Anthology - Poets M - N-S - T-Z - A - B-D - E-I
Jacques Demarcq
PUFFIN
How cunning the puffins
with their little round beaks
in rainbow makeup
Papageitaucher man hört schon
Die Zauberflöte im Yellow Submarine
a Kurd from Norway
with his blonde girlfriend
hands me a scalding coffee
both ready for the birdwatching party
on the cliff at the black sand’s end
30 sheep are grazing up there
and even more skuas nesting
gulls glide in the wind
hundreds of puffins
stay stoically on the chasm’s edge
knowing that if my Kurdish friend
moves up too far with his camera
the soft earth riddled with tunnels
dug with their pretty beaks
to nest each one’s one chick
pulcinella di mare o commedia
and whoops the dive down to the waves
they come back up on scooters
their short wings throbbing
red palms for taillights
oh aren’t they cute
their tails are just stumps
further down are petrels
black-legged kittiwakes
white-bellied black-caped guillemots
much like the puffins
but without the clown-noses
moreover either one filleted
left all night in a milk marinade
to remove the fishy perfume
flour and add mushrooms and thyme
pan-fry for five minutes and cognac-flame
puffins yes it’s wellknown
children’s books aren’t they
we’ll show them our pictures later
tr. Marilyn Hacker
E. E. Cummings, O the sun comes up-up-up in the opening
Jan Wagner
GUERICKE’S SPARROW
More exquisite than gold, devoid of all becoming or passing away…
Otto von Guericke
what is invisible, yet so powerful
that no force can withstand it? a circle
of burghers gathered around master guericke
and his construction: the vacuum pump
towering on three legs in the room, a perfect
piece, standing there with the obscene grace
of the mantis religiosa. polished brass,
its recipient a glass sphere: and here too
is the sparrow, now beginning to flutter
like the flame on a spirit of wine—its air
growing ever thinner. before the window
the yellow plums ripen in the buzzing heat,
the grass spreads on the ruins. and on the wall
hangs this engraving: old magdeburg.
the unswerving progress of the pendulum clock,
diopter, pedometer, astrolabe;
the globe on the table where new zealand’s
dorsal has shortly cut through
the great pacific, and as if from afar
the dogged trot of a passing horse and cart.
‘that dead sparrow,’ whispers one,
‘will yet fly through an empty sky.’
tr. Iain Galbraith
Ted Hughes, THISTLES
Jesús Sepúlveda
PLACE OF ORIGIN
I. My place of origin
is unknown and perverse
because it’s only mine.
Its location is not on the map
but rather in poems and tears.
II. My place of origin
isn’t Chile
South Africa
Ethiopia.
Maybe Central America
because of its turbulent
audacity of rhythms and bullets.
III. My place of origin
is Bolivia—the poverty-stricken—
not because of Barrientos
or the asthma of El Che.
Nor because of Lechín
or the betrayed Revolution
of ’52.
It’s because of the COB and Roberto Suárez
the great drug dealer
for America.
IV. My place of origin
is heaven
not because of good
but because of the beauty of its Sanatorium.
V. My place of origin
is the street
where life is.
It’s the Bronx
the barrio Franklin
—where the courageous die—
the forgotten Matta Avenue
where the repentant Buddha belches
and Nirvana is buried.
It’s the devil’s neighborhood
the streets of vice.
VI. My place of origin
doesn’t have any walls
scribbled against the tyrant
but rather with Pink Floyd
and John Lennon Is Alive
With drug addicts smelling of gangs
in the style of stabbings
alcoholic nights
proselytism ethyl
and Rock bands.
VII. My place of origin
has sidewalks
where drunkards live
stinking garbage
kicked out of the bar.
The corners
are private property of the crazy
petulant pompous
who remember Woodstock
ideological archetypes
a long-haired race
breaking bottles
and rolling joints.
VIII. My place of origin
is a dream
through the cocaine
that some cousin deals.
The Kawasaki
model z-650
that takes off with pestilent smoke
noisy and offensive motor
waking up the idiots at nightfall
IX. My place of origin is neither the belly
nor my dwelling-place
There are high barricades
puncturing the concrete
and expropriated banks
by Di Giorgio—the delinquent—
X. In my place of origin
the legendary SCORPIONS blaspheme
with leather jackets
night-owl carousers
and mattresses in profile
stained with semen.
XI. My place of origin
is a free zone
—not because there may be POP POWER
or industrial belts—
but only because it is free
and you speak in code.
XII. In my place of origin
the dogs also drink
and bite the way
a sober dog does.
XIII. In the nights of my place of origin
the wind whistles
with drag-racing
whining and gunshots.
At dawn
the homicide squad
interrogates me in a topless
while I chew on tits.
XIV. In my place of origin
‘El Mao’ was taken in
for trafficking in hashish
—and everybody believed the bullshit of the Seminary—
XV. In my place of origin
‘El Moro Marx’
walks around with his shaved head
while the two academies of Kung Fu
hold street fights.
XVI. In my place of origin
the rats dance
when the radio plays
the spot of
—Fanta and I we’re friends—
XVII. In my place of origin
drunken ‘Pollo’
started to shit in the middle of the boulevards
and the world fell on top of him yawning.
XVIII. In my place of origin
they have shot at rats
dressing in lilac
and Lenin formals.
Propagandizing in ‘Citronetas’
recruiting in taverns
preparing REDS
—which in guerrilla terms are bomb hits—
and making love
in clandestine meetings in these locales.
XIX. The militants of the streets
of my place of origin
are age 17
at 13 they have already smoked pot
at 24 the asylum will rot them.
XX. My place of origin
is only perceived with stars
It has guitars
and jugs of wine.
Bonfires in Ñuble
pyromaniacs forest-burners
and Trotskyist discussions.
XXI. My place of origin
will always be beginnings
never endings.
XXII. My place of origin
is a poetic strategy
vital to writing.
because in spite of everything
it still isn’t extinguished.
Since always
after the cataleptic paralysis
I end up drinking a beer
in the cantina of the Bogota square
whose mayor changed its name
to Drugota City
then remodeled it.
And there I spend the evenings
proposing
that Quisco Beach is only a memory of a sexual adventure.
that an earthquake is impossible
that the metaphysical female
will go on inspiring new poems in me
and that God does not exist
and that God does not
and that God
and that
and.
tr. Dave Oliphant
Allen Ginsberg, HOWL III
John Burnside
THE GOOD
NEIGHBOUR
Somewhere along this street, unknown to me,
behind a maze of apple trees and stars,
he rises in the small hours, finds a book
and settles at a window or a desk
to see the morning in, alone for once,
unnamed, unburdened, happy in himself.
I don’t know who he is; I’ve never met him
walking to the fish-house, or the bank,
and yet I think of him, on nights like these,
waking alone in my own house, my other neighbours
quiet in their beds, like drowsing flies.
He watches what I watch, tastes what I taste:
on winter nights, the snow; in summer, sky.
He listens for the bird lines in the clouds
and, like that ghost companion in the old
explorers’ tales, that phantom in the sleet,
fifth in a party of four, he’s not quite there,
but not quite inexistent, nonetheless;
and when he lays his book down, checks the hour
and fills a kettle, something hooded stops,
as cell by cell, a heartbeat at a time,
my one good neighbour sets himself aside,
and alters into someone I have known:
a passing stranger on the road to grief,
husband and father; rich man; poor man; thief.
Wallace Stevens, FINAL SOLILOQUY OF THE INTERIOR PARAMOUR
THE POEM OF THE GOLDFINCH
Write, came the persistent whisperings, a poem
on the mendacities of war. So I found shade
under the humming eucalyptus, and sat,
patienting. Thistle-seeds blew about on a soft breeze,
a brown-gold butterfly was shivering on a fallen
ripe-flesh plum. Write your dream, said Love, of the total
abolition of war. Vivaldi, I wrote, the four
seasons. Silence, a while, save for the goldfinch
swittering in the higher branches, sweet, they sounded,
sweet-wit, wit-wit, wit-sweet. I breathed
scarcely, listening. Love bade me write but my hand
held over the paper; tell them you, I said,
they will not hear me. A goldfinch swooped,
sifting for seeds; I revelled in its colouring, such
scarlets and yellows, such tawny, a patterning
the creator himself must have envisioned, doodling
that gold-flash and Hopkins-feathered loveliness. Please
write, Love said, though less insistently. Spirit, I answered,
that moved out once on chaos… No, said Love,
and I said Michelangelo, Van Gogh. No, write
for them the poem of the goldfinch and the whole
earth singing, so I set myself down to the task.
George Herbert
LOVE
Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lack’d anything.
A guest, I answer’d, worthy to be here.
Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?
Truth Lord, but I have marr’d them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.
NOTHING SUCCEEDS LIKE FAILURE
Solid citizens with the dignity of bricks
are building shining examples in sand.
It is important to remain wedded to your virtues
like a pirate to his 24-gun frigate
or a maiden to her tremendous moralities
that have been transported in a steam hamper from Macao
and lifted from the hold of the vessel Fragile
by stevedores with powerful hindquarters
that ripple and flex as they hold the wee jokes aloft.
Imagine unpacking those punch-lines on a beach
surrounded by naked children who pee
lasciviously over the oysters and giggle
at the urinous discomfort of the crustaceans.
Too much Chablis for lunch, eh Mr Oyster?
Imagine fat citizens weeping for their loss
of buckets and spades, the sheer pleasure
of a miserable childhood, the deluded squawks
of mohawks running up the beach.
Now let us build upon these holiday shores
a huge sandcastle and put the bones
of the oysters round its turrets as ramparts.
Let’s construct a complicated system of drainage,
with rivulets and tide-flows that will allow
the sea to come galloping in and dissolve
the sandcastle until nothing is left
but the cacophonous laugh of the pirate
hiring out deck-chairs to skeletons.
Benjamin Péret
THE FALL OF THE POUND
after La baisse du franc and La stabilisation du franc
(i)
Pound little pound what have you done with your bones
What would you do without poker dice
to hurl these words onto paper
Once paunchy cleric you officiated in the corridors of brothels
distributing the wafer to skinny whores
whose eyes reflected your counterfeit double
Once your vast piggy cheeks
were a reproach to the skeletal billy-goats
who spreading around their anglo-saxon and christian stink
followed you like the shadow of a sun
Sun let’s say fog-lamp
because you’ll never light more than a road closed
where the cobbles have been replaced by broken bottle bits
But today just an earthworm sectioned by multiple shovels
you struggle in vain to escape the fish
You’d like to be a general of the bankers again
but the bankers died like rats
and out of their stomachs ooze flabby pounds
and their financial rot fills all the coffers
where the last survivors implore Mammon
to let the pound become a Euro
Alas Christ poor used-up pound
cast among the turds of the speculators
Here lies the quid beetroot without sugar
(ii)
If the ears of the cows shiver
it’s because people are singing God Save the Queen
Let’s go children of the latrines
let’s drip snot in the ear of Gordon Brown
The noodles trapped in his teeth
have hardly spoken
It’s me the Strong Pound
Down with the old fart who had me boiled
Like a fairground caricature
an eye looking out of a piss-pot
Gordon Brown repeats himself
I fully deserved the Order of the Shithouse
Long live the union of dunces
Long live national cow pie
tr. John Hartley Williams
John High
from A BOOK OF UNKNOWING
Again, a brilliance of green across meadow in this
day when we find so much arrangement
in myriad trees. Coming to terms with fine
bladed yellow grass, the whitened hill
and moon & mother was always more than two
people, she says, taking the boy’s hand in her mouth.
Here where our world is a reflection from
the lake. Animals on the hill speak, therefore
be at peace with me, she breathes in a kiss
to his own open eye. The road blooded
in a tradition of continuance. So you abandoned
the monastery, this, too, is our life. The first
step into water outside the frame
of our seen. No longer any need to
punish ourselves, she says, skipping
by a shore of black birds. As if our whole life
came from this telling, she reminds the boy, pointing
toward the unspeakable distance in hearing—his
Letters to God revealed this much
on a cypress tree, waiting
for us to join in a miraculous calm
of body, this dew in a cup of rain.
Andrea Libin
BLAKE’S DAUGHTER
We are parented by air. Siblinged by glue. I will school you. Breathe in the vapors and the fumes will crawl into your heart. Haunt you like a shadow. Ragged eyeballs. This much I can tell you. Put one ear to my chest, the other to my lips. Ivan was the one to find me huddled in a piss-stall in the station, weeping fits of woe. Mama, mamushka, why have you gone to church to pray and left me to weep weep weep? Ivan rescued me to the tunnels. Sheared my head so I’d look like a boy, so bugs wouldn’t creepy-crawl my pretty braids. Ivan nabbed stray dolls and stuffed bears dropped unawares by tiny fingers. He’d find them on the terminal floor wide-eyed like corpses. Ivan lined the dolls up on an empty apple crate where I slept. Placed a golden-haired girlie on my cardboard mat. Ivan bigbrothered me till he was vampired by glue. His heart was hollowed out and he evaporated in the night. Now the dolls mock me with their plastic stares.
AWAKENING
i.m. Joseph Knecht
The light was pouring in
through the window you had opened
when I woke up,
the leaves shimmering in the breeze
like early-morning swimmers.
The light this morning
was an altogether different experience:
not the customary dread of another day,
but how temptation had subsided
to a single pinpoint of darkness,
been replaced by happiness,
a feeling of lightness,
I could flex my shoulders and
breathe in open space,
a dazzlingly white courtyard without spectators
(there being nothing to see or show
since nothing was hidden),
without this world’s constant teasing
(responding to the third dimension:
a hole for our form, and a form for our hole),
and all were welcome,
all had had their burdens lifted,
which didn’t matter anyhow,
all were accepted
and loved
and laughed
in a frankly non-dogmatic, unpessimistic,
non-denominational,
trade-free area that was God.
All secret desires were acknowledged
and without disgrace.
In fact they represented
an integral part of all being
and were loved and respected for that.
All shameful acts
—mass murder, theft, adultery—
were quickly dismissed:
no one ever caused any real harm,
besides, they didn’t understand.
Here was bliss:
all races and religions
lightly embracing in a spiral
for spiritual
dance.
The light was pouring in
through the window you had opened
when I woke up
from my dream,
and the world was no longer
the miserable place we make it,
but the home of an ever and
everyone-encompassing
elite.
Raymond Carver
HOMINY AND RAIN
In a little patch of ground beside
the wall of the Earth Sciences building,
a man in a canvas hat was on
his knees doing something in the rain
with some plants. Piano music
came from an upstairs window
in the building next door. Then
the music stopped.
And the window was brought down.
You told me those white blossoms
on the cherry trees in the Quad
smelled like a can of just-opened
hominy. Hominy. They reminded you
of that. This may or may not
be true. I can’t say.
I’ve lost my sense of smell,
along with any interest I may ever
have expressed in working
on my knees with plants, or
vegetables. There was a barefoot
madman with a ring in his ear
playing his guitar and singing
reggae. I remember that.
Rain puddling around his feet.
The place he’d picked to stand
had Welcome Fear
painted on the sidewalk in red letters.
At the time it seemed important
to recall the man on his knees
in front of his plants.
The blossoms. Music of one kind
and another. Now I’m not so sure.
I can’t say, for sure.
It’s a little like some tiny cave-in,
in my brain. There’s a sense
that I’ve lost—not everything,
not everything, but far too much.
A part of my life forever.
Like hominy.
Even though your arm stayed linked
in mine. Even though that. Even
though we stood quietly in the
doorway as the rain picked up.
And watched it without saying
anything. Stood quietly.
At peace, I think. Stood watching
the rain. While the one
with the guitar played on.
Jovan Zivlak
LEASH
down the street lit by dusk
among the courtyards where capricious knowledge sang
and the dark fields where the raven croaked
a tiny dog was being pulled along on a tight chain.
the boy pulling it looked like blind future
with bright eyes like a judgment he harboured a decision in his heart
while his head was as unbound as the horizon
as absent as what was about to deceive him
as bright as the light that is only revealed once
he was walking the dog down the slopes of darkness
the creature that roars at the darkness and cannot stand it.
but the reason was beyond both of them
the one committing petty crimes
and the one holding the leash
to neither of them bound by disagreement
was any measure given
neither of them controlled the barking at the unknown
neither of them breathed out of motives they remembered
and nobody knew what was at their outset.
the dark reason was settling accounts
what will happen will happen in the faith
that peril is beyond knowledge
that the path of death is the path of the devil’s birth
and that the path of love is opened through stumbling.
tr. Alison & Vladimir Kapor
Vojislav Despotov
TEN DECAGRAMS OF SOUL
Poets must be fat
Extremely bloated and greasy
With huge pink bellies
Bedecked with wrinkles and stretch marks
So they can pull out more easily from their flesh
Little Baudelaires and Hölderlins
So they can pump out stronger
Fluid verbs and wet metaphors
Television should of course show them
As mice and rats and salty sardines
As skinny and martyred paupers
Who suck words from cosmic prana
And their direct link with the holy God
That does not exist anywhere
And the most dear viewers must be convinced
That poetry is a form of deepest suffering
But in a kilogram of flesh and fat
There are at least ten decagrams of soul
Poets must be Falstaffs
Bloodthirsty enemies of Don Quixote
So that in the moment of giving birth
This world will blossom with a million
Caloric associations.
Sonnets and other square buckets
Are a pure challenge of form
Many thin poets fit
Into one sonnet, which is sad
O sing sing scale weights scales balances
Under the metric weight of greasy syntax
tr. Alison & Vladimir Kapor
Kiril Kadiiski
THE HOSPITAL
The wings of the window hang open,
Neither joining, nor taking flight.
And you, prisoner in chains, stretched across your white bed,
Whose soul has packed its suitcase: your body is now vacant.
The green trees surge and boil in the wind. The faucet drips.
Take care, my soul. Don’t go out in the dark alone.
It’s stifling in here tonight. The jagged curve of your temperature
Has soared off the chart, and torn a hole in the sky.
The pain is gaining on you. You writhe on your bed of thorns,
Yet again, you announce your contempt for all ambition, power, and pride.
How many times, beyond counting? Why is extreme suffering
So quickly forgotten? Is man so weak in spirit?
The rain has died down. The window’s open wide,
And night dangles from the frame like the print of an X-ray.
An X-ray with a decomposing cloud dead centre.
Must it always be dark before we can see the true face of things?
tr. Ann Diamond
Arthur Rimbaud
MY BOHEMIA
A Fantasy
And so off I went, fists thrust in the torn pockets
Of a coat held together by no more than its name.
O Muse, how I served you beneath the blue;
And oh what dreams of dazzling love I dreamed!
My only pair of pants had a huge hole.
—Like some dreaming Tom Thumb, I sowed
Rhyme with each step. My inn was the Big Dipper.
—My stars rustled in the sky.
Roadside on warm September nights
I listened as drops of dew fell
On my forehead like fortifying wine;
And there, surrounded by streaming shadows, I rhymed
Aloud, and as if they were lyres, plucked the laces
Of my wounded shoes, one foot beneath my heart.
tr. Wyatt Mason
GENEALOGY
the daughters of the new world
are white like shopping-mall lights
pale like mcdonalds bread
translucent tears of pulp fictions
the orphaned mothers of the daughters of the new world
we were residents in dark hotels
we had black ways of looking
we wanted life in foreign symbols
and bergman films
the frigid mothers of the orphaned mothers of the daughters of the new world
wanted a story drenched in chanel
to marry virginal a lookalike of cary grant
to have blonde girls with rosy cheeks
chewing gum and reading little women
the orphaned daughters of the frigid mothers of the old world
we wanted marilyn’s soft curves
the latin look of che guevara’s lovers
but they
the granddaughters of decadence
the daughters of the new world
the daughters of empire
they only want to be stick-thin
light like a butterfly wing
they long to wake up
every morning with their fingers longer
so they can stick them down their throats
and vomit up
what’s left of the century
tr. Kapka Kassabova
Sylvia Plath, DADDY
SIXTY-FOUR (PLEASURES)
Will you still need me?
The Beatles
A secret cigarette between classes on a balcony,
Sex in the morning, floating on my back
In the ocean at Maui followed by a mai tai
On the beach, thinking itself a kind of pleasure
That resembles floating, or being drunk (bartender,
Can you bring me another?), another sunset
And the pleasure of waking with the birds
Singing at the window, the pleasure of poetry
Mixed with pain which seems to grow stronger
As time passes
Like giving birth to something that never existed,
Listening to music with my eyes closed
As I drift into a moment of time—
A long train ride along the Hudson
And night coming on.
OF FLESH & SPIRIT
I was a virgin till twenty-three, then always had more than one lover at the same time—all secret.
In China, people go to jail for watching porno videos while condoms and pills are given out free.
When I saw the first bra my mom made for me, I screamed and ran out in shame.
For a thousand years, women’s bound feet were the most beautiful and erotic objects for Chinese. Tits and asses were nothing compared to a pair of three-inch ‘golden lotuses.’ They must have been crazy or had problems with their noses. My grandma’s feet, wrapped day and night in layers of bandages, smelled like rotten fish.
The asshole in Chinese: the eye of the fart.
A twenty-five-year-old single woman worries her parents. A twenty-eight-year-old single woman worries her friends and colleagues. A thirty-year-old single woman worries her bosses. A thirty-five-year-old woman is pitied and treated as a sexual pervert.
The most powerful curse: fuck your mother, fuck your grandmother, fuck your great-grandmother of eighteen generations.
One day, my father asked my mother if our young rooster was mature enough to jump, meaning to ‘mate.’ I cut in before my mother answered: ‘Yes, I saw him jump onto the roof of the chicken coop.’ I was ten years old.
Women call menstruation ‘the old ghost,’ science books call it ‘the moon period,’ and refined people say ‘the moonlight is flooding the ditch.’
My first lover vowed to marry me in America after he took my virginity. He had two kids and an uneducated wife, and dared not ask the police for a divorce. He took me to see his American Chinese cousin who was staying in the Beijing Hotel and tried to persuade his cousin to sponsor him to come to New York. But his cousin sponsored me instead. That’s how I’m here and why he went back to his wife, still cursing me.
Chinese peasants call their wives: that one in my house; old Chinese intellectuals: the doll in a golden house; in socialist China, husbands and wives call each other ‘my lover.’
The story my grandma never tired of telling was about a man who was punished for his greed and had to walk around with a penis hanging from his forehead.
We don’t say ‘fall in love,’ but ‘talk love.’
When I left home, my father told me: ‘never talk love before you’re twenty-five years old.’ I waited till twenty-three. Well, my first lover was a married coward. My first marriage lasted a week. My husband slept with me once, and I never saw him again.
LAMB OF GOD
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
William Blake
This time I fucked up
all at once I am playing the game
that most pleases Our Lady of Solitude the bitch
and in her own house to make matters worse I believe all she says
is happening out there it is the only thing that makes her
to speak in tongues throwing coal into my fear nibbling my
brains abusing
some poor childish devil buzzing like a queen
around the ashes of memory installing herself between an eyebrow
and another
sticking her filthy hand in the soup of the mirror chasing with
her bulging voice
dreams in the garden of earthly delights opening an eye
with the cigarette to every flower covering the sun amidst the tiring gasp
that creeps through her by a pure silence calling its belfry
for curfew and smashing one’s face with a masterful blow
only to then unforgivable act force him to starve
ordering him to enter alone into darkness
single bed where she will arrive later inebriated
of herself but cold as a tombstone that blind d/fate
with/of a common place where those who delay their suicide spawn
and argue with little angels
in platonic chats meanwhile they punish themselves from their back
fetal indulgence at any price because she pays in gold the idolatry
drops of blood semen tears and the sweet slobber
of the smile the capital puddle in which the lamb awakens
and may the reader end in allegory if so desired
tr. Frances Frank
Thomas Merton
IN SILENCE
Be still.
Listen to the stones of the wall.
Be silent, they try
to speak your
name.
Listen
to the living walls.
Who are you?
Who
are you? Whose
silence are you?
Who (be quiet)
are you (as these stones
are quiet). Do not
think of what you are
still less of
what you may one day be.
Rather
be what you are (but who?)
be the unthinkable one
you do not know.
O be still, while
you are still alive,
and all things live around you
speaking (I do not hear)
to your own being,
speaking by the unknown
that is in you and in themselves.
‘I will try, like them
to be my own silence:
and this is difficult. The whole
world is secretly on fire. The stones
burn, even the stones they burn me.
How can a man be still or
listen to all things burning?
How can he dare to sit with them
when all their silence is on fire?’
Photo: Velingrad by Jonathan Dunne
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