quietus

the keel has met the shore
and maybe i don’t want to leave
but love, my story’s told
cannot sing past songs no more
parting is sweet bitter sorrow
heart’s cockles have grown cold

i see the sail unfurled
and surely we shall never know
what’s left that could have been
i’ll tramp not in your world
nor age another day with you
years not enough, my queen

the fisher king, he saves
peace you now, all will be fine
i cruise at morning’s light
and face the winds (as braves)
treading clear of land and sky
in this boat’s mythic flight

hark now, the end has come
we bid, my love, our fond farewells
and touch pale cracking lips
hush now, it has begun
this rattling chest shall raise no more
as mere life loses grip

sands wait, of greater price
than many riches in your palms
and all the jewel array
are not the seashells nice?
with eyes so sad, you look elsewhere
boat softly slips away

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2015

perfect pitch

i was standing near a window
sipping my morning coffee
and it suddenly dawned on me

do you know why rainy strings sound
so clear, in perfect harmony,
no single false note in the chords?

take a look at this old basswood
its vibrant delicate twigs
work like note-perfect tuning forks

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2017

GUEST POST // Bee There by Spahr Plops

bee the buzz
from Flora juices
Bee delighted about
intoxication.

Sip a lip the same
frame of forever.
bee filled with hop
budof hope & wonder

sought to fascinate
mundane pollinate.
Too bee sets shadow
seekless when Spring.

Bee mindful in offering
ambrosia cotton surround
Sound of solitude. bee life
the allergic unconscious.

 

by SPAHR PLOPS
© All rights reserved 2017

TATI’S TRANSLATIONS // Night Ward by Sudeep Sen

The night ward’s blue curtains that surround me drip colour and deceit—each and every pleated flute of cloth hiding some half-truths like the half-lives of atoms. Only here, the arithmetic surety of fission does not wish to match the nuclear chemistry of my blood’s transfusion.

The night nurse peeps in to assure me that blue is not all black, that red is not grey, that the colour of my skin does not reflect the colour of my life. I wish I could agree with her consolations.

Yards of white and blue linen that wrap my slow generous chill, know the real secret of my floating corpuscles—the flotsam larvae, their ancient silk that gently threads my nearly finished mummy.

Синие шторы ночной палаты, окружающие меня, сочатся цветом и обманом. Каждая плиссированная складка ткани скрывает полуправду – частицу правды, пережившую период полураспада, как атом. Полученный арифметический результат этого деления упрямо не вписывается в химическую формулу переливания моей крови.

Ночная сиделка заглядывает в палату. Она уверяет меня, что этот синий не совсем черный, этот красный – вовсе не серый, и что цвет моей кожи совсем не такой, как цвет моей жизни. Мне хочется верить ее словам.

Километры белого и синего льна укутывают мой вечный озноб, постигая сокровенную тайну дрейфующих лейкоцитов; их мертвые личинки прошивают меня насквозь невесомыми шелковыми нитями, превращая в настоящую мумию.

 

Poem by SUDEEP SEN
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA

© All rights reserved 2017