Ana Pepelnik

Something scared the butterflies.
While they are sitting around tender flowers
nervously sipping something sweet for breakfast
I am cold. An orange-brown butterfly scrambles
on the little finger of my left leg. I don't know whose
heart is pulsing faster. I don't even know if butterflies
have a heart. It is all sensibility. Of flowers.
Of butterflies. Of people. That’s why you are moved
by every sound and in some extended moment
of coziness you could remember the donkey
with gloomy white-rimmed eyes. He was
searching a piece of shadow and quietness together
with you. Though a few crates of coca cola were
hanging off his back he was lighter than me. Relaxed.
Accustomed. While I couldn't stop thinking about
really how many people are in this world. Maybe
that's why the butterfly was sitting on me. So we
could hold our hearts together and stop trembling.
So we could rest in the donkey's shadow and draw
some white circles on the sun and postpone it
on others. To get accustomed. And drink coca cola.

Translated by Matthew Zapruder & author.

Today the world gets on my nerves.
People are overstrained
like buds on a cherry tree.
If I write down that I am alone
I mean that. I illustrate bad a poem
with music between my fingers.
All of a sudden the world is ok.
The slush was gone through the night
and sparrows are having breakfast.
I want another postcard
with a few lines about how it is
with other people in other towns.

Translated by Matthew Zapruder & author.

So far things
are named.
Assigned
like in the poetry
of Adrienne Rich
in 1971.
In their thin harmony
they represent
a world which
doesn’t exclude me.
Like the tulip
under the window.
It got unfolded
in the moment
when I saw
the rain
and think of
duties
which after all
I couldn’t put aside.
That
kept me calm.
Tulip
with shriveled
leaves
and harmony
in things around me.
Which was
here ever since.

Translated by Matthew Zapruder & author.

for Joshua Beckman
I
Incomplete dreams. And easy
morning. Towels are spinning. The pinwheel
is dappled. Incomplete morning.
And easy dreams. Trash men are clearing
glass cans. This is morning pinwheel.
Quite improper for incomplete
dreams. Mist. Leftovers of rain on oxeyes
and chrysanthemums. Close to beginning of November.
First smell of winter. Easy trash men.
Dappled rain and incomplete flowers.
Improper November. It always begins with
trash men and ventilated coats.
Close to beginning. First smell of November
of ventilated rain. Incomplete dreams.

II
Red van full of forget-me-nots slides
over streets. I’m still trying to find your poem.
I don’t give name to streets. I share them
with people from this town. Red van
full of forget-me-nots. Still. Trying to find
your poem. Red airplane landing on
airport of red town. Blue forget-me-nots.
I never remember airports. I don’t run after
red airplane. Too much of forget-me-nots. Your
poem. Sliding. Van full of streets. Clown
sitting behind the wheel. Red van in front of red
fire station. Sky growing out of red house.
Blue forget-me-nots. Your poem. I share it
with people from this town. Red sky growing out of house.

III
Boats are distant. Rain was falling until
they were swept away. Now we peel chestnuts.
Roasted shells are little boats.
When they are soaking you can hear cracking
coming out of dried ones. Boats are distant.
How many people do you think still use firewood
in town? Not many.
All I do is move. And peel
chestnuts. From one station to another. Sometimes
I say more than usual in one day.
Firewood emits enough heat. Sometimes
I listen pipes cracking until
I fall asleep. Sometimes people are in the rain.
Until they start crying.

Translated by Matthew Zapruder & author.

It was seven in the morning and I
was watching the coffee bean. I put it
beside the rolling papers on the windowsill.
Every bean and every rolling paper
should have a view of the sky.
Yet so small. It will get crushed
anyway. Dust sprinkles
with the speed of the sunlight and it catches
in the nook of an eye. You could remove it
with a hanky. In my case the smell
of the coffee was left over there. And
ended in a pocket mixed with mint. Slightly
crumpled but right on time. For the end
of a cheap movie with happy ending.
Someone brought green tangerines
and they were sweet. And because I know
I am peeling one in the name of walking into
the fictional woods where looking at some
rotten logs I murmur:
if the peel of fruit (in this case sweet
green tangerine) is an illusion – tangerine
is nearly an experience. And even tangerine
was once a bean. If I left it on the window

it has all possibilities to become orange. We are
connected with longing for light. And speed. Some
of it catches in the windowpane and shines through
us. Tiny glimmering bodies sitting around on the window
sill. All so tiny green & still under the moving airplane.

Translated by Matthew Zapruder & author.