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.

Silvia Nicolae

Brian Docherty

Fereastra asupra lumii

Plictiseala imi rugineste gura, imi usuca limba.
Mancarea nu e niciodata variata; imi insemn zilele
dupa meniul care nu mi-a fost niciodata oferit.
Suplimentul anunta cine este de serviciu.

Pot sa simt mirosul propriului meu corp, canalizarea,
legumele fierte, pielea si cainii.
Barbatul care s-a spanzurat acum douazeci de mese este
tot cu noi, o urma rotunda de var nestins.

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

Toata noaptea aud barbati gemand, lovituri in tevi,
camioane si trenuri aflate la departare.
Daca as fi avut un ceas, l-as fi putut potrivi dupa ele. In
zori se opreau pentru un rastimp.

Fereastra de sus e un crud aparat de filmat
ce incadreaza pasari, nori, zmee, avioane.
Nu vad niciodata alti oameni, decat prin
oglinda fumurie a amintirii.