Category: Poems

In my deepest dreams, the earth cries blood Stars smile in my eyes When people come to me with multi-colored questions I answer go to Socrates The past

Centuries later they will find when of a society which has consumed itself only the remains will be left of the small Pharaoh inside a broken refrigerator, buried

Forest, a wild hare, a deer sticks its head up, in the shadow meditates a deer, acorns become brown, and between the fingers, slips dark time. * A

Meeting poets I am disconcerted sometimes by the colour of their socks the suspicion of a wig the wasp in the voice and an air, sometimes, of dankness.

Oh flower of Time Paul Celan The morning star befuddled by dark sources reflects for a moment in the morning’s red then disappears with the faded dreams of

Citizen Cane Long was every day and the snow the light of my soft sky and the cold the blood of my ardent skin and the game the

The Violin of the Bushman Weak is resonance of the sound a one stringed bent stick on an empty ostrich egg.  Not an instrument for greater glory of whoever. Nobody

Chairs For a long time I sat between chairs till I was tired of It That day I decided to put another chair between the chairs For one

Those bloody years I could sing to you about distant lands, about attractive anecdotes, about miracles, about multicolored birds, about the squirrels which ate out of my hand

This bedroom I love this bedroom with a single door and dimmed lights at my side. A small bathroom not far from the bed and a lot of