just to console the living, but his tongue
was heavy as a stone inside the grave.
Similar Posts
1.
in the corner of my faithless eyesseven magpies have stolen awaythe morning star.Glory, glory! The rising suncrowns the cathedralin this town stopped stillin awe of blazing malachite.Reborn are the winged shadesin the rookeriesto haunt dear heavenwith their pained pterodactyl cries.Reborn are the grey pigeonson the old market squarequarrelling with their enemies,the dirty sparrows.2.Sancho, my old…
What German family must have once lived here?
was freshly made, the face of every godand angel brand new. Nowadays they sneer,looking out sooty niches, ears and nosesriddled by history and acid rain.Wort and stinkweed prosper where once rosesbrushed against each crystal window pane.The name is ul. Konarskiego now,although the unkempt building still speaks German.Inside the tenants’ children do not ask howas late…
for Cornel Adam Lengyel (1915-2003)
Bullfinches bathe in dust along the path.Two hedgehogs mate. A crow attempts to sing.The cherries bloom until you see an orchardand in a puddle snowdrops touch the sky.Then, when you least expect, you reach your goal.Your heart stops, and you fall towards your shadow.
I look down, see there’s a new bank
the summer of 1934.It was a place where Germans dranktheir märzen, pilsner, kölsch. The buzzof saws in their ears, they would lookout windows on the raised ground floor,at ducks on the canal, a rookatop a branch. The barges passedweighed down with lumber, coal, and steelon to the Oder railway line.They drank as long as moments…
The clouds are ragged as his clothes,
The river is a vein that flowstowards his hermit heart, festoonedwith briars, and with poison oak.Five beaver pelts press on his spine;the spirit of an arrow strokeshis beard; his sweat turns into brine.He’ll build a tiny pillar of stonein his mind, and only speak to thosewho speak to him, for when alonethe Lord keeps him…
His world is ochre over which a crow
a field assailed by January snow,the river winding like a spinning yarn.No human drama in his straw-filled frame,as he hangs, facing nature hard at work:the lynx in the black thicket hunting game,the maelstrom in the icy water’s murk.No father comes down from a sunlit cloudto save the lemmings headed for the shore.There is the smell…