Blesok no. 74, September-October, 2010
Poetry


Tenderness

Viera Prokešová



Early Evening


He goes home.
In the quiet hall
you do not reach out your arms, hot,
the long honeyed dress
sadly pours down you;
into the room falls
a bright scent,
the cups are clean, cool
the table, in a moment
you are not clear: did he leave,
or did you miss each other?

Translated by James Naughton
(From: Sunflower, 1998)




Sunrise


n/a




Sunflower


Ruffled in October's
satin gloom
it quivers by the white
wall; so suddenly
and everywhere it turns dark.

You see it, as it
bends, supple
and honeyed into quiescence:
the light is broad,
and scented.




I got used to


n/a




From a Walk


In the morning villa quarter
dogs bark in the gardens
various great flowers
blossom.
Ornamental and fruit trees
peacefully, broadly spread.
Houses, old and new,
comfortable, are silent.
Sunny curtains
are motionless.
I walk in the streets,
I meet
nobody.

Everything is in order.




Just yet


n/a




About artlesness


n/a




Tenderness


Now,
as the rain bends over the puddle,
and the day rusts
dropping towards night
like a dry leaf,
as the sharp wind
spreads about,
I fear the ice
and its glassy pavements,
the snow as it begins
to roughen,
I fear the cold of winter,
growing transparent from the depths,
for tenderness wells up out of me
like a first snowdrop
unfurling into your sleet,
flowering in your
hard inclement season.

Translated by James Naughton
(From: The Strange Woman, 1994)




Proud


n/a




Purity


n/a




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