POETRY

WHITE NIGHTS Unknown source of light, soaked granite and gardens. The Neva has poured into the sky blushes, the sky in the river in blue shivers. And shoulder to shoulder two young go with cautious and slow step, not to disperse this light, that heart-to-heart overflows. (Blaga Dimitrova) http://www.amazon.com/Scars-Blaga-Dimitrova/dp/1930214030/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

THIS DAY Finally, after days of rain, sun and clouds roll over the hills dreamlike, perfect upcountry morning. I pull the Jeep over on the shoulder of Crater Road to watch a pair of horses, grazing in the sun. How their burnished coats gleam against the wild green, fields of yellow dandelion and brush, how flies swarm their flanks in …

NATASHA, THE WHITE DONKEY AND ME Tonight the snow falls endlessly, because I, a poor man, love the beautiful Natasha. I love Natasha, the snow falls endlessly, and I sit alone, drinking rice wine. Drinking rice wine, I think: the night the snow falls endlessly, I would like to ride, with Natasha, upon a white donkey to a remote, mournful …

PARTING BEFORE DAYBREAK First the day, then daybreak, and finally the time for parting. Local time in Beijing is 7 o’clock according to the TV. As a child, I liked to lie in bed, and wait for daybreak, my silver broach stayed in its soft dormant curve. I counted my fingers, exactly ten. Almost daybreak, but no light in the …

A QUARTER TO THREE: THE IDEAL A quarter to three: we need to be even thinner, even that which caresses the nose somewhere stinks, into words. Knocking for bread is clear, chew death is clear, the fog returns, and withdraws the breath is clear. The slow water, roaring through the crack in the asphalt road, is deadly nonsense, it’s world …

IN MY LIFE AS A FOX In my life as a fox I was everything and everything, I was even light to bite, I was the sun of my immaculate face. I did not know my name, and it was just constantly there, where the leg touches the ground. In my life as a fox, I was hungry and the …

PRAYER Our baby’s heart, on the sixteen-week scan, was a fluttering bird, held in cupped hands. I thought of St Kevin, hands opened in prayer, and a bird of the hedgerow nesting there, and how he’d borne it, until the young had flown, and I prayed: this new heart must outlive my own. (Kathleen Jamie)    

OF LOVE The one who says “I Love You”, is a sad fiddler, who has lost his song. Only if Love itself, had a tongue! A thousand, blissful hoopoes, laugh inside of your eyes. Thousands of silent canaries, stay still in my throat. If only Love itself, could have a word! The one who says, “I Love You”, is a …

LIE AND TRUTH There was a mysterious land; its long southern parts extended to the great sea. No one knew much about it. People in the land had a strong belief that they lived in a unique land of peace and wealth. So, ever happy they were and they had a positive habit of smiling. This beautiful myth misled them …

WHEN A BRANCH CROSSES OVER THE WALL When a drooping willow branch crossed over the wall, it may not have been her work alone. If the distant root, whose face she hadn’t seen even once, and the flowers and leaves–who had put their flesh together and washed their hands of each other, hadn’t supported her as one body, the branch …