Poems that I love

 By Vijay Sephardi   "Where was it one first heard of the truth?"  On a day like any other day,   like "yesterday or centuries before,"   in a town with the one remembered street,   shaded by the buckeye and the sycamore--   the street long and true as a theorem,   the day like yesterday or the day before,   the street you walked down centuries before--   the story the same as the others flooding in   from the cardinal points is   turning to take a good look at you.   Every creature, intelligent or not, has disappeared--   the humans, phosphorescent,   the duplicating pets, the guppies and spaniels,   the Woolworth's turtle that cost forty-nine cents   (with the soiled price tag half-peeled on its shell)--   but, from the look of things, it only just happened.   The wheels of the upside-down tricycle are spinn...

  By Tadeusz Dąbrowski Yesterday I sent you a letter. And today on the phone you tell me you are pregnant. I pack up and return, you greet me at the airport, you’re even lovelier than in my letter that’s on its way to you. We build a house, our child grows, our parents shrink, then a few years of sweat and tears, in which we prudently pickle cabbage and gherkins for the ever-colder days. In the coloring book of our life there are fewer and fewer blank spaces, the crayons grow shorter, we try to be precise, but even so we go over the lines. We busy ourselves with everyday matters, and our paths are ever deeper, they start to look like tunnels. Meanwhile my letter’s on its way to you. You’ll open it when it suits you best. ( Translated, from the Polish, by Antonia Lloyd-Jones. )