Tuesday, April 28, 2015


Work on paper by Eduardo Chillida


The hand of the Basque sculptor Chillida

somehow familiar

the fists turned inward,

as if to catch a bird. But gently

so the bird don't get hurt.

To hurt a bird is a great evil.

It is a big hand, a massive hand,

the hand of a sculptor, a worker, a farmer,

the hand used to the chisel, the shovel, the pick,

the hand that will tenderly caress

a child's head.

It is a hand that will open the gate

made of stone.

A hand that will milk a cow

or a goat.

Drawn from memory

the familiar hand

of maestro Chillida

So Young, And Yet Upon Death Musing Already...

The conversant Memento Mori

of Georges de la Tour

a young woman and the desk mirror

the candle flickering to the left

the left hand lightly touching the skull while

the right one is tucked under the delicate

elongated face

the candle flickering, leaning to the left

how does the young woman in the bloom

of life already worry about the questions


Or is it perhaps the matter of banality

an absent lover

or maybe mere nocturnal tedium

perhaps a contemplation that does not seem

but a daydream

to the contrary it fits beautifully

the painter's dizzying display —

Maestro, la bravura di chiaroscuro! 


In the City of the Laughing People

Cargo ships arriving to the city of the laughing people.

On the banks we linger, my sweetie pie and I.

Each other we feel, and touch, have giggles but brightly,

You tickling me, beneath my armpits,


I tickling the cute

soles of your feet, the wee toes (such goofy little things!)


While the boat siren

Pierces (not apple sharp like! not yet!)

Tears the Late March Air

The fresh, cool, water-well air of the city of the laughing people

In which the books of Cioran Emile

Languish unread.

Long Way To Go

too many noisy people

on this (seemingly) one-way

voyage —

we arrive in an instant

always harder to get in

than to get out

to leave

than to arrive

always harder to create

than to destroy

the trains too slow

the cars as if unable

to get us anywhere

except deliver from one bondage

to another

too many people

on this station

too many foreigners (there)

too few foreigners (here)

and already 9: 44 in the morning

while the plane sits

on the tarmac

turns out another false


of the imaginary

nail-clipper terrorists



Upon a time


Early on

I was (thus)

Japanese —

A wanderer

It happened


in Spring —

naturally cherries were blooming —

and you were there

sitting up

in the branches

your Japanese sandals

jiggling attractively

your feet

rather perfect

the size 36 and 1/2

Translated from the Croatian

by the Author

© Boris Gregoric, 2015