In Bohumil Hrabal’s
Too Loud a Solitude
a man holds a knife to the narrator’s neck
and launches into a poetry reading, then
apologises, explaining it’s the only way
he can make people listen to his work.
Listening to your work, by contrast, I feel
I’ve got the village flasher instead, who,
having opened a raincoat on his baby-bird-
on-a-nest of a little pink winky, proceeds
to wave it in my face for a good half an hour.
2 comments:
My Ukrainian translation of the three poems: http://levhrytsyuk.blogspot.com/2012/07/impromptu-translation.html. :-) /L
Dyakuyu, many thanks for that!
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