I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
-- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

HOW COULD I HAVE DOUBTED

I stopped looking for you
I stopped waiting for you
I stopped dying for you
and I started dying for myself
I aged rapidly
I became fat in the face
and soft in the gut
and I forgot that I’d ever loved you
I was old
I had no focus, no mission
I wandered around eating and buying
bigger and bigger clothes
and I forgot why I hated
every long moment that was mine to fill
Why did you come back to me tonight
I can’t even get off this chair
Tears run down my cheeks
I am in love again
I can live like this

***

Viņai bija divdesmit seši gadi vīrs
un sudraba tamburīns Viņa lūdz
lai es to uzrakstu cik iespējams vienkārši:
kā viņa atdevās zemei un dzemdēja
kapenes kurās brīvi lidinās mīlestība
kā viņa alkst sirdsmalē ieraudzīt
kaut vienu vienīgu ēnu ar cilvēcisku
mūžības seju bet neviens nekad tur
nav bijis Kā viņa naktīs pārvēršas
grieķu vāzē un saplīst un viņas gaudas
kāpj debesīs kā mazi Dieva doti auskariņi
Viņa vēlas lai es pasveicinu to zvēru
kas izkāpa no jūras ar septiņām galvām:
sarkanas lūpas melnas acis un zieģelis
sirds vietā Un atmiņas zudums un
piesta no skuju smaržām lai nospiestu
iekšējo asarošanu: spurdz gaisos!
izzūdi priekā! Patiesībā viņa cer
ka nav nekādu cerību mīlēt Tā
viņa tur stāv kaut kur Tas ir
tik vienkārši

Andris Akmentiņš
Neciešamā dziesma

Dziesmu par mīlestību tu klausies
Tik skaistu ka izturēt nespēj neviens
Lūk pirmajās rindās jau aizspiež ausis
No pēdējām rindām jau projām skrien
( tālāk )

Inga Gaile

***

Tā arī dzīvojam,

Ierakušies savās šallēs un paģirās —

Aizsargā mūs

No visa ļauna,

Uzceļu ap sevi es sētu no zelta, no bailēm,

No maizes ar desu, no kauna,

Tā arī dzīvojam,

Nenāc klāt,

Un neprasi,

Tā arī dzīvojam,

Sēžam ar saviem skaistajiem dibeniem —

Lai palaiž tas vīrietis, tas taču viņa darbs,

Nelaidīšu, es esmu noguris, vai šitā kuce zina,

Kā ir strādāt visu nakti un pēc tam vēl

Nedabūt, nedabūt, nospļauties,
( ... tālāk ... )