Weather fields / freeze frame

Poem By Hendrik Jackson


draught up our sleeves from the side wind, tiredness suppressing
a few half words, we moved into the colder frost-air by the rear frontage
of a distant building, a couple among the houses, at night
the tree (landing net) through which winds flowed off crackling -

slow spotlights silence disembodied steps, then movements
from a conventional plot (interim fade-ins). in her soft
white coat the ice princess flew overhead, ghosts passing through
the rows of seats, of houses (your hand lying lifeless in mine)


jingling of glassy icicles, the cold glass in front of the window display, a few
crystals (housing estate). for a moment there was a pure nothingness
the horizon turning wide (eyelids as though cut away) -
motionless layers of air, you were dreaming: this dull dull afternoon

a hairline crack - smiling, loudspeakers rattling in the ice tent
the steady humming of the transformer, as we swarmed out singly:
briefly disquiet, flying shadows over indifferent gratings
(old advertising posters) and away. darkness trickled through a hole in the sky


the door swung open: snow was falling (sleeping) in dense
flakes - and gusted up, then something half forgotten began
thoughts passing effortlessly - two people were standing unnoticed
as we did back then, attentive to an arm (fur)

at a turning, astounded, in a conversation about affection
my bicycle, frame and handlebar, cables and spokes
turning white, as though sprinkled with coconut (the heavy coats)
fine, doubting promises, your hair tied back

translated by Catherine Hales

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the voices, whispering, emerge from yesterday, from its


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I live within crumbling walls of medieval crudeness.
On the washing lines hang remnants of Slavic cloth.
No Hellenism warms me; the stoves here are fuelled
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