Poetry

The power of the celestial Lion is broken, his blazing ardor decreasing: after nights of showers of stars the late-summer sun strolls leisurely like the old lion in his cage. It was the female who wanted what might be love's last encore, not he. She pressed against the male's flank, her great, yellow body coyly…

trans. Finnish Jascha Kessler and the author To the evening that speaks in two thousand tongues and knows not the meaning of war, I give myself. To the nighthawk's, the nightingale's tongues, the presence unseen of all that is, whose dreams make me loved. Their speech never leaves the lips, never stales the wine, but…

trans. Polish Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh The Politbureau, rumor has it, is totally controlled now by the doves. All they need is some muscle to put their liberal platform into action

These days lights come on earlier everywhere in the dark. But the time's too short to see you, that white of your eye. Love's like breath in the air at a mouth opened by astonishment. I feel your hand in my pocket. It's warm, warms my second Life. The mouth's talking slowly to itself about…

trans. Polish Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh By saying: “How can I fight for human rights, when I've got a wife and child?,” you yourself sentence them to a punishment whose measure is unknown even to the executioners.

The ones who do see some things. A cloud beautifies the sky. There's smoke over a chimney. I went off, got in my own way. Meanwhile, stories come to me about human contradiction or the climbing of ladders. You can anticipate the fall. It happens as simply as possible. People moving see it differently. The…

After a talk with my would-be publisher I myself don't know who's the author of my book. (The state, the paper allocations, the moon's pull, or other circumstances?) It'll only be half an answer: The author of my book is the Polish language 1973/1975

Poplars, embankments, the Loire behind them. The upper Danube's not so broad, from river to river the light's so different. One doesn't need geography for feelings. Birds fly up the branches. Watch us. Feelings are vulnerable. Strange bodies rub together, our bodies. Someone plants a kiss between navel and shame. A doorknob turns on a…

This moment no longer exists although it isn't greed, or state power, or cowardly tyranny