May 2015
I am a student at the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA Program, where I study poetry and translation. My work was selected in a contest hosted by Missouri State University Press to be included in the anthology Proud to Be: Writing by American Warriors,
(volume 3). My poetry and translations have appeared in Cardinal Sins, Boston Thought, Malpais Review and many other joutnals, both online and print.
(volume 3). My poetry and translations have appeared in Cardinal Sins, Boston Thought, Malpais Review and many other joutnals, both online and print.
Silent Documentary
Outside the night is frigid.
Frigid,
as totalitarian states.
All the train’s rushing steel
is also frigid.
Rows of naked bodies
shot in the forehead
stretched out on their backs—
stare at me
from the pit.
Soldiers sipping flasks.
My throat swells
stuffed with tissue paper.
In the countryside,
darkness stands at attention.
Baled hay, hayforks, thatch-roofed barns
meld into it—
My dim, observing shadow
melds into it, too.
Along the tracks at breakneck speed
Some silent, hidden cargo coasts.
Perhaps some woolen trench coats.
Perhaps a tank.
Perhaps a herd of cattle,
those lost, contented breathers.
Farewell to Krakow
Sun’s force over the city square—
Café umbrellas shielded businessmen,
elderly couples sipping coffee,
the bustling servers scurrying all around.
It’s easy to imagine—
I, too, could have stayed,
could have earned a living teaching English.
Demonstrators swamped
the cobblestone, mixed
with riot cops
and teargas canisters.
Church bells tolled.
I heard the trumpet’s blast that welcomed
every Krakow hour, hours
that could not be stemmed.
I know—
I, too, am not allowed
to look back anymore.
Please let those innumerable working girls go about
untroubled, satisfied,
on the corners of the seedy districts—
Let their necks smell sweet
of early, Carolina nectarines.
As long as they can stand to smell sweet.
The crowd—
a quickly thrown-together choir−
began to chant,
hoarsely, wildly,
to me,
to the colossal clock.
I left, anyway,
the tower ticking the countdown
to a postponed flight.
Outside the night is frigid.
Frigid,
as totalitarian states.
All the train’s rushing steel
is also frigid.
Rows of naked bodies
shot in the forehead
stretched out on their backs—
stare at me
from the pit.
Soldiers sipping flasks.
My throat swells
stuffed with tissue paper.
In the countryside,
darkness stands at attention.
Baled hay, hayforks, thatch-roofed barns
meld into it—
My dim, observing shadow
melds into it, too.
Along the tracks at breakneck speed
Some silent, hidden cargo coasts.
Perhaps some woolen trench coats.
Perhaps a tank.
Perhaps a herd of cattle,
those lost, contented breathers.
Farewell to Krakow
Sun’s force over the city square—
Café umbrellas shielded businessmen,
elderly couples sipping coffee,
the bustling servers scurrying all around.
It’s easy to imagine—
I, too, could have stayed,
could have earned a living teaching English.
Demonstrators swamped
the cobblestone, mixed
with riot cops
and teargas canisters.
Church bells tolled.
I heard the trumpet’s blast that welcomed
every Krakow hour, hours
that could not be stemmed.
I know—
I, too, am not allowed
to look back anymore.
Please let those innumerable working girls go about
untroubled, satisfied,
on the corners of the seedy districts—
Let their necks smell sweet
of early, Carolina nectarines.
As long as they can stand to smell sweet.
The crowd—
a quickly thrown-together choir−
began to chant,
hoarsely, wildly,
to me,
to the colossal clock.
I left, anyway,
the tower ticking the countdown
to a postponed flight.
©2015 Domenic J. Scopa