Poetry Jorge Leiva

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: JORGE LEVIA

Jorge Leiva is from South Spain and lived in Ireland for over eight years. Some of his work has appeared in Skylight 47 Magazine, The Galway Advertiser, Drawn to the light press, Headstuff.org, Dodging the Rain, 2 Meter Review, Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis and The Waxed Lemon. In 2019 he was long listed in the Over the Edge New Writer of the Year competition.

Single Apartment

Like in a doll house, everything is minimal around here. Yet, large enough for spiders who refuse to share the rent.

A coffee maker that makes one cup at the time. A chopping board where two carrots are multitude.

The sofa gets crowded when I sit on it. Items clash with each other in delightful harmony.

The neighbour’s cat sneaks in, through the half opened window, only to run away when he sees me.

When the wind knocks not so gently at the door, I lose my sleep and think of a poem.

On occasions, I forget to lock the door unconsciously.

Hoping you’ll call in unannounced, inviting yourself for late supper.

(Jorge Leiva)

Vacation

Everything measured beforehand. Our needs estimated in doses and small bottles.

We sleep in borrowed beds with white sheets and harder pillows than our own.

Every morning things are redone by sleight of hand.

Fresh towels folded, beds made without a wrinkle. The piece of paper that had fallen to the floor the day before now back on the table.

Even the rain sounds different when you are away. And the sun feels warmer though it’s the same sun.

Back to our apartment, Look! It has shrunk further.

The cracking floor board is still cracking The dripping sink tap keeps on dripping. The unhinged door has lost another screw.

The wrapping on the floor has stubbornly decided to remain there.

And the mouldy spot on the bathroom wall taking advantage of master’s absence has grown bigger.

(Jorge Leiva)

Prayer

Dear Lord, We thank you for the war. For keeping it running, for giving us more.

Bless the acid rain, the fire and the smoke. Bring us tear gas and the nuclear bomb.

May the rich have bread and the poor a Kalashnikov. Let us inherit a kingdom of debris. with a cancerous cough.

Dear Lord, we implore, who are we fighting for? Not that it matters as long as the economy grows.

This is the real nature, after all of the business of the war. How far things can go till the machine stops?

Dear Lord, we ignore what is right or wrong. Who is friend and who is foe.

For oh Lord you are a hard one to please, but we blindly believe It is only through the war we will find the peace.

(Jorge Leiva)