Ovio Olaru s-a născut în 1993, la Sibiu. A debutat în 2014, cu volumul „Pilotul”. Este masterand al Facultății de Litere din cadrul Universității Babeș-Bolyai din Cluj-Napoca. Poemele sale sunt publicate în reviste precum Zona Nouă, Subcapitol, Dilema Veche.
Ovio Olaru was born in 1993, in Sibiu. He published his first book, „The Pilot” in 2014. Currently, he is studying in Cluj-Napoca, at the Babeș-Bolyai University. His poems are published in magazines like Zona Nouă, Subcapitol, Dilema Veche.
anatomy is a superior science
because the limits of the human body
are not always human,
We study them nevertheless.
The blood weaves through the implants
synthesises chemicals to keep the crises under control.
the 14th century would see us as witches
and burn us at the stake. We understand that now
and call it anthropology,
We are very capable, proof being that we slow down the earth’s rotation
with our constructions
and we possess bones the density of granite
that we brake without risk in car accidents.
We’re not perishable, because we’ve overcome the animal state
and we repair artificially.
It’s not necessarily because we want it
arachnids or acephali could have been in our place.
We invent languages
or they appear naturally, from the organisation
of sounds freed from our chest upon emotion.
The vibration of our vocal chords gives the impression of an algorithm
we accept or pretend to control.
We chase after gazelles
we’ve developed a method, this is our advantage.
We run them down with a certain inclination of our feet.
We know their watering spots, we drink there too.
The gazelle is tired, it gives up.
We thrust the spear and wait for it to die.
The rest comes with mathematical precision.
Drawings have replaced the guttural convention.
On stone, wood or parchment
we describe imaginary huntings. Their scenes.
How the heart of the gazelle still pumps
its blood in the pierced installation
for a while, then it stops.
writing compensates for the handicap of memory
it creates equity, but it does not calm. We stop at words
and when we can’t surpass them, we invent metaphors
about the gazelle’s death.
The hippocampus has been studied intensively
there lies memory, in compact surfaces,
in stellar cells. The gazelle doesn’t know this
and doesn’t make a sound, although it could.
The hunter’s brain knows:
the body is famished.
This is not a metaphor, it’s an observable fact.
Memory retains the spear’s thrust
and the smell of blood.
We stop the flow of memories in order to function
because statistically speaking, human error
is the only possible error. The chase after accuracy
flaws the results, puts random zeros in the code.
It’s just circumstantial. Nostalgia doesn’t shut down the systems,
although it could. The race to the water, the hunters waiting,
everything up to the piece of silex
brought aboard the ship by an archaeologist
from the future.
But what would the gazelle remember from all of this?
What happens in a studio apartment in Cluj in 2014
is irrelevant from the perspective of history.
I’m headed to the sink with a hangover and a glass in my hand.
So begins the chase.
Millions of years of evolution
for you to say exactly the things you’re saying
to move your breasts along this exact algorithm
as you’re hunting me down.
But I want to show you things
beyond contemplative poses and cool gestures
beyond the pond or the kitchen sink
a refinement of memory
make me take notice of your sex and the lit cigarette in your hand
I don’t know how it feels to be expelled from your own body
I’m waiting for the spear
and all I want is a remotely humane touch
from the circle that closes around me.
But we’re not humans, you say,
We’re not humans, we’re gazelles.