{"id":7598,"date":"2011-11-01T12:36:44","date_gmt":"2011-11-01T10:36:44","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/egophobia.ro\/?p=7598"},"modified":"2011-09-30T12:36:54","modified_gmt":"2011-09-30T10:36:54","slug":"poems-by-peycho-kanev-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/?p=7598","title":{"rendered":"Poems by Peycho Kanev"},"content":{"rendered":"

Inexplicable<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0
\n 
\n\u00a0<\/p>\n

I am drinking whiskey from a tin can \u2013<\/p>\n

this line sounds so much like blues,<\/p>\n

but let me tell you the rest.<\/p>\n

This tin can is shiny and red- oh yes,<\/p>\n

many years ago, my grandfather,<\/p>\n

for many years, kept his pencils inside<\/p>\n

and some small notebook in which he<\/p>\n

scribbled late at night. Secret notes about<\/p>\n

his past, I presume, then just a blink<\/p>\n

of a supernova, and he was gone. After that,<\/p>\n

my uncle stored in it his old German \u2018Luger\u2019,<\/p>\n

which he cleaned almost every day. Maybe he<\/p>\n

was afraid of loosing his prolonged quarrels<\/p>\n

with cancer and immortality, maybe he wanted<\/p>\n

to go on his own terms. My uncle was a great<\/p>\n

admirer of Ernest Hemingway. He was gone<\/p>\n

one summer Sunday morning. And now the can<\/p>\n

is mine. I pour whiskey inside and drink it sitting<\/p>\n

in the dark. No music, no light- just me and the old<\/p>\n

whiskey, but it has some strange taste, almost like<\/p>\n

rust from an old pistol and fading memories of words<\/p>\n

never written. I lift it close to my ear and I can hear<\/p>\n

the whizzing of the chilly mistral, that so long ago<\/p>\n

licked the skin of my father. I sigh and say to<\/p>\n

the time in my tin can: Please scholar me as you<\/p>\n

collar me, because everything fills- Now and then.<\/p>\n

\u00a0
\n 
\n\u00a0 <\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

The shape of everything else<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0
\n <\/p>\n

I will wake up when the sun is high in the sky,<\/p>\n

and I will drink nothing but water.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

And I will walk under the trees<\/p>\n

until they become indignant of my eyes.
\n 
\n\u00a0<\/p>\n

I will enter some old and big house with 22 doors<\/p>\n

that will lead to nowhere.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

And after that, I will go back to the point<\/p>\n

where it began.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

The old books give me some minor relief<\/p>\n

that evaporates slowly in time.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

I promise to all the small gods that I will be different,<\/p>\n

and I will not carry too much cash in my pockets.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

When I start to write all the words of the future,<\/p>\n

I will not pray to Buddha or Christ, but to the potted plant.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

In some holiday, I will go to the cemetery<\/p>\n

to light a candle for all the dead of the future.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

The sea will befriend me only as the deep water that it is<\/p>\n

and not like the place where I engaged old age.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

And this lonely view through the windows of the world<\/p>\n

will not make me shiver any more.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

Let me mention all of my former loves and tell them<\/p>\n

that I don\u2019t remember anything else but the quietness.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

Because the poetry of silence, my dearest,<\/p>\n

is all that you have received, but never deserved.<\/p>\n

\u00a0
\n 
\n\u00a0 <\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Alcohol<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

Under my roof there\u2019s a ceiling<\/p>\n

full of forgotten memories.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

Turning the knob of the radio-<\/p>\n

it\u2019s not working, only static.<\/p>\n

I need some quiet music. Now!<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

Today I can hear the walls move<\/p>\n

within themselves,<\/p>\n

as time slips by<\/p>\n

beneath my elbow and the table.
\n 
\n\u00a0<\/p>\n

I want to live my life as a spider<\/p>\n

or a bee, not caring for anything<\/p>\n

in the world. It is only Tuesday after all.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

I am nothing,<\/p>\n

and I am perfect in my nothingness.<\/p>\n

Time slowly pours out of<\/p>\n

my empty wine glass.<\/p>\n

And I am my self again!<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

What is this thirst inside us all,<\/p>\n

that makes us ache, even for the word?<\/p>\n

Can we breathe the calendar in and out<\/p>\n

with all our days when we will be forgotten?<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

Last night I dreamed of ancient Greek gods,<\/p>\n

and today I think of something more<\/p>\n

pleasurable, like grapes and wheat.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

When I dust my clocks, I am very careful.<\/p>\n

They speak to me in hush voices, but I answer No!<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

The hours pretend to be my brothers,<\/p>\n

alluring me in their fossil forgetfulness,<\/p>\n

making me work too hard on these poems.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

But I am not alone.<\/p>\n

Her skin is under my skin,<\/p>\n

the sheets are our umbilical cord,<\/p>\n

and the tattoo on her soul is in my throat.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

And her thoughts chase me around the clock\u2019s dial,<\/p>\n

begging me to finish this poem.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

So, my friends,<\/p>\n

I pour fresh time in my glass for you<\/p>\n

and drink it down.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

Let\u2019s grow old!<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Inexplicable \u00a0   \u00a0 I am drinking whiskey from a tin can \u2013 this line sounds so much like blues, but let me tell you the rest. This tin can is shiny and red- oh yes, many years ago, my grandfather, for many years, kept his pencils inside and some small notebook in which he […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[794,77],"tags":[1155,1123,793],"class_list":["post-7598","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-egophobia-33","category-english","tag-egophobia-33","tag-english","tag-peycho-kanev"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6DakB-1Yy","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7598","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=7598"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7598\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7605,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7598\/revisions\/7605"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=7598"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=7598"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=7598"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}