for Anne Carson
To describe how rain touches morning in Iceland—
where St. Christopher often leads travelers
in spring—is to cross the impossible
bridge between water to drink
and water that drowns.
If you’re lonely enough, if you listen,
the wind will convince you, in its human-like
sadness—to open the windows
and let something in.
Watch as it lifts above the ice—
the unforgiving element—white
fire.
Remember, you too know something
about snow's passage to water:
how everything trembles when moving
from one form to another—how soon,
it is water that slicks your eye—
each lash burning
to put the fire out.
- Alex Dimitrov
(published in Best New Poets 2009, and diode, Fall 2009 )
August 27, 2009
July 26, 2009
The Crucifix
It hung from his neck in a kind and devastating way—
hidden under his shirt and apron, wait staff uniform
then blazer, when he finally found a good desk job.
Walking through the living room after work
he’d slowly loosen the knot of his tie, teasing it
with his fingers and unbuttoning that top button
every man must hate so much.
From there it took him only seconds
until the cotton trailed behind his back,
shirt fully undone, allowing me to notice
the tense drops of sweat which ran down from his armpits,
the stains forming delicate rings around his sleeves.
And when he sat down on the couch
to rest his head back, Adam’s apple
sharply gleaming, palms left open on his thighs—
I’d stare at that gold crucifix which sank so low,
our Jesus buried deep inside his chest hair,
closer to my father than I ever got
and claiming the best part.
- Alex Dimitrov
(published, in a previous version, in Harpur Palate, Volume 8.2, Winter 2009)
hidden under his shirt and apron, wait staff uniform
then blazer, when he finally found a good desk job.
Walking through the living room after work
he’d slowly loosen the knot of his tie, teasing it
with his fingers and unbuttoning that top button
every man must hate so much.
From there it took him only seconds
until the cotton trailed behind his back,
shirt fully undone, allowing me to notice
the tense drops of sweat which ran down from his armpits,
the stains forming delicate rings around his sleeves.
And when he sat down on the couch
to rest his head back, Adam’s apple
sharply gleaming, palms left open on his thighs—
I’d stare at that gold crucifix which sank so low,
our Jesus buried deep inside his chest hair,
closer to my father than I ever got
and claiming the best part.
- Alex Dimitrov
(published, in a previous version, in Harpur Palate, Volume 8.2, Winter 2009)
Looking for Bulgaria
I want to tell you of the country I left behind—
how it felt or didn’t feel to live there,
what it looked like every morning and again
at night, how the dirt smelled when I kicked it,
if it changed in color with the seasons,
if there were seasons at all.
Everything remains but is not here.
Listen to the rain outside,
how it tells us what is missing of the earth.
Listen to the wind rise high,
now higher, past the trees
as if it knew of something else,
something other than the birds.
And the sky—
what do we long to see there?
What sees us as we look?
Is it the turn away—the needed blinking—
when we sense that we’re not bound to anything?
When place holds in our minds only through distance
and the same sky follows everywhere.
- Alex Dimitrov
(published, in a previous version, in The Spoon River Poetry Review, Volume XXXIV, Number 1, Winter/Spring 2009)
how it felt or didn’t feel to live there,
what it looked like every morning and again
at night, how the dirt smelled when I kicked it,
if it changed in color with the seasons,
if there were seasons at all.
Everything remains but is not here.
Listen to the rain outside,
how it tells us what is missing of the earth.
Listen to the wind rise high,
now higher, past the trees
as if it knew of something else,
something other than the birds.
And the sky—
what do we long to see there?
What sees us as we look?
Is it the turn away—the needed blinking—
when we sense that we’re not bound to anything?
When place holds in our minds only through distance
and the same sky follows everywhere.
- Alex Dimitrov
(published, in a previous version, in The Spoon River Poetry Review, Volume XXXIV, Number 1, Winter/Spring 2009)
Leaving for America, May 1991
It didn’t happen during the war, I remember that.
Because like everyone else we sat in front of the television
and waited for the American soldiers to leave the Gulf.
It was close to happening when my mother came home one day
and never went back to work.
She didn’t tell anyone why.
Even closer when things in our apartment kept disappearing:
the vase on the table, old books, our small radio.
I found them in boxes one day.
Then it finally began at the airport
when our bags were too heavy to check
and we had to decide what to leave,
We can’t keep everything, my father said.
And as the plane pulled away we tried sleeping
until mid flight a stranger asked,
What time is it over there?
But none of us knew.
The ocean below warned
don’t swim.
The country we’d left for
still felt at war.
And we didn’t arrive even after the plane ride
after the taxi, and in the new house
where for days we had nothing to say.
- Alex Dimitrov
(published in Poet Lore, Volume 103, Number 3/4, 2008)
Because like everyone else we sat in front of the television
and waited for the American soldiers to leave the Gulf.
It was close to happening when my mother came home one day
and never went back to work.
She didn’t tell anyone why.
Even closer when things in our apartment kept disappearing:
the vase on the table, old books, our small radio.
I found them in boxes one day.
Then it finally began at the airport
when our bags were too heavy to check
and we had to decide what to leave,
We can’t keep everything, my father said.
And as the plane pulled away we tried sleeping
until mid flight a stranger asked,
What time is it over there?
But none of us knew.
The ocean below warned
don’t swim.
The country we’d left for
still felt at war.
And we didn’t arrive even after the plane ride
after the taxi, and in the new house
where for days we had nothing to say.
- Alex Dimitrov
(published in Poet Lore, Volume 103, Number 3/4, 2008)
New York Winter
Neatly unfolded on the only free table
at my local coffee shop last Friday,
the morning paper had something to tell me.
The man who left it there, I saw him rush off,
had spilled his drink at the bottom of page seven
near a caption that read, President’s message of hope continues.
On the same page, in another paper, the war also continued.
In the city people waited in lines, hurried home
and looked past each other’s worn faces when walking.
There were new films about love playing,
the old operas about grief and betrayal,
and rain instead of snow in December.
As I left for the bank, right outside,
a boy ran his bicycle into a cab.
I couldn’t break fast enough, he yelled at the driver––
and I believed him.
Because from where I stood it looked unavoidable,
like the metal doors in the subway closing in on someone.
He eyed the dented front wheel and got up,
unharmed—terrified, and ready
to go on with the rest of his day.
- Alex Dimitrov
(published in OCHO #24, Summer 2009)
at my local coffee shop last Friday,
the morning paper had something to tell me.
The man who left it there, I saw him rush off,
had spilled his drink at the bottom of page seven
near a caption that read, President’s message of hope continues.
On the same page, in another paper, the war also continued.
In the city people waited in lines, hurried home
and looked past each other’s worn faces when walking.
There were new films about love playing,
the old operas about grief and betrayal,
and rain instead of snow in December.
As I left for the bank, right outside,
a boy ran his bicycle into a cab.
I couldn’t break fast enough, he yelled at the driver––
and I believed him.
Because from where I stood it looked unavoidable,
like the metal doors in the subway closing in on someone.
He eyed the dented front wheel and got up,
unharmed—terrified, and ready
to go on with the rest of his day.
- Alex Dimitrov
(published in OCHO #24, Summer 2009)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
