Twenty two blackbirds moving together
across the scorched grass like an unknown language
in a stranger’s mouth, connected by something wholly
extraneous, incalculable. What would someone
who understands these things say, is this a dream
of distant places you crave, or something
that’s already happened, long ago, while you, again,
looked somewhere else? Remember: that little boy
who, tiptoeing next to a seaside telescope,
when the eyelids on the other side lift, is still
hearing the coin falling through the stiff guts,
picturing its pirouetting while it cries click-clack.
And afterwards recalls forever only the father
saying look, look, and the lump of green iron
smelling of door handles.
(Translated by Igor Klikovac and John McAuliffe)
Igor Klikovac is a Bosnian poet living in London where he works as a journalist. Stockholm Syndrome, a selection from his third collection, translated by Klikovac and McAuliffe, is just out from Smith|Doorstop.
