make love, not film

too much of february
in a part of me
rings beneath my eyes
like pools

but outside the window
they cut grass for the second time

I want that smell
to wave me into
swaths

By Ingmara Balode

I



The Sun runs whichever round around the house.

The Time gradually shortens the distance.



As the house went smaller,

We moved in the warmest of our rooms.



The self-righteous air of the season

Got all the summer cookies eaten

And sipped all the honey

From the whiteblossom nettles.



The window took for himself the sport shoes

dropped by the Sun



II



You know by which side i stand

Even if it’s dark and the eyes closed

You say:

Love - it is when your hands

does not yell at nights.

If you stop shouting out loud

You’ll hear as the light

Touches the birches




by Ingmara Balode

From Riga
looking rough
looking fragile

It's cold extremely
it's cold extremely
March
sneering moon
my belonging to this place -
fine small decaying parks
Gothic treetops
sprightly bridges
unheated stations

to clenched teeth
edges of waves
their architectural spite

our talking is rough
icebulges on the path

by Ingmara Balode

Now the hornbeams throw flames in my face.
Shadows.
No boats go fishing today.

Sit.
A storm is gathering at the horizon.
You’re stringing bunches and beads
of rowan- and chokeberries.
Warm your hands.

I could tell you
(the Summer is over)
but that’s what
You know

@Ingmara Balode
Translated by Jānis Elsbergs

he symbolic spiral of time -
yours ours - has rusted
it hisses
in the fire

bursts of machinegun fire
I don't know what it's like
here we have just
news

by Ingmara Balode