Evenings



I like evenings:

warm, golden, shone through with light;

an orange ball of sun behind the window
stitched to unbelievable skies,
and honey light
streaming through lace curtains
to rest on the tablecloth.

I like evenings:

safe as a woolen sweater,
peachy, rosy, purple,
with wicker armchairs spinning webs of light.






***



The ball of sun
bursting with yellow warmth;
the intoxicating smell of grass,
ravishing joy of breathing.

Your skin smells with sun,
and clouds aren't clouds but little white lambs
running loose on the blue meadow.






Rapture



I understand the passion of fine machines,
aircraft stretched across the cracked sky
between one horizon and another,

with a neck, tail, and wings sewn into the baffled blue,
one second laughingly plunging down to earth
with the whole of its supposed weight,
then scarring the torn-up sky
with lightning.





Conversation with a Ghost



Thank you for being here for me.
I can't imagine how the events would weave themselves together
if not for your on-and-off presence,
unobtrusive and obliging.

Always by my side,
patiently listening
to me blabbing
about the laundry and the alarm clock that didn't go off again,
and the neighbors' dog I have a weakness for
(who makes it a point, after having dirtied itself beyond recognition,
to jump on me as I rush to work—and I swear it picks the days
when I wear white),
and how I should iron my shirts once in a blue moon,
but every time I do some shopping,
I forget to buy an iron,

and so on, and so forth.

We both know:
were you a living creature,
you'd be far away by now;
but as it is,
you're still here,
and I so appreciate it.

Today, I'm going to serve clams.
Don't you just love clams?
I know you do,
and I do, too (your likes and dislikes miraculously agree with mine).
After we eat, we'll go for a walk
on the Burrito Beach,
which we of course both like,
and after that you're going to listen to me sing
and tell me I sing just beautifully.

And in the evening,
we're going to shut off the light
the very moment I feel tired
and not a minute later.

You’re almost perfect.

If only you had blood in your veins,
disagreed with me every now and then,
left the room untidy,
got cranky when hungry,
snored—
Then you'd be perfect.

“I'm a ghost,”
you tell me,
“and ghosts don't snore.”

I know, I know.
One can't have everything.






Lost Mother Tongue



I deserted you.

You needed constant attention, like a capricious child,
a frail flower one must water every day.

I was your nest, your fortress,
your rain, your sun,
your guardian,
your mistress.

Spring followed spring,
fall—fall.
New bridges were built;
borders were erased and drawn anew;
even children were born,
and people just like you or me passed away.

I became forgetful and absent-minded,
preoccupied with little things,
always on the run.

Slowly, imperceptibly,
I became neglectful of you.

You failed me soon after.

Had I looked after this garden,
it would have returned the favor
tenfold, I know.
I know.

So where is this sorrow coming from?
Why?

Hush,
hush,

no need to speak.






Longing



I didn’t manage to find you.
Vain attempts. Futile efforts.

I’ve run through the garden.
Countless times have I looked under the sheets.
I’ve stared obstinately at the very empty seats in the subway
and at my own overly singular reflection in the store glass.

I can’t cope
with how ubiquitously
absent you are.

I’ve armed myself with heavy patience.
I’ve planted in myself confidence
of seeing you again.

My silly stubbornness should move you.
You should leave your hideout.

I know. You’re standing right next to me
in a cloak of invisibility
laughing up your sleeve.
Your laughter has wrinkled the air.

If this amuses you so much,
I can wait a bit longer.

I like when you laugh.






Fortuitousness



I, another one bewildered.
It has happened. It hasn't happened.
It could have happened. By a hair's breadth.

A strong believer in purpose and pursuit,
I have been humbled time and again.
I gave up attempts to control
where and how the story goes.
Now I'm just standing on the side,
curiously looking at the stage.

I want to say I wouldn't mind
giving a word of advice sometimes.
I wish to offer guidance without obligation.
Some kind-hearted mentoring.

But no. This is not
how things have been set up here.
Strong-headed myself, I finally acknowledge
I am to stand on the sidelines,
curiously watching.





Minute of Silence



As every year, the time has come to commemorate our dead.
This year, the time has come to acknowledge your dead.
The truth is the truth, be it bitter.

- Mr. Putin, how do we schedule?
A hundred thirty-four people here,
ready for takeoff.

- We thought you should all come on Wednesday,
but we need space for the orchestra and the flowers,
and the journalists.  One hundred and thirty-four people—that's too many.

- We thought to fly all at once,
but the plane is so small,
someone would have to stay at home.
And who's to decide who's to stay?
Such a historical event;
everyone wants to attend.

- Mr. Tusk, it's been decided:
only you'll fly today.
We'll all join you on Saturday.
There’s always so much to do;
one can't afford to stop
for a few more days.
If we can get there on the weekend,
that'll be enough of a political statement—
although I hear the weather is to be bad;
something about the fog.

- Goodbye, Mr. Prime Minister;
see you Saturday!

- See you.  Don't forget your gloves.
I hear it may rain.


_________________________________________
On 10 April, 2010, on the way to commemoration ceremony of the 70th anniversary of the Katyn massacre, the President of Poland and some of the country's highest military and civilian leaders lost their lives. _________________________________________





Caught



In the country of eternal winter, on a train,
a boy took off his winter hat.

It happened suddenly, without any warning.

I was so occupied with little things
that I overlooked the fall
and missed the winter,
only to awaken one day in a rush of buds
shooting into the dripping sky and the melting sun.