The Ones Who Don't Belong 7.

Poem By Liāna Langa

The ones who don't belong love non-belongers. Love more.
Awkward city noises wake sleeping monsters
in beds of threatening size, in which through barred windows
dark and light flows in, kindling beastly passion
but the ones who don't belong love the non-belongers. Love more.
In the corner behind the four-door wardrobe forgetfulness hums.
Turning over greasy pages in the family calendar
with thrifty recipes, descriptions of insects, photos,
down-to-earth advice, perhaps how not to die before one's time.
The ones who don't belong love non-belongers. Love more.
Forgetfulness has a werewolf's countenance. With a dark blue
tongue it examines, examines once more all the facts.
A specially-numbered year thousand nine hundred and sixty
on the cover of the book which smells of Dachau's gas.
Those who don't belong love non-belongers. Love more.
In late autumns they love when slimy leaves cover front windows
of cars, muddy floors, raisins of sweat on palms,
they love by the sound that wrecks the nerves of silence,
they love with the plump coal, which, when pressed forcefully,
draws squiggly features on midday rest's golden skin.
"Hello werewolf!" The holidays behind the barred windows
do not belong to us. "Keep your pain to yourself."
Those who don't belong love more.

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 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,