Tag Archives: Peycho Kanev

The light of dawn through the kitchen window, illuminating empty cups and black ladles like question marks hanging over the sink and the esoteric metaphysics of the black coffee brewing in the pot. * Rustle of sheets and cackle coming … Continue reading →

Always this shattered face, always this mirror… Faded framed pictures in ill-lit life— a white winter field and a lone wolf under the moon, radiating canine loneliness. Be the poem instead of the poet, the knife instead of the wound. … Continue reading →

In the secret place of light, dawn comes like music. Ashes and evaporating ashen time. Who am I without the I? You and we? Invisible scent of mint and roses comes through the broken window. A man can walk through … Continue reading →

The heavy ax right in the center of the pain which ceases to exist as the sharp blade slowly falls down on the metaphor just as heavy just as light— Peycho Kanev is the author of four poetry collections and … Continue reading →

I see that you struggle to breathe in this room of fading moonlight and residual odor of wilting begonias. The lamp blinks. Along the horizon’s edge the dawn sends its false promises. And I dream that you are dreaming of … Continue reading →

The dying of the sun, the dying of the hour Thousands of books screaming Fire Bricks of music are rising just to fall down Empty streets leading to houses without doors My flushed face Her shattered vase Then the stars … Continue reading →

He looks through the shades But he sees only too much pink and red And he goes to another window Another man spies on his own wife under the shower And he finds this man in there who is himself … Continue reading →

I look for him everywhere But he goes to war I look for him in the puddles of blood He climbs mountains I look for him in the ocean of my eyes He flies to the moon And I look … Continue reading →

I’m the bullet flying through the raindrops. Death comes towards you, limping along like a cow that has stepped on a landmine. These slow-motion stills cannot change anything. The hands of the clock make love with the hours. The mole … Continue reading →

The shadows are thicker near the harbors, the ships are looking like ghosts, water runs cool and dry down my sleeve and the memories are forgotten They are coming from spaces that I will never see, where the shadows are … Continue reading →

I admit that I can’t cry! The sight of an emaciated dog digging in the ruins of a bombed city for fresh flesh or gnawed bones could only make me shiver. My wine is the night’s heartbeat, and I am … Continue reading →

born to be kissed and born to be hated born to paint with fingers born to pour glasses of red wine born into the light born into the darkness and the horror born to wave anti-war posters born to bow … Continue reading →

I don’t care about the metrics, the iambus and the rhymes – I have read the classics and then I’ve put them back on their dusty shelves: we write about something that comes from the guts and the nails as … Continue reading →

December 21st. The snow falls gently between the words. From the window the horizon’s edge cuts me in half. This Olympia SG3 is silent as a tomb. Apples and weeds in the bowl on the table with the red stained … Continue reading →

There are no bodies yet, no fingers, only the sculptor is here with the clay, waiting… He waits… and smoke star dust. The time slowly crawls, like a cripple fly, there some moans about, but not yet, it is too … Continue reading →