Two Poems by Ronan Hyacinthe

 

THE STREAM

 And the music’s now deepened the night, giving some life to those
picturesque streets. Their hands, their fondling, after the bustling of
the day. The posters that we stuck, the leaflets that we gave ⎯ his
gait!
 Because it is you, so quickly very fond, I’ve always wanted you.
 The warmness of the air is soothing my limbs. You know me,
ought to know me, that halo over there…
 Your hand, your holding my face: like the river’s running gleams
when you take me in your mouth.
 Because the streetlight on the walls make me pine for your skin…
 When I’m alone, when you take me. Listen − I’m lost −, it’s those
drums from Iran already being played…
 ⎯ his gait.
 Last night, all the colours would harmlessly dance in the warmth of
the air. He went down the pit ⎯ I’d’ve liked to. But perhaps won’t
she fancy again − and we’ll talk a bit more.. − to leave the top rows…
 ⎯ now, hold me tighter so I feel that I’m here. I’m lost, alone: he
may not come back!
 The silence in our flat with our books on the shelves. That silence!
in our flat when I come back at night.
 We’ll move together to that town by the sea.
 But all its timbre had your voice at her house − hold me −, with the
tinkling of the plates, that wine, and this mindset of yours I have
always liked…
 There: those brothers it seemed who sought our advice for a ticket.
Have they found an extra in the town hall? At the market?

 

THE NARROW

 The other way I looked indeed.
  For there’s nothing more revolting than those morbid
gatherings. That voyeurism! The putrid relief it still wasn’t them
  ⎯ to the oranges’ curves enhanced by the sun…
  And I growled, threaded my way! Through their comments,
craven thinking ⎯ by the tomatoes’ greens, the peaches’ velvety
skin…
  But biting my lips, that light of the day. His nodding assent to
what I’ve just said. I walked, I stumbled ⎯ I went!
  The bottom of this glass shaping my hand…
  Your turn… My friend…
  Few things will ever change, here. Perhaps other postcards will
be pinned on the wall − that breeze, Paul’s shop that is now
selling clothes −, but the tables will always be set, like that, there
will always be the clinking of these plates, that breeze on my face,
or the glistening of this bar after it’s being wiped
 ⎯ it could’ve been an old man, my friend.
  A little bit deaf or just crossing the street…
 My turn…
  They are tasty: a façade tiled in blue that was glittering at the
side of a weathering one ⎯ my friend. Or this chair pulled a bit
by these glasses on an edge almost empty. He must be shattered.
That cloud. With his wife who’s deceased though Malcolm didn’t
stir. Your silence…

 To stretch out in turn − your turn − our hands to the corn
grains. Picking them with our tips − my turn −, the tomatoes’
greens.
 Those buggers are here. This glass in my hand, her velvety
skin… They’ll grumble again if we raise the TV.
 At the top of the street − here comes one more game −, that
blind man with his stick, selling tickets for the lottery.
  I turned, they’ll deafen us all…
  Some cobbles jutting out and the tufts in between. Indian men
gathered round already in short sleeves. It’s true, the peach
season’s come. The dominoes in the park, their taste on my lips…
  William may put chairs right in front if we ask like last year.
  Samuel is quickly getting out but to have a smoke.

 

After studying philosophy both in London and Paris, Ronan Hyacinthe began to write in Rome. He now works in Lisbon. Some of his poems and haikus have appeared in american, online magazines.