Beauty is everywhere. Inside the day
of the night and the night of the day. Inside each fleeting
moment which is eternal. Inside everything in this world.
Inside the rose on the table, whose blood is redder
than life and whose life is more alive than everything
that ever lived. Inside the moon’s sickle,
which bends even more and brings the winter’s cold.
Inside all the little things that are dreaming huge
dreams of the eternal universe.
I remember when I looked through an electron microscope
and through its eye I could see where everything started
and where the chaos would begin again. And now I look
differently at everything around me: at the harsh wind,
which holds my hand like a big brother; at the memory
of the sea, which still remembers my shaking knees;
at the loneliness, which lives in all people who do not
believe in Heaven; at the daily sunset, blushing of
romantic sighs and clichés; at my beloved dead who
put me to sleep every night with lullabies that
sound like a dry river at the end of time…
…in the beauty of the flesh sinking in other flesh,
in the night which I’m sporting like a favorite
jacket, in my skin on which the constellations
are bruised, in the thread of life, tangled and
disentangled, tangled and disentangled…
Here and everywhere.
A man at some place sadly sips from a glass of
Another man elsewhere happily burns a children’s
And I’m looking for myself inside the space.
And I’m looking for the space inside myself.
Here and nowhere.
I love this city where when darkness falls and takes the houses
hostage until morning.
A night here is different from a night
above the sea, it’s more civilized;
the small streetlamp outside
burns a hole in the flesh of the dark,
murmuring deep in its bones,
cradling it to sleep.
And then I live again;
the books on the shelves, hundreds
and hundreds of them, start to burn, just like this good
twilight in my room deserves,
every word I scribble in my notebook
starts to shine with a starry glow-
think of Van Gogh, think of Hopper-
and even if I drink a glass of water
it feels like it is full of promises for
a certain part of the night emptied of nightmares.
I look out the window and I see
a cab with squeamish passengers sleeping inside,
I see the dozing trees with their leaves
trembling slightly inside the wooden dreams
and I even can hear the music, coming from the sky,
where the night’s scraping on its anthracite
And then I see the first hints of daybreak coming
from the horizon.
That’s why I light a cigarette to force this horrible
darkness to take a step back.
Peycho Kanev is the author of 5 poetry collections and three chapbooks, published in the USA and Europe. His poems have appeared in many literary magazines, such as: Rattle, Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Front Porch Review, Hawaii Review, Barrow Street, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, Sierra Nevada Review, The Cleveland Review and many others. His new chapbook titled Under Half-Empty Heaven was published in 2018 by Grey Book Press.