She asks for ‘Café Dubois’ while I ask for a glass of ‘Tequila’. Svetlana Alexievich
It’s not that I cannot go to meet ideas, but I lack the proper suit for such a meeting . . .
Shirt unbottoned,
‘Blue jeans’,
Flat shoes,
The memory of a woman,
Single cigarettes
Small trickery plans.
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I go to poetry in the evening.
The rest of the time in the morning I spend it
Checking my temper,
Polishing dishes,
Tidying the mess in the house,
I forget about the girlfriend who just left,
And stand on the balcony in shorts.
Love is a red rose.
Love is a supergun.
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I go to poetry in the evening.
We together invent a small cafe at the head of the street, in both our heads.
We sit opposite each other
I, looking at her pale face,
She, looking at the base ideas in my heart.
She asks for ‘Café Dubois’,
I ask for a glass of ’Tequila‘.
I think of jumping before a passing train.
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I go to poetry in the evening.
We rent a room on the roof and date each other in weekends.
We look down to the street from above
And laugh loudly.
As I explain the ‘Gulag’ theory to her
She steals a leftist kiss from my mouth.
A single trip by bus to paradise could be enough.
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Svetlana Alexievich.
My heart is Soviet.
Imagination is not sufficient anymore.
I have no more secrets to hide for anyone except myself.
Cold is War in your capitalistic eyes.
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Svetlana Alexievich.
Poetry doesn’t tell lies.
Poetry deceives.
Poetry is the daughter of a bitch.
Her eyes are inquisitive
Her eyes are documentative
It is not to be recited in festivals
Nor to pose with makeup
In front of a handsome announcer on TV programs.
Poetry loafs in markets and backstreets
Measuring blindness in the eyes of passers-by
And cares nothing about the number of stars in the hotel
Where it is staying.
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I love like one who watches Rambo 4.
I fight till the last round
And hope it’s not too late.