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.

Cristina Florea

Brian Docherty

Viziune asupra lumii


Plictisul imi amorteste gura, imi usuca limba.
Hrana nu are deloc varietate; imi insemnez zilele
in meniul ce nu mi-a fost oferit vreodata.
Anexele anunta cine e de serviciu.

Imi pot simti mirosul propriului trup, canalele,
legume fierte, piele si caini.
Barbatul care s-a spanzurat cu 20 de mese mai devreme
este inca aici cu noi, o coroana funerara de var nestins.

Pielea mea, hainele, aceasta podea, acesti pereti
reprezinta tot ce am atins de atata timp.
O carte, pielea unei femei, un pahar cu vin
sunt lucruri la care am renuntat sa mai tanjesc.

Intreaga noapte aud tanguirile oamenilor, tevile pocnind,
camioane si trenuri in departare.
Daca as avea un ceas, l-as putea potrivi dupa ele.
La orele diminetii toate contenesc pentru o vreme.

Geamul de sus e un fotoobiectiv subred,
incadrand pasari, nori, zmei, avioane.
Nu vad nicicand alti oameni,
decat prin oglinda fumurie a amintirii.