|
|
|
Poetry in EnglishAleksey Dayen Maria Mazziotti Gillan Bishnupada Ray Gail Goldstein Back to Issue 49_50 Back to Front Page |
Aleksey Dayen 01/06/2007Another warm winter60° fog New York at 9 a.m. feels like summer nights in Leningrad. Windows metal curtains fire escapes— everything in b/w. I've seen all these too many times in different cities on two continents. The colors are gone accompanied by upbeat. The mood is cool-jazz, broken umbrellas filling garbage cans like dead ravens. And almost no traffic this Saturday morning. Only tired, shaky drunkards and dog walkers and lonely lovers are hitting the streets, some looking for an adventure some making a buck some going home to get some rest. Homeless on My BlockA homeless guy on my Manhattan blocknever asked for change nor food, doesn't have a sign that tells his story. His beard and hair haven't been trimmed or washed for quite some time, unlike mine. He sits inside a torn cardboard box reading Novoye Russkoe Slovo— an immigrant newspaper that published some writings of mine. Everyday leaving an upscale building and passing by this smiling fellow from my homeland, I bear a thought in mind: Would it be OK to start to talk with him in our native rhyming tongue? To My Older FriendsI didn’t have a chance to meet most of the Great Ones though History repeats itself. But, lucky me, I was able to catch quite a few in my storm-colored net. I’ll never throw anyone back into the pond like scaly sunfish which take more time to cook than eat. I’ll be listening till the End for them, asking myself: What did I miss being deaf before? A New BookWell . . . let’s close this chapter light a Cuban cigar take another sip of JW Blue kiss a woman still occupying your bed who won’t go away and feel like a rich man. Then . . . open a new book another child of a lost poet. |