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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