domingo, 25 de julho de 2010

My poems: old and used


old and used

and we don’t speak now.

we have nothing to say to each other
but goodbye

we have nothing to share
but hurt

when you open your mouth to speak
the world turns to slow motion
and your words come out blurred
like the lines of your face now

there is no longer the usual comfort
you’re slowly becoming painful
like the movement I have to make to exhale the cigarette smoke

the light in our room
is growing darker
i don’t need to see you now.
i can’t see you.

and then we cry.
countless silences between us
instead of love

we’re old and used
decaying
half-blind
half-deaf
holding each other’s broken empire
letting each other down
pretending

quinta-feira, 22 de julho de 2010

domingo, 18 de julho de 2010

My poems: deeper grey

sometimes I walk alone
soaked in blood and rain
allowing tears to form
tasting the fear of feeling
life's pulse in raptures

I woke up today
in a haze of love
and all my resistance caved in
into a deeper grey

sábado, 17 de julho de 2010

My poems: obedience

obedience

when you hear me speak
about the footprints of the world
and everything people leave behind
think about that time
when we sat
on a room with a view
melting in the sun
trying to connect
trying to be obedient again

segunda-feira, 12 de julho de 2010

touching my hand



i see someone touching my hand

pushing me to see

but there's nothing but air there

the fingers pulling me can't make me real


they're covering my eyes now

showing me the future in waves

tearing me open with the pain


these hands

left truths in my body

open boxes for me to close


and i'm hanging

sábado, 10 de julho de 2010

Poem of the day: Tell Me

Sara London

Tell Me

In my country
you say, "there is
no word for it."
In my country
you say, "our
way of life."
In my country
you might over-
hear the story
of the woman
with eleven children,
who never once
achieved orgasm.
Here, the diffident
are the squires
of conviction;
they know that
talking undid
a few people.
Here, a woman
saddened by love
might lose her
gloves, blame her
children, then find
them under her hat
on top of her head.
It is always
the mother
in my country.
Tell me
it is different
in yours.

Fear

It's all very overwhelming isn't it? Life, being alive, living.

domingo, 4 de julho de 2010

Poem of the day: About Death and Other Things

About Death and Other Things

by Aleksandar Ristovic
translated by Charles Simic

How strange will be my death, of which I've been thinking since childhood:
A sedentary old man leaving a small-town library
leans to one side and eventually collapses on the lawn.

I've every reason to believe that I'll experience what the others have
experienced
while I climb the stairs carrying my supper in a plastic bag,
not even turning to look at the one who in that moment descends curly-haired
and wearing a party dress.

It could be an ordinary death on a train:
a man who carefully studies the fields and hills in snow,
shuts his eyes folds his hands in his lap, and no longer sees what only
a moment ago he admired.

I'm trying to remember other possibilities and so, here I am once again,
disguised as myself in a small, merry company,
where, after emptying my glass, I fall on the floor laughing, and pulling after
me the tablecloth with the vase full of roses.

My death, of course, would have a spiritual meaning
in some mountain sanatorium for the insane
where croaking we complain to each other in beds with freshly changed sheets.

It could happen that I'll die in some way very different from the one I
anticipate:
in the company of my wife and daughter, surrounded by books,
while outside a neighbor is trying to start a car that the night has surprised
with snow.