This is the second patch of poetic goods, translated. The first one in the row is my favorite one ever. I put down the lines ten years ago, at half past midnight in November. I remember putting down the lines and thinking I don’t have to ever write another poem again. I’ve said what is there to say. A state of simple satisfaction followed, lasting for several days. A gap in my thoughts in the midst of events. Recently I’ve been thinking how similar this state of creative bliss is to spiritual pursuits. There are many ways in to the feeling. I’ve also thought about the act of chasing it, of that addict-like behavior of dictating your life around those highs and lows. Or the things we do to be able to create in a certain setting, the corpses we leave behind. I’ve come to dislike the word ‘creation’ somewhat, as it’s almost lost meaning. It’s always an attempt at communication, of getting something important across to the other one behind their eyes.
Needless to say, I did keep writing more poems after the first one. Here are some of them.
5. SAINT AUGUSTINE I am looking at the yellow blanket that’s covering you. My hand on your chest. You can find my home where you can find my heart. My heart beating inside your breast. 6. EVENING PRAYER A TV is on in a foreigner’s room playing foreign lights to a foreign gloom. God, grant me at least a piece of it, I beg - of the clarity found in every distance I see. 7. WHAT AM I MADE OF? I don’t know. And what for? Also obscure. Is it bringing anyone clarity or good? Or am I simply a shell where errors recur. 8. UNTITLED WITH BIRDS The entirety of this landmass that we inhabit with its terrestrial curvature is empty of you. It has miles and miles of lack. A robin sings, part of the creation: not-you, not-you, amiss. Why I still haven’t gotten over your death is unclear. 9. EPILOGUE I am not I. I’m a crackling in the dark. You hold my face between your hands in your heart. There’s nothing here for me to do with words. Behind my window they - Mars and Venus - are in a staring contest with my fridge. Their evil eyes of greens and reds. Someone upstairs has been walking around the entire evening, searching,maybe seeking for a sign of order in my head. I keep looking over and over at a street where your pale-white eye emerges from the sleet. I flip like a fanatic flips through your entire face. Your face changing like a moving picture.Now my face is dipped inside your hands like inside the color white or weather cold. White days and even whiter nights. My I, be still, the wiser one will have to give in. Take and hide from me the thoughts that stir up my mind. You have my hands, my fingers miniature. You lock the front door of your house with the keys I know by heart on a street of mine. And I carry your mimicry. I know I am the one I love.
