Poems
A poem is like driving a nail into a wall. The fewer strokes you need, the better. If it takes too long, or if your strokes are too complicated, the poem will fail. But what corresponds to the wall? The soul? Your heart? My inability?
These are two of my poems written in English:
Coal |
You |
|---|---|
|
Why not take all this coal and build novels full of steam engines factories 13.5 inch guns. Coal mined by forlorn men sweet children’s hands once blooming women with Dickens and Eliot standing next door. |
You did survive. Some day. Some hour. Without the descent of bombers. Without hungry cheeks. The way to tram along the broken corner. The passage to bakery long before time was set up. Now let your body get home. |
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