It's Not February
Already a week I've been carrying a collection
of poems by Tom Raworth, a letter from Paul Killebrew
and the light of autumn streets.
And summer's melancholy has ended,
the truce has ended.
If I say
improvisation,
I think of friendship.
The plan accepted, the destinations conquered.
... so to fix
bitter melancholy
neon shine
shifty regards
and I am AGAIN asking,
if they know,
how cold and dirty it is.
And neither did we succeed
in escaping our own regard
of the seasons' turn.
This relation to tea is insanely pleasant,
next to this sound another sound.
And it's different
from the feeling,
when you walk around the city,
to watch
moving pictures,
carefully rummaging the interior,
and sometimes you're only spinning faster the reel.
(translated by Laura Solomon)
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 Don't leave this town
I feel lost,
my hands shake, I don’t speak,
clouds drift further to the east,
the telephone will explode in flames,
too many calls, not enough love,
I am writing poems for a New Rome,
nearby a hard rain,
the old continent underwater in the middle of summer,
like someone trying to clean sins, pain remains,
you can call me anyway, whenever you are ready,
Africa is not that far,
I only miss Asia sometimes,
I get closest to myself, when I am returning,
when I'm almost home.
(translated by Matthew Zapruder)
--------------------------------------------------
Regggae, tea, etc.
Tender fall of neon light,
long hair of women,
white smoke of cigarettes,
there, a few minutes before midnight,
where sad autumn begins,
and summer ends
in small clouds
of mist on the marshes.
Only the little things
really matter,
in them begins the walk
that ends at the teahouse
flickering shadows on the facades
and some happiness in the naked heart.
(translated by Matthew Zapruder)
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