escape

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Escape
Miloš Lindro
Let’s get into the words,
into foreign words
because we don’t have our own,
because even ownership
is just a word,
a word remote and mute
which cannot either have
or possess itself,
the word the cheeky appearance
which reaches out to cubic words,
some of them deaf and faceless
but pleasant enough to look at
with a clear conscience beyond the threat
before which one retreats;
maybe safety represents us
but escape is necessary
until ability becomes
one terrifying occupation:
the cause will be lost,
the objective will rock,
but the ability will remain
unstoppable to the end.

Photo by Jad Limcaco on Unsplash

luxuriantly like sin

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Menace
Katica Kulavkova
Understand me
I can no longer
create you
heal you
with postage stamps
you shall no longer
roam about
I wish
to believe

the moths
are eating
the addresses
within me
Intimately
some icebergs
are melting
and bitterly
the shadow
of time

is falling
when vines
and urges
are pruned
but the plant
flourishes
luxuriantly
like sin

crumpling the carbon paper

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Undesirable
Sande Stojčevski
I was ready to sail off
on a large chunk of air
to become a permanent resident
of cheerful oakwoods,
how and again to swing
above the world
like an unborn year,
to be the wind,
transgressing the line
and crumpling the carbon paper.

But too many undesirables
have I chosen for enemies.

Photo by Hugo Kerr on Unsplash

iron in the blood

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Psalm 2
Ante Popovski
studying medical sciences I am
excited by the fact
that man has in his blood

exactly the amount of iron
that would be needed
to forge sufficient nails

for one crucifixion. I wonder:
who will unravel Sanskrit
while we are journeying to the stars?

Each one of us, I think, is some future Christ
because with his own blood he can sign
his disappearance.

Photo 2013 Bernard Spragg NZ

Words are not life… but are small objects

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I posted the poem “Futility” from Macedonian Ante Popovski before. It springs to mind now because I was thinking about pens. But, as Popovski notes, “you cannot write on your soul with a pen…

While I could not immediately conjure up another poem specifically referencing a pen/pens, I could, of course, count on Adam Zagajewski to supply one filled with “small objects” and citing “illegible script”. We can imagine the pen and its ink, intimate, singular and aged.

Small Objects
-Adam Zagajewski
My contemporaries like small objects,
dried starfish that have forgotten the sea,
melancholy stopped clocks, postcards
sent from vanished cities,
and blackened with illegible script,
in which they discern words
like “yearning,” “illness,” or “the end.”
They marvel at dormant volcanoes.
They don’t desire light.