What an Awful Pleasure

/, Blesok no. 91/What an Awful Pleasure

What an Awful Pleasure

At 8 O’clock
At Central Station
A Stone in the Swamp
Another Stone in the Swamp
Under the Creed"s Mantle
The Tip of My Tongue
What an Awful Pleasure

Translated. from the Bulgarian by Kristin Dimitrova

Sleep has lifted its eyelids,
and now gapes:
the tradesmen, wide awake, are talking in their dreams,
calculating profit
(and prison bars),
the first pancakes of the day
have long been sugared and are snoozing
in the mysterious entrances
of city stomachs,
Sofia girls – who danced in men’s embraces
throughout the night –
now sweetly sleep it off…
The dumbhead
churns his tongue queuing for tripe,
the shouter shouting “Long Live Labor”
is at his desk already
(in front of the desk of the tongue-tied one)
the bullies have put on the innocent eyes
of submissiveness,
the gossip machine has not been switched on yet –
its winders are still yawning – the cafe is closed…
too bad!
Who says
our weekday poetry has been depopulated?
Who says
the poetry of weekdays is unagitated?
At this hour
no one knows yet
if righteous Paul and righteous Peter
are not at last turned rightfully
into apostles,
no one knows yet
if the notable of yesterday
will wake up as a notable,
no one knows yet
if the rosary of conscience
disappeared from the office safe
last night,
no one knows yet
if the person’s personal chauffeur
has finally remembered he is a person too…

No one knows at this hour
why I envy the eight for its two zeros,
why I don’t envy the zeros.

AuthorRumen Leonidov
2018-08-21T17:22:42+00:00 September 21st, 2013|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 91|0 Comments