Bill Manhire – Kevin
I don’t know where the dead go, Kevin.
The one far place I know
is inside the heavy radio. If I listen late at night,
there’s that dark, celestial glow,
heaviness of the cave, the hive.
Music. Someone warms his hands at the fire,
breaking off the arms of chairs,
breaking the brute bodies of beds, burning his comfort
surely to keep alive. Soon he can hardly see,
and so, quietly, he listens: then someone lifts him
and it’s some terrible breakfast show.
There are mothers and fathers, Kevin, whom we barely know.
They lift us. Eventually we all shall go
into the dark furniture of the radio.
Raymond Carver – Happiness
So early it’s still almost dark out.
I’m near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.
When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.
They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren’t saying anything, these boys.
I think if they could, they would take
each other’s arm.
It’s early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.
They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.
Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn’t enter into this.
Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.
Siberia sovietica, de Leo Butnaru
Mda… Ce insemna
Siberia sovietica?…Pai
cum ar fi sa va explic mai plastic?…Uite-asa
un atelier de pictor
un taburet – pe el
o pagina din ziarul “Pravda”
patata in draci de vopsele
pe ea – o scrumbie
o stacana cu sticla ca
un curcubeu tulbur – urmele
palmei butucanoase a pictorului – si
bineinteles
o sticla de vodca
intr-o anumita masura
desarta
si o panza ciudata (trebuie sa spunem ca
pictorul e destul de talentat)
intitulata “Papusa beata”
si chiar infatisand o mare papusa
cazuta rasturnata oarecum indecent intr-o
ograda acolo
in Siberia sovietica
