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New Poems in Maltese, Slovenian and English

Some of my poems have been translated into Maltese by Nadja Mifsud and Slovenian by Jana Putrle Stric for the first time. Young British writer James Vella has translated three of my recent poems into English. Here is one of them:


we need a single bed (I guess 80 cm is enough)

a small airport (for the living room)

a 1:100 model of hell (my place there is guaranteed anyway)

a garden full of untrimmed plants (this is for the kitchen)

we also need an old cuckoo clock: we have more than enough time to waste

a broken radiator: it seems we cannot save the world; it can symbolize this

a secret nook: so I can leave notes to you if I die

and a polygraph machine: so that I can take tests all the time, hah.

a trust machine: we collect it and hand it out by Yeni Cami

a worry machine: it can wipe clean our post­work blues

an envy machine: it could spice up our cooking

a fear machine: we hug each other like two dust particles that collide in the air

a guilt machine: we already keep each other warm; there’s no need for this

a child machine: as a height marker for every living being occupied by learning

a time machine: after visiting our first date we deliver gifts to our future selves

and then we come back to our own kingdom

present time machine: mirror mirror on the wall, tell me

a slave machine: we clean up after ourselves

a nail polish machine: an exception, for you

a sleep machine: we write essays on a glass of water at your bedside

a tranquility machine: the rabbit I pulled out of the hat

a joy machine: coin operated

a ticket machine: a travel bag too full to close and your nakedness winking at me in the mirror

A machine machine: a postcard to celebrate the complexity of nature

A polygraph machine: we can connect each other and watch the universe from a bird’s eye view

A you­-machine:

it could measure the amount of purple in an unfinished painting

or beep when my feet touch the seabed swimming back in

we’re in no rush, it could keep stirring the tea

or perhaps arrange a date you’ll be late for, so I can enjoy waiting for you

you, (as a dream of a Platonist) who remains you as years pass

you, the repetition that floods in fast­flowing rivers (thanks to the good fortune of a Marxist)

you, a drill bit into my thoughts

you, a black box of what I have lived

what is important in a house?

we don’t even need happiness

just the rattling of a baby

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