Brian Docherty

World View

Boredom rusts my mouth, shrivels my tongue.
The food never varies; I mark off my days
by the menu I have never been offered.
The supplements announce who is on duty.

I can smell my own body, the drains,
boiled vegetables, leather and dogs.
The man who hung himself 20 meals ago is
still with us, a wreath of quicklime.

My skin, my clothes, this floor, these walls, are
all I have touched for too long.
A book, a woman’s skin, a glass of wine, are
things I have given up longing for.

All night I hear men moaning, pipes banging,
lorries and trains in the distance.
If I had a watch, I could set it by them. In
the early hours they stop for a while.

The high window is a wonky camera
framing birds, clouds, kites, planes.
I never see other people except through
the smoky mirror of memory.

Rodica Tita (Ionas)

Brian Docherty

Perspectiva asupra lumii

Plictiseala imi amaraste gura, imi zbarceste limba.

Mancarea e mereu aceeasi; tai zilele din calendar

dupa meniul pe care nu-l primesc niciodata.

Imi dau seama a cui e tura dupa gustarea dintre mese.

Simt mirosul propriului meu trup, si-al tevilor,

al legumelor fierte; miros de piele si de caini.

Barbatul care s-a spanzurat acum 20 de mese este

inca aici, abur de var nestins.

Pielea si hainele mele, podeaua, peretii, doar atat

am atins de o gramada de timp incoace.

O carte, o femeie, un pahar de vin. La ele

am renuntat sa mai tanjesc.

Toata noaptea aud barbati gemand, tevi bubuind,

camioane si trenuri de departe.

Daca as avea ceas l-as potrivi dupa ele. Dis-de-dimineata

se opresc putin.

Fereastra inalta e un aparat foto rablagit

care incadreaza pasari, nori, zmeie, avioane.

Nu-i vad niciodata pe ceilalti decat prin

oglinda fumurie a aducerii-aminte.