POEMS FROM SLOVAKIA


A HANDFUL OF LEAVES FROM BRATISLAVA

At the Café Central
Here people walk by as grey as the streets;
well shrouded in jackets of sadness,
hooded in scarves of monotony.
They walk under umbrellas of sorrow.

I wait for a message, for a smile
at the Café Central in Obchodná Street.


Obchodná Street
Old folk are like ghosts coming out for fresh air
falling coldly like leaves from the trees.
Coldly falls the air, heavily -
I swallow another pill
hoping to find colour in the darkness.

Facing me, an old woman with a ravaged face
waits for the tram to take her
to the mortuary of her apartment.

I remember you once said you loved me,
but now it is autumn, and the air falls
freezing the ghosts waiting for me
with flowers in their hands, with open arms.

There already are deep cracks in my face;
my hands tremble, my eyes draw into their sockets.
I dare not cry for fear my tears turn to ice…
and would then hurt you too.

I wait for the tram; I wait for you.
I wait for the leaves to cover me, to warm me.
I wait for the autumn to end
but I fear it may soon start to snow.


Background Music
The background music noticed
my eyes closing slowly, looking for sleep
to distract me from this sad story
of a foreigner who travelled
looking for love and water

finding instead a rusting tram
which waited
to carry him to the very edge
to die.


Question
Look at me, pretty lady:
is it true that whoever crosses the seas
to come to this sad land of yours
ends up bloodless, with brittle bones?


Do you remember?
Do you remember the man you climbed
naked with white hot skin,
your eyes searching for his soul
drowned in the seas he'd crossed to find you?

Do you remember him laughing at the river,
at a skyful of gulls, at the streets full
of tourists coming and going?

This morning I saw him crushed under a leaf
which fell before its time.



A HANDFUL OF LEAVES FROM BUDMERICE

Morning Walk
Leaves baptised me with drops of dew:
purple leaves and green and orange.
You get wet if you undress,
you get lost in water.

Heavily, runs the dew runs amongst soft branches;
heavily it snakes between twigs and soil;
heavily it parts as I walk through it.

You can get lost in the mist.
You can approach the spot you've been avoiding.
You can arrive at the edge, suddenly.


Afternoon walk
Here lovers never quarrel.
They walk under the trees taking pictures,
memories for when they grow old
of the many times when they undressed amidst leaves
which fell, cradling their tender bodies.

They walk hand in hand looking for the tree
which is to shelter them while they make love.
Here you can love and be loved endlessly.
You can build a street of fallen leaves.
You can create a river which drifts by slowly.
You can turn into a leaf singing to the wind.


Trees
It is said these trees sometimes walk.
They follow the road to the rivers
where they spend the day looking at water.
At night, however, they walk back.


Tomorrow, Jana
Tomorrow I'll be waiting for you in Bratislava,
at the sad train station
which each day carries the restless ghosts.

Tomorrow I may flower and look at this city
changing into the one
I dreamt of but never saw.

Tomorrow you will become a woman.

Tomorrow I will tell you the story
of a ghost who travelled to meet you.
I will take you into the dark to see you well.

Tomorrow, when we meet in Bratislava.


The bar at the end of the street
They crowd on Saturday evenings
in this bar at the end of the street,
bearded, with tousled hair, smoking
cheap fags, drinking pints of beer
as heavy as fog, as heavy as a week's work
in the cold, for a couple of crowns.

Their small eyes desire a new story:
their hands itch for the firm breasts
of the girl behind the counter
sternly pouring pints.
Their souls are desperate for a meaning.

Further off the trees drop the rain.
Further off is a dark street I have to walk,
a new story coming to an end.


Mirka
The girl behind the bar smells of desire
for a road leading to a far away city
which once she dreamt
while sleep snatched the colour of her eyes.

With her look she shoves away the hungry ones
who look at her with horny smiles,
and keeps away the hands which long so much
to touch her, at least for once.

At night, while soaping away the heavy smell
of smoke and Borovicka,
she fondles her flowered breasts
and plays with the warm water entering her.

One day the bar will end without the girl.
One day the folks will talk of her and tell her story:
the story of a girl with firm breasts pouring beer,
who dreamt so much that she grew old
and now serves beer from death's own mouth.



A HANDFUL OF LEAVES FROM MARTIN

Silence
Between us there is the sea, dividing.
My eyes hint at the darkness
that lurks before this story’s recurring death.
Your look cries the same conclusion.

It’s true that last night we fled with flowers
and ran together like fire.
But now it’s time to question,
and the sea will swell again.

You talk to plants in the kitchen
and I stand near the door
while you try hard to smile
and I try hard to utter the first word.
But we stay still, with the look of water,
with a spilt look which has to end abruptly.

Maybe we should remain silent
and let the kind wind pave the way.
Maybe we should remain silent and die.


Night train
The train parts the darkness. It moves and moves,
crossing sleepy towns guarded by lamp posts
at the end of the stations which announce the arrival
and departure, and the black flight
of a train which parts darkness
and never arrives.


Train trip from Vrútky to Bratislava
I held your head on my lap while on the train
and realised the trip had tired you and that you were asleep.
I looked at you and noticed it was the end.

What was left was my last rush
to catch the plane which had to carry me back
to the land I wanted to give you,
to the land I would go back to, alone.
Where can I search for the strange design
which was drawn for me in the dust?

I glanced at your last white look
and understood it was the end.
It was time, and time always dictates.


The rock
There is this rock I wanted you to keep.
I carry it in my chest, just where it hurts.
I wanted you to take it, to make it flower,
to give it the colours of your look.

It’s driven to tears every evening
and becomes heavy and heavy and heavier still,
heavy with blood, heavy with sorrow,
and heavy with a failing breath.

It waits for your visit.
It waits for you to step with naked feet,
to go down on your knees and kiss it;
for that day when you make it yours.