Conversation with a Stone

(‘Perhaps this is not a poem…’ C. Milosz)

And because I was made a poet
a lot of blood is spilt
on the neat grass, when I walk.

For fear that I will have
nothing to give back
I collect old books.

My word confesses to its imperfection
with the honesty of a fractured second.
Not that I mind,
not that I have high hopes,
only tall steps.

Because of this self deluded truth,
it happens that waking up in a desert
is not a surprising coincidence,
but a certainty, like a niggling pain in a missing limb.

I am not grateful to sleep facing the wall
but hey! someone needs to show a bit of courage
and say nothing
when nothing is to be said.

And though no one will remember
the poem once written but me,
after all, forgotten things are
the only possessions worth keeping.

Photo: John Stadnicki



‘Would you kill a bird’ I asked the angel.
The angel stopped and lit a cigarette
And said nothing back.
Then, after a pause, the colours faded.
‘Would you kill a bird’ the angel suddenly asked me.
I said nothing.
A stone was growing between me and my mouth.
Between my flesh and my heart,
The rust.

Photo: Maria Butunoi

My Definition of You

(‘Spiegel im Spiegel’)

Let’s say I promise to keep talking
Until the very end and
Look properly at every single road on the map
So none of you gets lost in town in the dark.
My voice will memorise the way back
My pen will noisily follow the thin line
Between the frozen bird and the white stone.

I don’t have beautiful hands but
Apply with confidence for the job.
There is always a need for a poet
Without previous experience
As in terms of poetry
History is worse than death.

My bright future will spare the land
Beautiful poisonous tears.

I am not a blood stain that speaks
But a breath which unfolds
Another version of the truth
The one that matters before the big freeze.

My definition of you will always
Stop the bullet midair.
The well in which I was born
Is the mirror in which we all look.