Thursday, 13 February 2025

Three Poems by Ninko Kirilov











BETWEEN MY WINGS IT'S, OH, SO EMPTY


and towards me you walk with your so little dervish feet

of blood and fine bones. and towards me you come

and thorns wound every breath

and memories of late abortions, bad guests

and breaks you follow ravenous -

those crumbs for all the tender animals in your eyes.

you're coming back to me, but it's probably too early.

and there's no way you'll recognize me.

from today until the end of days

this song I sing, so listen, listen:

between my wings it's, oh, so empty.

between my wings it's, oh, so empty.

and so it is because I'm sickly waiting in the dry land

to plant your small immortal name,

to put you on my shoulders for the first time

and wait for you to whisper

"daddy,

I am sleepy".




THOSE PEACHES


she was fixing her makeup. me and the mirror

stood there watching. we planned for the afternoon

to go and buy some crazy peaches.

such a great plan. we went, we chose,

we paid, we walked the long way back.

behind the block I whispered she was pretty,

so much prettier than all the peaches. and a neighbour,

he asked me eagerly as a gunshot:

who is nice. and I answered him:

she, always and forever.

my neighbour was most stoically silent.

I looked around and it was just the two of us.

of course I had those peaches in my hands.




THE SUN, THE HEART


look, the sun is a forgotten smoke, my friends

on pictures, gymnopedias, symphonies and quietly,

so quietly it got inside, lead gold

as if it is a bad, bad fairy tale,

but there is no one you tell it to because.

oh, yes - because. just look so accusatory

and honestly at yourself,

to be proud of your silences on the road,

devoid of both sympathy and poles.

machete diagnosis tomorrow -

to inhale the better version of the words

but to exhale only ashes from your heart

which you happened to forget on the embers.



and the sun is actually drawn.

and the desire to belong to someone - gone.










Ninko Kirilov is the author of books of prose, poetry and drama: "Doubles and Animals" (2013), "Man Among People" (2017), "Three Plays" (2018), "Rawer" (2019), "Falling Forever" (2021), "Other Holes Too" (2022) and "Orange" (2023). He has been published in newspapers, magazines, online editions, poetry and prose collections, almanacs and anthologies. He has won awards mainly for short prose and poetry. His texts have been translated into English, Italian, Spanish, Polish, Serbian and Montenegrin, and his collection of poems "Rawer" was published in India by Taj Mahal Review.   







Four Poems by Donna Pucciani

 







 

Dealing with It 

 

The “it” being old age, 

which nobody likes to talk about. 

But better than the alternative, 

as my mother used to say. 

 

Those of a practical bent 

sort out papers, make a will, 

discard the detritus of the past, 

embracing the littler substance 

of the future, which no longer 

drips like a leaky faucet but 

power-hoses into death’s 

hidden garden, the gardener 

with scythe in hand, waiting. 

 

Others exist in denial, 

chasing golf balls as the swing 

becomes a slow-motion creaking  

of shoulder and spine, the ball 

disappearing in the blurred vision  

of a grassy knoll that church folks 

talk about after the Sunday service.  

 

The suicidal, from pain or melancholy, 

decide that offing themselves  

would be better than waiting  

for god to do something 

with their desperate bodies. 

 

The philosophical, who cultivate their gardens,  

know that weeding and watering  

mean nothing in the great scheme of things, 

yet the scent of roses saturates  

the quickening air, as long as they 

can breathe it. 

 

Grabbing spade and watering hose, 

the dubious pleasure of soil and sweat 

awaiting, I cast my lot with Voltaire.


 


 

The Present 

 

To live in the present 

is the dubious gift of age. 

 

The past presents itself 

as nostalgia, the thin grey veil  

of memory, behind which 

happiness hides in the form 

of old photos, the stuff  

of paper—imagine, paper! 

Not joy, but the sadness of youth 

hidden among the hostas, dull  

but perennial and tolerant of shade. 

 

The future will soon play out  

in death, by the laws of probability. 

The face in the mirror gives permission 

to relinquish the daily weeding and watering,  

to see itself as the last dahlia 

in life’s wilted garden of nodding flowers. 

 

Caught between past and future,  

the last best choice is to live in the now,  

discard the wrist watch with old-fashioned 

numbers and a second hand counting  

the seconds.  

 

Carpe diem.

 

 

 

 

Into the Light 

 

Sixty-four degrees Fahrenheit. 

Brood XIII and IX, buried alive 

for years, emerge. No coffin,  

no winding sheet, just earth  

as a dark shroud, under some oak.  

 

Cicadas tunnel upwards 

into light, eyes bulging orange,  

wings papery, transparent as a cherub’s, 

their love song a high-pitched croak.  

They come out to mate, fluttering,  

flailing, sailing, diving,  

 

no radar to protect themselves 

or us, glaring at humans  

hostile to their magic, 

spinning summer into gossamer,  

exploring the newfound day,  

and for one brief season,  

they resurrect.

 

 

 

 

To Write 

 

of giraffes when safaris 

are no longer possible, 

the grey-haired explorers, 

 

pens in hand, tread the darkness 

at dawn or in sleepless nights  

when shadows of animals  

 

lurk on bedroom walls  

under a suburban moon. This 

is what is left. 

 

Give thanks for verbs 

that crash through the jungle, 

nouns that rustle in the underbrush, 

 

prepositions that tie syllables 

together with leaves of light. 

Slippers on, leech socks and boots  

 

discarded, I am vested in 

the nightwear of danger, exploring 

the deepening forest of old age, 

 

a darkness that requires 

the struck match of courage, 

a thesaurus with no language 

 

but a poem.









 

Donna Pucciani, a Chiccago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburt, ParisLitUp, Journal of Italian Translation, Li Poetry and other journals. Her seventh and latest book of poetry is EDGES. 

Three Poems by Ninko Kirilov

BETWEEN MY WINGS IT'S, OH, SO EMPTY and towards me you walk with your so little dervish feet of blood and fine bones. and towards me ...