The Ones Who Don't Belong 3.

Poem By Liāna Langa

You say to me - summer? Stop! Too much of glowing flesh, glassy
grey light on eyelids, the odour of decaying melons. Maybe
a movie, ditam, ditam? Dipetti, dipetti, perhaps to the Antarctic?
Don't be angry. Escape heals, but only for a space of time, just until
the blood blackens and medusa stratas layer the hourglass vessels.

Afterward, as you know, the sand returns in us,
so we may slave further.

Who shall say where we should head? The streets shall lead
further than our own seemingly sure steps. The grainy asphalt
rugs will weave into themselves the coat-of-arms
of cast-down glances, the tense light
of a walker's muscles, the Indian ink
shed by shadows. The city will wallow fevered, it will beg
its inhabitants to call a doctor.

In hair locks shed around a hairdresser's high heels, recently-bought
a baby carriage, glances, which meet suddenly and swell
like an edema - this is where time lives. Who will instruct us
where we should head?

On a sultry afternoon in a market from a butcher's counter
a snow-white elbow accidentally knocks down an hourglass.

Fine glass slivers slash summer's juicy veins.

Now you see how new rhymes are born -

a short-sighted uncle holds the world by a thread,
five-year old Wolfgang conducts a pollen ballet,
cranes feed their cranelings,
ore becomes ore.

Translated by: Margita Gailītis

Comments about The Ones Who Don't Belong 3.

There is no comment submitted by members.

5 out of 5
0 total ratings

Other poems of LANGA

The Ones Who Don't Belong 1.

I wake suddenly from deep sleep.
In the forest's undergrowth my shadow roams.
Hundred-thousand-year greedy muzzles suck
moisture clinging to a vessel of mist.

The Ones Who Don't Belong 2.

Leaves frost-bitten by a harsh night rustle between my fingers.
A rook siddles closer
to a cross painted mud-colour. A white pebble thrown against
the cheap granite slab summons an echo

The Ones Who Don't Belong 4.

Come, life's winter! In a corner of a window ledge a titmouse
pecks at a bit of bacon
whiter than the city's snow. Lemon yellow sunbeam bagpipes
tangle in tree branches sounding funeral marches. Racing clouds

The Ones Who Don't Belong 5.

A roadside garden queen boards the train Aizkraukle - Riga.
She's wearing rubber boots, a grey moustache
above a chapped mouth.

The Ones Who Don't Belong 6.

Farewell, homo mediocris! We dream and sleep still among roe
subtly rose. So slow their movement, so sticky. As if someone
will come shortly to glue our transparent flesh together.
We can do it ourselves! Just the water doesn't permit it,