It is never too late to be what you might have been.
I'm in, I eat kale Hipster healthy bio freak We all gonna die
Yellow, reds and browns Path rustling under my steps Last leaf falling down
Monkey see, monkey do. Lead by an example. We are animals.
Dancing northern lights Crisp wind reddening my cheeks Soul frozen in awe
Proud and majestic Sublime colours, shapes and scents Orchids on display
Author: Pavel Bunčák
I sang a song for you: Flower gives out its scent, withers. I taught you how to get old sensibly and stealthily, how to reminisce without memories, how ghosts grow up and sweet sighs turn into wrinkles.
Zaspieval som ti pieseň: Kvet rozvonia sa, zvädne. Učil som ťa, ako sa starne múdro a nebadane, ako sa spomína, keď nemáš na čo, ako vyrastajú prízraky a zo sladkých vzdychov vrásky.
Harvest of ripe wheat Endless golden long grass fields Bread to feed the men
Mountain of garbage Prominent and stinky sign Welcome to our town
Horse showing his teeth Eyes asking for an apple in my pocket. Neigh.
Dry ice solid gas Global warming is coming Icebergs are melting
Juniper berries Bitter and sharp on my tongue My head is spinning
Author: Juraj Andričík
We lived our lives like river banks. Each a hair further apart by every step leading to the sea. You were afraid that one day you won't see as far as my shore. I reasoned with you: where the banks touch river runs dry. You have built a bridge.
Tak sme svoj život žili ako brehy rieky. Tie na každom kroku o vlások širšie idú do mora. Bála si sa, že jedného dňa na môj breh nedovidíš. Prevrával som ťa: kde sa brehy stretnú, rieka vysychá. Postavila si most.
Leaves beating my face Ashes broken by the wind Tree cemetery
Foam covered pebbles Tangled seaweed on the shore Our beach paradise
Purr, meow, hiss, snarl, growl Nigh time wanders and dead gifts Does the cat love me?
Behind concrete walls Atlantis under water Dam hiding secrets
Reflection of sound No need for eyes in the dark They just use echos
I love how you lock my eyes when we talk
I love when you laugh with me
I love your fingers tickling my spine
I love how you pull me closer and breath in the scent of my hair
I love the way you kiss my neck
I love your sculptured muscles
I love how your beard scratches my cheeks
I love to wake up next to you and watch you still sleeping
I love when you make me coffee and then drink half of it and I can taste it in your kiss
I love when you cook dinner and we never quite manage to sit down and eat it
I love your notes around my place
I love the marks you leave on my flat
I love the marks you leave on me
I love you
But peanuts are a deal breaker
Finger
stretched and pointing
accused of being rude
No wrong pointing at beautiful
I think
Theoretical Laboratory
Brilliant or pathetic? Neither? Both?
Humans, just figures in headlights and rear-view mirrors:
targets, possessions, poisons.
Trading familiarity for quantity,
no purpose, no own route,
no added aroma.
Weighed down, heavy and hard as metal.
Design the new cycle –
Job? Serve, embrace, listen.
___
This is what I call fun! Although I ended up with a rather dystopian poem.
I would love to do this in the proper cut-words-our-of-newspapars way but I don’t have any at hand. Instead I used a book (no scissors were called into action). I bought this book about three years ago and is still pristine as the day it came home with me. It is called ‘Periodic Tales: The Curious Lives of the Elements‘ by Hugh Aldersay-Williams. And I have no idea why I haven’t read it yet. I don’t have an explanation.
I dream about you at night –
about your secrets and treasures and lies
I spy on you, I plan.
The day I touched you,
caressed you, probed you the very first time –
the overwhelming desire to posses you
has consumed my mind.
You act as nothing happened, unmoved
hiding behind walls and locks.
Your silence mocking my efforts –
no squeak, no creak, not even whine
to my desperate break-in tries.
My knees are chaffed, my fingers bleed
Oh how I wish to know where is your key.
––––
Phew…I was really struggling with this one.
The earth is soft, dark and damp
ants clim over my mountainous fingers
I feel a bite – I’m trespassing.
I brush the soil, gently first,
but I can’t resist the urge.
My fist intrudes the cradle of life –
cold, kissed by the morning dew,
dirt hides behind my fingernails.
I dig deeper but the earth is fighting back
my fingers sting and burn and
I can’t stand the pain anymore.
I withdraw.
My hand is red and black, the hand
that disturbs the earth.
Earth is fighting back.
___
I was very torn whether or not to include a comment on this poem or not. Especially because instead of talking about the environmental crisis we are in and which I’ve tried to express in my poem – I actually wanted to mention fingers as tools for communication. I did a writing course few year back and there was a girl (whose name I don’t remember and it is driving me absolutely crazy) who was and I guess still is a puppeteer. She also was and I hope still is an amazingly talented poet. I loved her poems. I will never forget a line she wrote ‘my hand is a naked puppet’ and it was the first thing that popped in my head when I read the assignment for today. I’m sure you know someone who ‘talks with their hands’, use them to emphasise emotion and when you are in different country and don’t speak the language – how many times have you used the pointing technique? Fingers have their own voice – whether it is the official sign language or one that we use without even realising.
