Showing posts from October, 2021

Adam Zagajewski & Dã Viên

  1 2 Zaga on Rilke   The House Do you still remember what the house was like? The house-a pocket in a snowstorm's overcoat, houses, low and bulging like Egyptian vowels. Sheltered by green tongues of trees- the most faithful was the linden, it shed dry tears each fall. Outmoded dresses dangled in the attic like hanged men. Old letters flamed. The old piano dozing in the parlor, a hippo with black and yellow teeth. On the wall a cross from a failed uprising hung crookedly, and a photo of a sad girl-a failed life. The air smelled like vermouth, bitter and sweet at once. Houses, houses, where are you, under what ocean, in what memory, beneath the roof of what existence? While the wind was opening windows, a deep blue past sneaked into the rooms and stifled the muslin curtains' breathing. The fire was death's intended and brought her bouquets of pale sparks. Adam Zagajewski