A Bowl With Tears
Silently, nimbly, effortlessly,
Inkpen with thin ending
Gently scratching and sketching the feelings,
at the bottom of nothing
of the bowl of tears.
Full, complete, beautiful,
and nothing more to say,
drop by drop collection from the falling rain.
Bottomless bowl
with a sieve ending of scratches
endless collection let’s say.
Full, completely full and prstine
small lake in a rounded palm,
Settled, calm and quiet like a falling rain.
Looking again in that mirror
I see my heart,
washed again and again,
washed and empty with pain.
Irina Kassabova
Spill
Spill, the imprint from the bottom of the cup of coffee
on my brown working jeans.
dust particles fallen,
remind me of Horton,
something fragile
I am not going to say “we are” or what 'n' where,
as if my favorite coffee spills will vanish forever.
White dust from my dusty hair,
something dies, something revives...
Another spot, a spill, I don't know
from what and where, a little bit darker-
concentrated, listen carefully.
My eyesight is moving down further inside,
down the road, the brown on my cloth-covered leg.
White flowers on a black grass,
I reached my soul and my socks on flowers on the bottom.
Something makes me more sensitive,
feeds the air- the rhymes.
The spill, half circle of japanese brush,
something spontaneous like a wash,
squishing in the brown background
of the cinnamon shade of the rust,
is whispering something velveteen.
Chestnut, brown, red wood, burnt umber.
My coffee is hot forgotten
on some of my spots at home.
Some bitterness...
Washing machine rumbling,
quiet invisible voice.
The poetry is over.
The spills, they disappeared.
Irina Kassabova
Craquelure
(About a Violin)
Dark dye
Varnish viscous
Dry paint
Underneath
Smooth the surface
Second time
With dye
Layers ties
Dull color
Ancient call
Layers, secrets
Craque the code
Irina Kassabova