assistant to my own art trade,

  Have prepared the concept and the execution,

  Have found the location and the dress

  And the props, makeup and light -

  To make you a princess if I wish so,

  To put a crown of jewels on you -

  Of an inestimable value -

  Sitting on a throne of simplicity -

  Or make you poor, and dressed in rags

  At the shore of a sea that bears your name

  And the colors of your hair and eyes -

  But, we should be a little bit more patient -

  We, who are still at our first session -

  Till we can break the ice - and rigidity,

  Of this kinda random and by-chance relationship,

  And you can be more natural when you smile -

  When you pose - yet, are unaware of posing -

  For I prefer it this way, natural and free -

  Yes, I say - we should be a little bit more patient -

  Till the product is satisfying - to be presented

  In a bouquet of photographs of words -

  For, one single flower, is only a flower -

  And two, though technically a bouquet,

  Wouldn't make it so to me - or you -

  But when there are at least three or four -

  Or ten - I will tell you - the unaware model - />
  So that you can keep it, and perhaps remember -

  On your wedding day - or when you'll cry in silence -

  Or when you grow old, and perhaps are lonely -

  And reflect back on these times, and perhaps smile -

  When you are reminded of that photographer

  Who took portraits of words for fun -

  And gave them as a gift to you

  In a bouquet of poems -

  The Floral Motif

  I, who wanted you so much

  To come and visit my cafe,

  Placed outside - as a special invitation

  A bouquet of flowers for you -

  -

  Having the same initials

  As the letters of your name,

  In the language of feelings

  They smiled at me -

  But you had not noticed it

  Perhaps -

  Or you didn't know the language

  Perhaps -

  -

  And I looked at them with sadness -

  At that simple arrangement of flowers

  Inside the plain white porcelain vase

  On that early autumn afternoon -

  Then the leaves had started to fall

  Together with the rays of the sun

  When I tried to write your name on the vase

  With the remaining coffee in my cup -

  -

  But oh, it didn't last long

  And your name was quickly erased

  By the rain of my tears

  Through the nostalgia of the days -