Poetry Writings Artwork and stories from Neil Furby

May 26, 2009 at 00:48 o\clock

French Poetry

When
a rock
dies
it has
no need
to bury itself away.

Every object
that falls
blesses itself.

The hand
became
a nest
to catch
the bird.

 

The flight
of birds
seized by fright
has the air
of swimming.

Winter is cold
only at the approach
of spring.

May 6, 2009 at 03:22 o\clock

© 2006, Vera Pavlova Perhaps when our bodies throb and rub

Perhaps when our bodies throb and rub
against each other, they produce a sound
inaudible to us but heard up there, in the clouds and higher,
by those who can no longer hear common sounds . . .
Or, maybe, this is how He wants to check by ear: are we still intact?
No cracks in mortal vessels? And to this end He bangs
men against women?
© 2006, Vera Pavlova
From: Pis'ma v sosednyuyu komnatu: 1001 priznaniye v lyubvi (Letters to a room next door: 1001 confessions of love)
Publisher: AST Publishing House, Moscow, 2006