Borce Panov

Rookie (27.09.1967 / Radovish, Republic of Macedonia)

Nostalgic Electrocardiogram ....Between Two Electronic Beats I Listened To My Father's Heart An Electrocardiogram Of Memories Which For A Long Time Was Knocking On My Door In The - Poem by Borce Panov

Nostalgic Electrocardiogram

....Between two electronic beats
I listened to my father's heart
an electrocardiogram of memories
which for a long time was knocking on my door
in the empty hallway of cardiology...
....A glass whistle on the balcony..

like a little sand grain
was pushed from the edge of a chessboard
hanging on a beam of light,

Why mother was unable to ask about him..
....Through the glass chess pieces
transparent player's hands
enlarged by the light of hope
played with black figures of shadows
in front of the draw of life and death...
...a younger man next to me
feverishly said to his wife:
-Daddy...wants to return home alive..
Then I saw an old proud man
with a wrinkle on his forehead peaceful as calm water
and reflection of The Divine's scale

in which departures and returns
were in reconciled balance with love...
....And every move of the shadows
was digging my contracted pupils
and deep down into my childhood on Voznik-
Voznik- times in no time,
with three arrows carved in the rock,
detour to the softness of a penny bun
and we don't see flocks, and bells in the fog

....There is a treasure buried
like fire in the mountain
and all roads to it are in the dark
but one goat sidewalk through me-
Am I taking the road through the dark?
....Mist,
father and I from mushroom to mushroom
heading higher into the mountains' mist
and, at once, slipped into heaven's pocket-
surrounded by abandoned walls wrapped in shining ivy
we heard a playful child's laughter,

and in the stream- shirt of trout,
and springs and estuaries unknown in us..
...With backpacks full of sunshine
and coiled grafts in our glances
we are gasping under dry rowan
collecting drought in our souls-
Amid the shade I am seeing rattlesnake
like a nest in the middle of poison,
boundless coil...
I am tossing her into a haze-
the mountain squealed
nostalgia bit me...
....I am squeezing a piece of a white pebble in my palm

and eternal water flowing around me
and I can't
respond to the echo of my father-
who between two electronic beats is calling,
is calling from nostalgia..

Borce Panov


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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, November 29, 2011



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