Peycho Kanev has been writing poetry for the past 10 years. His poems have appeared in more than 400 literary magazines. His collaborative collection “r”, containing poetry by him and Felino Soriano, as well as photography from Duane Locke and Edward Wells II was published in the spring of 2009 by Please Press. Also in 2009 his short story collection “Walking Through Walls” (Ciela), and in April 2010 his poetry collection “American Notebooks” (Ciela) both were published in Bulgaria. His new poetry collection “Bone Silence” was released in September 2010 by Desperanto, NY.
Against all odds
Late at night we stood against the moon
and observed the image of infinity
without knowing that infinity is inside us both.
We overheard the great emptiness,
and we looked for each other
in its endless circle.
And we listened to the wind with its
ghostly steps between the trees.
like some black bird circled
into the center of the moon’s gravitation
and then perched there,
burning its previous coloration
in the now bright, purple wheel.
We observed the image of infinity,
lost in the bygone eras.
But soon we found out
that we are exactly the same –
that our image was lost too
and the black bird called us.
two bottles of Chateau Laffite and the setting
sun, behind the brick-colored rooftops of Venice.
You in the gondola and the smell of the river;
the odor of your youth, lazily pouring in and out
of the bluish-green water. The sea-gulls above, so high,
fighting with the pigeons for the last remaining scraps
of the canzonets. This is the world! Seize it, now.
The stink of Italian gutters, full of gutted fish
and dead time. The river moving slowly like molasses;
grayish-brown water, not deep enough even for you
to drown in. Awful operas attack your ears through
the broken windows, and the beer has the smell of
peasant’s sweat. Here, even Charon will not take out
his boat for a ride. Here, even the sky cries. Hear me out!
The romanticism is dead!
Kick it up a notch
These leaves of grass,
these secrets buried in us!
We try each and every day
to trick our lives,
and we wait.
in this ivory tower
for our destiny to take the right
The wind wears holes in our bodies,
the rotten structure of time, our cracks,
which we try to piece together with our backs
turned, each to the other.
In the empty holes of history
the currents whistle.
We learn, and
then, we forget.