My Poems in 2012

Lied for the Moon and the Evening Star


in a lonely woman’s world
each crack in the walls
is a twinge among the ribs
the neighbors’ footsteps
weigh on her chest when she breathes
if rats teem in the basement
cold shivers climb her back

elsewhere a mother breastfeeds and a child cries
in the lonely woman’s house clocks get rusty
barometers and zippers
everything flows
when it rains her body is like a moist biscuit
from supplies hidden in trenches
by future unknown heroes

far from the city walls
the river grinds the stones slowly
in winter under ice
around loneliness the canopy of heaven
closes like a placenta
with veins from blue stars

the woman files her nails into flesh

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Chestnut Shadows


Right before sunset
when lights are swimming
like copper-colored fish
near the water’s surface
a bitter desire for freedom used to heat me up.

I ran in the wheelchair
with my hardened hands instead of soles,
keeping my life directly in my palms,
wandering on the alley with the morgue,
swallowing chunks of air
embalmed with chestnut flower.

Everything guffawed around me:
the patients laughing because I was cripple,
the nurses indignant because I vomited in my bed,
the children from the pediatric section,
the empty pots cast to the ground at the refectory,
the jars on the upper morgue window
filled with didactic brain substance…
all of them were yellow of laughter
like sick leaves.

I turned the wheels faster and faster,
always on the alleys’ center,
bending for some leaf
like a palm with contorted fingers
under the holy sun.

I had forgotten to cry,
I had forgotten I never laughed
wholeheartedly.

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Blazing White


It was snowing too insistently,
snowflakes almost as big as the eye,
over nostrils, over half-open lips,
over the white lace shawl from my grandmother,
exactly when I was not supposed to wear it.
I had the profile of a porcelain statue
like a Russian girl proud of her kokoshnik.

After a while I started to breathe now and then,
choked first while crying, then while sighing
and finally while hiccuping.
Maybe because of cold and bewilderment,
or because of the strange story about mulled wine with cinnamon.
How could he possibly hide in my blood then
when I had grown up with bitter cherries and wild sorrel leaves,
when I had sipped the milk foam my whole childhood
without crying on the blanket made of rough sheep wool?

How could that man travel through my heart’s mill stones
without being ground down completely?
Now only tears are sticking over nostrils, over half-open eyelids
like a glue from a sour cherry bark wound.
Not a single barrier, not a single one way sign,
not a single red traffic light
or at least a church with saint relics.

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Fiat Lux


on the corridor without light
every proprietor has his door
behind which he repairs
floors walls windows
he sharpens blunt knives
chops food for dogs
parsley leaves for soup

have you seen somehow nobody
I’m asking the closed doors
with the back still straight
in this wonderland nobody is crying
the others are blind for autumn colors
they place eyelid over eyelid
lightly like leaf upon leaf
heaps of eyes without eyeballs
without opening

I can still see to knock on doors
stretching forth the charity box
in the dark
hopes are thin fingers
touching lightly the globe
a toy that doesn’t turn
and yet it staggers

the sun shows up beyond the clouds
every time silence is here

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The Wagon with Planks


the horse drawn wagon with a wooden heart
climbs slowly without border planks
the old man drives his horse at the walk
as if he were counting in his mind

each tree has a heart
young ones answer with a faint voice
the poll of the axe strikes to test them
sometimes a stronger echo from the other trees
it’s a sign the axe will strike deeper
right in the heart with scarce sap
and all wood poles will go down tied to the wagon
as long as dew shines in the fields

now there’s only one road left
slowly in the wagon with its planks raised up
the old man lies tied at his ankles
behind the wagon small spiders are jumping
tired of all that sunlight and dust
searching for shadows under planks
and red carnations will fall from children’s arms
as long as tears are in the eyes

from time to time the others’ echo
is answering stronger
like a single heart in a forest

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