Batumi
culture

8 poems from my second book

By on March 1, 2016

8 poems


 

ruptures (medley)

and another line deprives access to the sea

we stand on the pier paralysed like all

those stories about a group of friends honouring

the final wish of one dead rolling through countries and bars

cross crossroads with the promise of ashes scattered along the coast

but once there can’t do anything other than turn circles

wandering is an aim in itself (when setting off on a

journey choose the furthest route) something constantly

piercing through out of the background like a wave function

explicitly describing the edges of body

sensitive like slabs dragged onto the surface of union

soon background noise will be betrayed by a new frequency

which will leave it all along with the tide

a may night

these days follow each other like minced

meat every set list revealing the decay

fireflies over the lakes millions of dead souls across

the marshes just the one explosion in the labs

residue in the narrow gullet of the woods blossoming

conflict between the locals and onslaughts of mist

who will cast the first stone who will swallow slime

call near animals who by hearing alone will read

the breakdown of systems as new tribes

won’t come won’t explain themselves

when the noise stops no

one will enter here again

closure

the swarm approaches the landscape lengthening birds

of coal mark the skies once again the soft city

glistening (only we are awake) earlier than usual deadening

the crowd’s pulse crocodile streets folk speak differently

when liquid changes the state of things in glassed-over

puddles dry water gurgles drips with anything close to hand

light diffracted in an altered skin floods

pavements empty parks squares reflections in traps

soon they will be free unable to grasp the traces dumb

topography like crows against snow connect only the points

a limited expanse the rest blurred

low overhead the abyss calling

 

coma contra amok

warning there is no such wave

p. kozioł

wet nuptials grey waves on the vistula bridges like

fingers against the river’s lips the river coursing permanently

changing people and things seen from shore

streets lit yellow finished off with shadows

and terror like a de chirico boxed in by sticky neons pictures

from childhood he remembers the escalator in the old town

the one they closed later but it stays glued in memory

in spite of the turmoil like a self-perpetuating dream

the escalator in the marriott the escalator in the bogusz

center the escalator as panorama and climbing the

floors the fountains dripping water pellets razor blades

in the pipes of water parks or the pizzeria where they handed out

balls with something resembling michael jordan’s hand print

you had to line up within what were then just freshly forming

structures which we now know so well as if there is construction

it’s equal to an act of religious observance (scrap) and possesses

something I would call the power of problematics

this keeps coming back this sense of the city

resting on cogs constantly churning its

position erasing the places which came into being

before the crest of the peak wave hit

year cycle

from the side of the race track you can’t see the cemeteries

only new tower blocks traps apparitions in drying bedsheets

by the ponds run-ups for divers bridges broken in half like

the warsaw ski jump and anyway you look suspect your head

is clearly cocked meaningfully in the direction of shadowy

trees the lay of the land is all wrong night windows of the top

floors gasps torn from clouds walls draped in graffiti mud shit

on the short-lived squares the patients you look suspect

you are the key to urban legends of the h. batuta murders

the daughter of stone his streets by land evening report

like in the cute squares of cute towns from tales for tots

in yearly cycles solstices into which you fall slowly when

you look well suspect cocking your head meaningfully

death took zdzisław for drawing her

the wincenty witos public park, bydgoszcz

we watched as they dug up the bones of soldiers from the russian

military graveyard by the young workers’ palace

this is how the park with the open air auditorium came into being

and where they once staged concerts for children

the locals still refer to it as the park of stiffs

kyrgyzstan

our children our ailments held with spit in the time of bells

our diary woven of daily spectres where foreigners press their

quicksilver into a hill of trash the radiation noted on a flag forty

historic tribes like the names of deadly substances

binding atoms with tents we gather the fragile hearts of light bulbs

like kindling and the bones of animals in layers of glass ground to fine

dust which dulls already active throats with the iron maiden

of curtains drawn to

 

differance. a poem for bryan ferry

sky blue plumes of gas the whole sorry mess in

places where fires started once you can see the scarring

the welded over eye holes traces of extinguished sparks in stuffy

dusks and basements something has started to breed in the soft bedding

something must be on the inside beneath these layers ceilings clinging

to the earth buildings sinking to the rhythm of tectonic plates

from the top of the mound we watch the motions invisible moves

of armed fauna in similar landscapes

how is it possible that the nibbled at bricks so firmly

shoulder the weight of a dozen floors along with people

the foundations must be buried deep somewhere near the core

all the underground rivers have been flooded over a region of hundreds

of thousands of kilometres concrete moss cities covered strife

real life life

read the originals in Polish / English pdf version here

 

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KRZYSZTOF NODAR
Warsaw

Gamarjoba! I'm Krzysztof Nodar Ciemnolonski, 30-years-old nomad addicted to music, books, travel and adventure. I live in Poland and Georgia and run my own company in the travel industry. I usually write about Caucasus, it's history, culture and alternative art but You will find here a lot of texts about other topics and places.

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