THE PENCIL SHARPENER
“Boston, Mass.” Or, at least, thereabouts…
Find it strange that this rusty contraption
should remind me of you, where you are?
It was easier for you, who were leaving
(you said it yourself weeks ago),
than for us, who were staying, once more.
You, returning to Richard, your country,
to New England – the old one behind you –
to a peace here in London unknown.
But, awaking some days in the silence,
and awaiting a knock on your door,
spare a thought for this knuckle
Спокойной ночи (Spakoynay nochi)
Or: No more Russian goodnights
Your departure has been like a death.
Your room, empty now, cold and hostile,
as if also resenting your loss.
There is in the flat like a chill,
nobody knits on the sofa, no more
merely whispered goodnights.
Even the birds are so quiet, I feel
sure that you would approve.
Like my father, who sits in the greenchair,
I expect I shall see a lot of you,
who will either be quietly smiling
or just looking, with mild dissaproval,
at this fool, who dreams of your hair.
SUBWAY (WE CALL IT UNDERGROUND)
The tunnel swallowed you too quickly.
Far too many things remained unsaid,
and words – important words – unuttered.
Suddenly, they all had seemed so urgent,
screaming for immediate declaration!
Now – you gone away – there is no hurry,
for I shall have, if nothing, many days,
to say all the things I did not dare to.
(But maybe my days will be short, yes,
maybe my days will be short…)
Copyright © 2010-2014 Guido Comin PoetaMatusèl – Belluno, Italy. All rights reserved.