Waters
It is as if this lake
that rocks a canoe
had no shore
like crazy thoughts.
the water would flow away.
That is the fate of waters
that have no shore.
Squelchy mud,
mucksy puddle
and vacuum sludge
would swallow you.
A river cannot lack a shore
like a girl chasing mirages.
sneaking off to a tryst,
chattering, babbling
scurrilities
or secrets
the water whispers
snuggles, caresses, licks, tickles
amorously
the shore’s opening thighs.
The shore is neither dam, nor barrier:
sky sowing herding
toward god-given wild,
or tame goals.
The Swallows
they diligently carried the
material
to their nest
I watched from the porch
as three were built at the same time
under the eaves of the uninhabited house
there was a system in their hopping back and forth
they did not cross each other's paths
I didn't see any hay or mud neither hen nor bird feathers
falling down from the nests being built
maybe three weeks had gone by when
tiny swallows appeared in nest openings
with wide open beaks waiting for beetles
I didn’t go to school then
I was flipping through my brother's books curiously
studying
the devious lines of letters
more captivated by them than
the still-gray pictures back then
not colored
sometimes I’d asked
“What letter is this?”
In the beginning my brother was benevolently
showing me the letters
proudly as the one who had already
acquired knowledge
paying attention to the pronunciation
but soon my questions grew burdensome
yet at that point I already learned the letters
and I started stringing words together
I managed to read them together
more and more often
my mother was proudly spreading the word
to neighbors and kin
of her son’s achievements
my aunt, a teacher herself, warned:
"Learning to read and write early isn’t wise
he will be bored in school"
the day when I arrived home
from school
with a diploma for literary activity
my father - I don't remember why -
disciplined me
I was 14 years old
my first poem was published
in the national children's newspaper
titled “Dictionary”
the secret society of books
of which I became a member
compensated me for everything
my father indicated which titles were
forbidden to take off the shelf
yet I read them one by one
and I pilfered his condom supply
and sold them as balloons for a pittance
to the street children
they played with them unknowingly
the adults remained silent
merely exchanged glances
I marveled at stork hatchlings in July
their first attempts to fly out
their uncertain ascent
then their swaying in the wind
what an experience I thought
and I glided there with them as a wind jockey
then the swallow chicks also flew out timidly
they made smaller circles
they went back to the nest
then they started again
more and more daring
I wrote an imaginary letter on each one's belly
and I tried to put together meaningful words
in the order of their arrival
"chance does not play a role in our lives"
said the mother swallow
"flying hunting travelling
all has a precise rhythm timing and purpose
don't leave anything to chance
letters themselves are just chaff and mud
only accurate planning work and expediency
imbue them with meaning"
she caught a naughty fly
then continued:
"let your verse be the nest of the desires
thoughts and hopes of others"
the inspectors of thoughts
did not read the text
but my biography
"not a single trend can match it"
- they muttered under their breath
it wasn't the first occasion I had been told
that a poet is the stepson of loneliness
his life is concealed like of the slugs
hiding under the stones
emerging only after rain
when the swallows
were about to depart
they circled above the houses
rising higher and higher
it was a gathering of strength and a farewell
a kind of a birdy goodbye
I remembered the game again
writing letters on the swallows' bellies
striving for words
swapping their partners
yet the swallows kept putting other words together
always in different languages
words of an unknown language
they only seemed like groups of letters
but probably to someone
they were interpretable
the leading swallow guiding the flock to south
spoke in my mind:
"letters are mere symbols
which make sense solely
if some system
put them into the correct order
then it builds a meaningful text of words as well"
while rising higher and higher
he also added:
"you see our soaring seemingly
aimless
explore the system
the rhythm
the pace
the text entrusted to us
we’ll take it far
it can be read by strangers
it can be interpreted in myriad ways
you watched our flight often
tell me
what have you learned from it?”
"the meaning of flight is
the goal
the way
and the arrival"
I answered to myself.
August Snowfall
not long ago the
garden
waited for your arrival
inside the trees veins
the sap was flowing
grasses – carpet of flowers were weaving
under your soles
the cherry’s
branch touched your hair
such as the merchant’s corn
bloomed
your warmth
lingered for long
but the bed forgot about it
he dreamed about
the city
prey to his loneliness
his eyes closed
burnt himself in the dumb sun
face to face
within the mirror of his memories
the empty minutes trembled
while this
fated August snow
covered his footprints
It is as if this lake
that rocks a canoe
had no shore
like crazy thoughts.
the water would flow away.
That is the fate of waters
that have no shore.
Squelchy mud,
mucksy puddle
and vacuum sludge
would swallow you.
A river cannot lack a shore
like a girl chasing mirages.
sneaking off to a tryst,
chattering, babbling
scurrilities
or secrets
the water whispers
snuggles, caresses, licks, tickles
amorously
the shore’s opening thighs.
The shore is neither dam, nor barrier:
sky sowing herding
toward god-given wild,
or tame goals.
to their nest
I watched from the porch
as three were built at the same time
under the eaves of the uninhabited house
there was a system in their hopping back and forth
they did not cross each other's paths
I didn't see any hay or mud neither hen nor bird feathers
falling down from the nests being built
maybe three weeks had gone by when
tiny swallows appeared in nest openings
with wide open beaks waiting for beetles
I didn’t go to school then
I was flipping through my brother's books curiously
studying
the devious lines of letters
more captivated by them than
the still-gray pictures back then
not colored
sometimes I’d asked
“What letter is this?”
In the beginning my brother was benevolently
showing me the letters
proudly as the one who had already
acquired knowledge
paying attention to the pronunciation
but soon my questions grew burdensome
yet at that point I already learned the letters
and I started stringing words together
I managed to read them together
more and more often
my mother was proudly spreading the word
to neighbors and kin
of her son’s achievements
my aunt, a teacher herself, warned:
"Learning to read and write early isn’t wise
he will be bored in school"
the day when I arrived home
from school
with a diploma for literary activity
my father - I don't remember why -
disciplined me
I was 14 years old
my first poem was published
in the national children's newspaper
titled “Dictionary”
the secret society of books
of which I became a member
compensated me for everything
my father indicated which titles were
forbidden to take off the shelf
yet I read them one by one
and I pilfered his condom supply
and sold them as balloons for a pittance
to the street children
they played with them unknowingly
the adults remained silent
merely exchanged glances
I marveled at stork hatchlings in July
their first attempts to fly out
their uncertain ascent
then their swaying in the wind
what an experience I thought
and I glided there with them as a wind jockey
then the swallow chicks also flew out timidly
they made smaller circles
they went back to the nest
then they started again
more and more daring
I wrote an imaginary letter on each one's belly
and I tried to put together meaningful words
in the order of their arrival
"chance does not play a role in our lives"
said the mother swallow
"flying hunting travelling
all has a precise rhythm timing and purpose
don't leave anything to chance
letters themselves are just chaff and mud
only accurate planning work and expediency
imbue them with meaning"
she caught a naughty fly
then continued:
"let your verse be the nest of the desires
thoughts and hopes of others"
the inspectors of thoughts
did not read the text
but my biography
"not a single trend can match it"
- they muttered under their breath
it wasn't the first occasion I had been told
that a poet is the stepson of loneliness
his life is concealed like of the slugs
hiding under the stones
emerging only after rain
when the swallows
were about to depart
they circled above the houses
rising higher and higher
it was a gathering of strength and a farewell
a kind of a birdy goodbye
I remembered the game again
writing letters on the swallows' bellies
striving for words
swapping their partners
yet the swallows kept putting other words together
always in different languages
words of an unknown language
they only seemed like groups of letters
but probably to someone
they were interpretable
the leading swallow guiding the flock to south
spoke in my mind:
"letters are mere symbols
which make sense solely
if some system
put them into the correct order
then it builds a meaningful text of words as well"
while rising higher and higher
he also added:
"you see our soaring seemingly
aimless
explore the system
the rhythm
the pace
the text entrusted to us
we’ll take it far
it can be read by strangers
it can be interpreted in myriad ways
you watched our flight often
tell me
what have you learned from it?”
"the meaning of flight is
the goal
the way
and the arrival"
I answered to myself.
waited for your arrival
inside the trees veins
the sap was flowing
grasses – carpet of flowers were weaving
under your soles
such as the merchant’s corn
bloomed
but the bed forgot about it
prey to his loneliness
his eyes closed
burnt himself in the dumb sun
within the mirror of his memories
the empty minutes trembled
while this
fated August snow
covered his footprints