Peycho Kanev

Recognition

 

Right here the pages of the sea resemble an open book

of fairy tales forgotten by a child on the beach

and just before the sunset I look at the horizon’s edge

getting cut up by the sharp wings of the seagulls and

the white moon slowly rises with its pale gray halo

and stars like fireflies are dotting the dark forest

under the sky which, once more, invoke old memories

of intangibility and eternity.

I stand as a rock, nothing else stirs, not even the air,

only the cold sea folds like a galvanized iron sheet,

the black fists of the clouds gather over this part of the hemisphere,

where my life runs like a brook into the ocean and I suddenly

discover that my childhood is already gone, the boats have

sailed off and my life – it’s too early for last words – is a door

made of flesh, opening even more, it’s a knife driven in

the bowels of the hours, it’s the last page of the memorized Iliad.

All of a sudden the wind explodes as a curse shaking the crowns

of the impressive trees, sprinkling grit as musical notes on

the staff of the beach, sweet music starts ringing in my ears,

unheard by anyone else – slow and eternal – at this place,

where nothing changes, only time is replaced with another

fresh time and silence absorbs all unnecessary sounds.

The sunrise arrives with the precision of early-rising surgeon,

cutting the flesh, first of the water, then of the land, the sun

ignites the surroundings with its bright impressionistic brush

and the whole world inhales again with ancient lungs.

Death is a panacea for everything that wants to live ceaselessly,

life again begins its development from the world’s threshold,

where the humans reappear with their strange faces and

contrived monologues, preparing once again to screw up

all the works. 

 

 

Hush

 

That sensation of a sliced honeymoon before

the moon comes up:

halfhearted –

 

darkness touches everything

that light left unsullied:

 

you lie inside your white shell

under the darkened spell—

 

this fragment of life that all men share:

your heart like a fish not dead yet

 

hopping

hoping

 

to slip out of the bony fingers –

love seems both unlovely and sterile:

 

until the bedside candle dies

and ships of clouds creep towards daybreak.

 

 

Spring Observatory

 

Two obscure objects

play with each other near the mouth

of a half-frozen puddle

 

a moonbeam touches your hair

and sets it on fire

 

In the dark

windless unrest

the sunflowers hold their breath

 

and then I sink in your other

Spring. 

Peycho Kanev is the author of 6 poetry collections and three chapbooks, published in the USA and Europe. His poems have appeared in many literary magazines, such as: Rattle, Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Front Porch Review, Hawaii Review, Barrow Street, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, Sierra Nevada Review, The Cleveland Review and many others. His new chapbook titled Under Half-Empty Heaven was published in 2019 by Grey Book Press.