JULY POETRY

Camera Obscura

By

Peycho Kanev

Light, please initiate me into your

occult philosophy. Tell me where

you come from when you penetrate

the dusty window in the morning and

find me thus – staring into the nothingness.

Sometimes you show me very beautiful

things that I am still trying to comprehend.

Like a pair of beautiful female legs

semi-concealed into the twilight of

your brightly absence. How many stories

do we need so this moment could be

remembered forever?

The others have old photo albums.

The others have skies to cry beneath them.

But you can find me thus – thoughtful

and staring into the darkness of this page.

Continuation

By

Peycho Kanev

I am drinking whiskey from a tin can –

this line sounds so much like blues,

but let me tell you the rest.

This tin can is shiny and red- oh yes,

many years ago, my grandfather,

for many years, kept his pencils inside

and some small notebook in which he

scribbled late at night. Secret notes about

his past, I presume, then just a blink

of a supernova, and he was gone. After that,

my uncle stored in it his old German ‘Luger’,

which he cleaned almost every day. Maybe he

was afraid of loosing his prolonged quarrels

with cancer and immortality, maybe he wanted

to go on his own terms. My uncle was a great

admirer of Ernest Hemingway. He was gone

one summer Sunday morning. And now the can

is mine. I pour whiskey inside and drink it sitting

in the dark. No music, no light- just me and the old

whiskey, but it has some strange taste, almost like

rust from an old pistol and fading memories of words

never written. I lift it close to my ear and I can hear

the whizzing of the chilly mistral, that so long ago

licked the skin of my father. I sigh and say to

the time in my tin can: Please scholar me as you

collar me, because everything fills- Now and then.