Poems by David Tovy

* * *

He digged holes
in the sand
with a plastic shovel

He filled the holes
with impossible dreams
like those of children
unaccustomed to grow

Now he fills the last hole
with a falcon's stillness
frozen in mid-Journey
and buries with it his plastic shovel

The poet's chair

Here's the chair, nothing much; It's just another wood chair
among many other chairs,
in a corner of that downtown tavern.
But those who know will recognise it, will know it's the poet's chair.
And when they'll sit around the table, order drinks,
they'll be careful to leave it vacant,
out of deference, love and admiration for the old poet
who's not with us anymore.
But then there are also those who don't know,
never met or sat with the old poet,
never listened to the suave and low voice,
the laughter of an old man who had seen and know so much,
never been enthralled by the allegorical talk,
sometimes interrupted by one of his moody moments;
and among those who don't know there'll be someone,
without malice of course, someone who'll use the chair.
But such things can be endured without real sorrow;
after all the poet himself
would have suffered such sacrilege in silence.

Her beautiful innocent eyes

I went to Llona the prostitute.
We're good friends.
"Llona," I asked her, "can you tell me what is love?"
And looking at me with her innocent eyes,
her beautiful innocent eyes, she said: "you've posed me
the most difficult question, something that can't be explained,
like nature or God; but perhaps," she went on,
"perhaps love resides in the human eye."
And before I left I gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek.
And her eyes, her beautiful innocent eyes, were wet.