Peycho Kanev

 

 


 

Poetess in New England

 

 

She wears the typewriter keys around

her neck like a necklace. White sheets

of paper scattered on the floor bring

the smell of coming winter. At this

remote home even the seasons delay

their arrival. Superannuated linden

trees surround the yard, like guards

of honor of bygone memories. Last

night’s rain… Everything is covered

in mud and woodpeckers telegraph

to everybody the new and already

forgotten news. Steaming cup of

coffee in her hand. The words are not

coming anymore, hence the sheets of

paper. She hears the end, the end gently

whispers: “Come and get me.” With her

head bowed down she goes back inside,

dressed in gown with violets which have

ceased to bloom.

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday


 

In all the rooms,

one after the other,

patiently I will wait

for you to come back.

I will prepare myself for the

last supper:

- the glasses we keep

for funerals

- the wedding silverware

- the black tablecloth –

the darkness enters

everywhere.

All the days we remember

together, all the bad nights

were always wonderful,

I feel them as something

which is yet to come.

Outside is raining now,

the traffic gets bigger and throws

it’s cars towards the pedestrians

under the setting sun.

And I wait.

It’s quiet inside the house,

in all the rooms,

one after the other…

I wait and look at the calendar.

But before you come,

please tell me,

why I pray to Thursday

to whisper to Friday

not to come at least

for one more year.

 


 

 

 

Hearts of old gods

 

 

I am seized by the shadows

of the altar stones,

by the weight of the centuries

between the sanctified arches;

I am always under the laurel leaves,

spat out by the passing hands,

by the heads of sheep

under the blue-green of the fig-tree,

close to the morning rocks

and grizzled sparrows,

and by women, saying goodbye

to their soldier’s sons;

I am always between the kingdoms,

I am always between the cities

demolished just like the cloudy skies,

always in this air of withered leaves,

and always there,

where the spring birds

nest in the eyes of the gods.

 




 

Oscillate

 

 

Now all are born, those who will accompany me

at my funeral

 

My burial shroud is prepared and stocked

somewhere

 

The one that will drive the hearse

just got his driver license

 

All those who will hustle down the roses

now walk together

 

And now all starts all over

again

 

The clock is ticking

The time hangs still

The clouds are gathering

 

The rain that will fall then

now vaporizes

 

The ground is smiling

 

 



 

Decision

 

 

If we do not need this Sun

let me make some light then,

but not too big,

just enough for our eyes to dance inside,

like the lights of the candles.


 

Copyright © 2012 Peycho Kanev
 

Peycho Kanev is the Editor-In-Chief of Kanev Books. His poems have appeared in more than 600 literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Hawaii Review, The Monarch Review, The Coachella Review, DMQ Review, Black Market Review, The Cleveland Review, In Posse Review, Mascara Literary Review and many others. Peycho Kanev has won several European awards for his poetry and he is nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Net. His poetry collection Bone Silence was released in September 2010 by Desperanto Publishing Group. A new collection of his poetry, titled Requiem for One Night, will be published by Desperanto Publishing Group in 2012.