poems by miroslav kirin
God is thinking about me and eating me.
WE CRUMBLE EVEN without you,
looking at us, overwhelmed with
You're not sweating, and your blood
dripping. You're as transparent
our smile, granted from you
to replace hope, so that we could
imagine joy every time we are
trembling from some misfortune.
would rather suffer, wouldn't you?
hands are too clean, aren't they?
would be very nice to get acquainted
the mushiness of mud, with the heat
of blood pouring
all over the palms, spouting from
in the forehead. Or, suppose, if
started arguing with my wife? Would
you stand a chance? I know, you're
but what's the use of your words
when anyone uses them in
a different way? Please, do admit,
lose the battle with her. She would
make no answer,
and you wouldn't know which of the
could use to drive her out of that
After all, you haven't managed to
drive us out of our pain,
we're still there, stuck, having
trust in you.
As usual, we're probably wrong. Has
ever worked? No. Actually, during
all this time
you've been eating this world, and
surfeited with it. You're particularly
the fresh ones, whose eyes never
close and who
stick out their tongues toward you,
are jutted out, up to the sky, where
tickle your soles. I know, you would
best to trample down on them, squash
just like. Well, you're too lazy
for that, too.
You can live with it. And say: I've
it, suffered pain, here's the truth
I'm going to
bestow upon you. And then you stop
for silence is a dogma that can
argued about. When, in the course
of an argument,
someone's belly is slashed, they
say: "They lost
their mind." And the argument about
the role of mind resumes
till a half of its participants
are bored to death.
Then they are buried outside the
cemetery, just like.
No eulogies. Just the mourning parties
in the habits of opaque silence.
With cynical flowers
in the lapels. With elastic plasters
the mouth and legs. With uneven earth
They stumble all the time and disappear
as in Argentine. Whoever comes back,
awfully cynical because he has eaten
all the flowers
from the lapels of his friends. Who
are, you se, not
friends any more because they hold
although they have disappeared long
ago. Pardon me, but
the're not dead, they are able to
talk! Well, they are called upon
to tell the truth. There can't be
any excuse for that,
apart from the excuse you've bestowed
You're so generous when you grant
us with silence.
It's at your disposal, you say,
do whatever you can do.
Anyway, words are not for you, I'm
and the only owner. I've been written
down in your letters
and I'm everything you yearn for.
Your love begins and ends in me. So does your speech. No one else will
be able to say anything because they're
I am you, a heap of crumbles without
my share in it.
I am a lamp swinging inside the ice
I illuminate the love of fish.
A MEETING WITH the one who has
suffered amnesia is needed desperately.
his body bathed in continuous weeping
(but never for himself).
In the meantime - do
bring tears back
into the eyes
bring words back
into the mouth:
THERE IS A BLUE light in my room
coming from outside. It just comes
from somewhere and remains lying
on the floor.
Or overflows the brims of the objects
all those forms persistently missing,
radiating their emptiness. The photographs
pile up in photo albums and are gutted
before anyone could have recognized
Once in a while a Christmas table
its coffin as if we're about to
My relatives arrive bringing their
the warmth of faded chairs brings
a short whistle.
Melancholy sparks all over the places
we used to lean on our elbows, lay
down our heads
exhausted by a long work or a throbbing
pain, all over
the places where we kept hidden
our hands or legs
trying to spread secret love messages.
brings in the coffee, but somehow
it leaks through
the holes in the coffee cups. It
would vanish, anyway.
So would the photographs. And the
of belonging. All. Following it,
the words retire, the creatures
of weakness. The sweet murmur of
The relatives have just seaten to
stand up instantaneously,
plunging into their portion of thick
I don't think we've had any conversation.
It's so sad.
The warmth of chairs vanishes, too.
of the set table goes out. At the
same moment, a dark,
hot water will spurt somewhere else
splash the stiff faces in a lame
to unfreeze the frozen.
The table is cleaned up again due
to the lack of
those who usually sit at it. The
noiselessly. The coffin yawns. A
place for infinite
loneliness opens. The hands, in
part of the world, clasp to commence
for the deaf. An open box lies in
the middle of
the room. The memories unhook themselves
settle down in the corners which
refuse to acknowledge
the hardships of people who want
to live a life on their
own, who need a rest from the lightness
of starting a history.
The box, being immensely tired, yawns
and shuts itself
off into its impenetrable hollowness.
Becomes a box.
The light falls down and remains
lying. Still. Immobile. Doesn't
run like water.
Overburdened, the box will
open - never again. Goodbye.
Kirin lives in Zagreb, Croatia.
He writes poetry and short fiction.
He has published two volumes of poetry and a collection of short fiction.
His work has also been published
in Poetry, The
Poetry Magazine, News
of the Brave New World, Gowanus,