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Thursday, January 19, 2017

Flown

FLOWN



in the drawer left the manila folder hand. folded, manhandled, there must be a handle at hand, nearby. a handle? a windup handle for a gramaphone? yes, the record collection scattered to the eight winds, lost, abandoned, exiled, murdered. a deft hand. sliding. a glider. the wind in the boughs, high, perhaps a kite is being flown—like the festival of early boyhood? the Koinobori. down the stream of oblivion then, hands, palms up, down the river of no return: on your right, Heraclitus, the dark one, the gloom and doom; on your left? a woman? ethereal. white, too white, pinkish, pinker than your dark pinkness, gliding, her nipples erect above the surface of the flowing water. your nipples visible also. in the distance, the nipple-tops of the nihon-mountain, the snowhite nipple of the Fujisan, all of us flowing down the river, indistinguishable, replaceable, unindividualized, depersonalized, unidentifiable, folded, unfolded, fetus-like, manhandled, left in the long forgotten drawer, with the layers of dust accumulating. the manila folders of our lives: Palimpsest.












boris gregoric C 2017.

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

More Poems About Vasya...


More Poems About Vasya and His Daily Adventures



...there goes vasya,
down the vale,
the stars are lighting,
the limitless abode,
a song vasya sings,
the leather jacket
slung over the shoulder,
the words ringing, echoing:
Над Енисеем в дымке синей Гул величавый кедрача...
В сердечной песне у России Душа живого Ильича.

....

vasya and vasko


in a tavern nameless, small,
in the mid of the Vršac town,
this morn the two
comrade-gents meet
eh, vasya, vasya!
oh, vasko, vasko!
they embrace,
brotherly,
as if they've not seen ea other
there be twenty some
odd years
vodka, orders vasya
travarica says vasko
the words rolls,
the letters spill,
the Slava, the fireworks, the revelry—


----

a left shoe vasya takes off
lounging in the grassy lea—
everything of interest,
the ants most of all—
the steamer (whiteassnow) down the Yenisee flows
the distances beckon
the heart of a jacktar

the bees and bumblebees brawnm
vasya drops off, nods,
the smiling lips,
dew on the grass


a pink cloud gliding in the sky
the breeze breezing
vasya blinking—
эй, жизнь, жизнь

in dream, he's sighing
his big toe
the air deftly defying


-----







goes there vasya fishes to net
the amur flows
the Fish abundant
the ice cracking
the boots squeaking
nu ladna, ladna
the carp he adresses
while the latter, poor soul,
lets go of it—for even
fish has got a soul
and what thoughtest thou—hath is not?



Bo Gregorson: is a contemporay Icelandic writer and translator (b. 1962, Reykavik).