The Ones Who Don't Belong 4.

Poem By Liāna Langa

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
stick to the sky like cookie crumbs to a sick man's mouth.
The crunchy bugs of love's slag crawl over a letter that possibly
was written by God. Over the A4 format page courses ideal
handwriting, chains of words without memory. They slowly
are warmed by the letter's reader, a captive, his body warmth.
He, involved, follows letter by letter, understanding not a word,
just listening and listening to the soundless rattle of chains.

Come, life's winter! When the titmouse will flutter away
from homing glances and the cold will be such that words will freeze
into icicles and all the sweet,
demanding mouths shall grow larger for the word mamma, when
the letter will be blizzarded into infinite snow and we'll sleep
exploded and naked in the midst
of this landscape as part of the handwriting, as the letters
from which days and nights and the titmouse's bacon are woven,
then winter will come to save
the captive and one more time, awkwardly gurgling, will create food,
smoke from the crematorium chimney, applause, motors, tar,
tenderness, alcohol, dirty streets, a puppy, breath,
Christmas stamp colours, this year's first icy snow crust.

Translated by Margita Gailītis

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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 3.

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 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,