By remembering how many foreign debts anglophone poetry has accrued over the centuries of its existence ... we are reminded that a poet like Reynek, who seems to emerge from a faraway country of which we know little, is part of the same tradition ... This is lyric poetry of a type in which the poet uses certain patterns of rhyme and pacing that many previous generations have. It is a way of finding likenesses in both words and the world, or sometimes impressing phonic likenesses on disparate experiences, and savoring the phases of that difference.
In this life, I should have been most happy. Nary a care in the world, save for the constant pressure of having to marry the need for a mate with a tune.
In a waiting room, Kafka picks up a women’s magazine and reads what women are doing for fun.
My father left for work. / My sister wanted to know why. / So I said, To get away from you.
I used to think / That although I was poor / And hungry / And hadn't slept in years / That at least I had my body.
When I was getting to Trefilov’s place, I felt a new wave of fear come over me. Maybe, like deep inside I was already feeling how it would all turn out, but – to just cut the shit for a second – I wasn’t afraid of the consequences, but that Sergei Igorich really would turn out to be a homo...
We’re not bad on our own, only as a couple. At least that’s what we tell ourselves, though it’s hard to remember a time before we were a couple. There is a certain comfort knowing our ugliness is mutual, a thing we bring out in each other, not something innate in our personal temperaments.
Time to get to the point. You’re happy? / Like being in a bottomless pit? / Darling, is your life harder now / than mine is with another man?
360-degree Hieronymus-Bosch-panoramas of / Altamont Speedway at night lodged in the memory / worth more than a drawer full of rotten apples.