Poems from collection of poetry Through Grief
The Way of Things
You are about four or five
and your father seats you
on a burning stove.
Naked, before the bath.
You excuse his forgetfulness
with your fright and
explain his insults and punches
on account of your cries of pain.
You do not know what hurts more.
And you might think,
maybe forever,
that the man you love the most
has to always
inevitably
hurt you.
That it is the way of things
for you.
Translated by Lada Smejkalová
A Painting
You’ve left behind a painting
– a copy of a port by Isaac Levitan –
that you were painting together, the first
and weighty proof of the impossibility to meet
at a place or time;
you started – each from your own side –
and though you’d
sketched everything carefully,
you never met
in the middle.
You’re left with a painting
of a burdensome memory.
Always, you’ve been sitting
with your back to it.
And never, have you ever taken
it off the wall.
The First Advent
The last apples on the trees
are blazing red into a frosty day
like a silent reproach
to the summer.
Invisible birds are softly tinkling
in the breeze.
A breath. Evaporating from the lips.
The cry of December
hanging on the verge of release.
The Weight of Sorrow
The cold dark spring
of suffering, the moan, that
can’t heave out on its own.
And the impudent green of meadows, blue
blackness of the spruces around,
the spurt of an unstoppable
life
in such disharmony with the weight
of my sorrow.
Paunchy leaden clouds
carry my rain.
The Treasure in the Attic
In grandma’s attic, there was
an old painting, we found it
by chance among the jumble and
placed it among the exhibits
in our newly founded
museum. To me, it was the most
beautiful painting I’ve ever
seen. Via neat and light strokes
a nice road led
across Saliger’s Bridge. It seemed
unbelievable to me that
you were able to paint it once, just
a little older than us
when we discovered it.
So, you used to be an artist!
It felt like a stretched rope
between us.
One could either
walk along it to reach the other
or keep the
distance
forever.
Leaning into the Winter
The ground already cooling
and the low sun
won’t change it with its rays
so bright cutting the forest
to pieces.
In the shadow, the dew
won’t dry,
the mouth bitter
with the smell of the mouldered leaves.
Only a few are left
on the young beech branches,
breaking the silence of the noon
with a quiet and persuasive whisper:
the world’s so vast – and your heart?
The Fading Image
I can see you in all your
looks and gestures
together, all
the years and feelings
reflect in your face
at once.
The flitting can be noticed
only as a blur
that holds it all.
I can see what you’ve
never been like since,
usually, we’re
only aware of the here and
now; the rest is just
distorted, the desire to see what
we want.
And yet
you’ve never been
more real than now. I can see
you for the first time,
with my love for you;
the first time,
I can see you clearly.
***
A frozen rose
decorates the table.
Cold
and perfect
without scent.
It’s opening
in a slow
promise of beauty.
Who, in this place,
swore upon her life?
Translated by Pavlína Hrubá
