Peycho Kanev


There are a few things

that I’ll remember forever and

even after that:

a girl who

wakes me up with a coffee glass

full to the brim with shadows,


and afterwards we drink in silence;

the iron door of an old house

banging in the wind, in my childhood,

not giving me

a chance to sneak inside,

and the painter in front of the white canvas,

preparing to paint all of this,

but somehow, I always beat him to it.


Dying is the most normal

thing to do at the end.

Finally the charcoal inside

the heart will become

a diamond,

(only diamonds can cut

other diamonds)

while thin layers of rock

pile up over it (and over us).

There’s nothing to cry


Thin sun rays pass through

the table as needles and

through the thick glass of

the bottle turning the wine

into vinegar.

When Winter Comes…

The sky –

another kind of sky

and so is the light seeping

over here

above the plains covered

in snow –

like a sheet of plain white paper,

there lies the evening town

where we are fed up with the dark,

where the tracks in the snow

lead to nowhere.

Now try to picture my house,

blanketed in whiteness,

lost somewhere in time,

and me –

somewhere inside the winter and

inside the red red wine.

Published 1-22-18

Peycho Kanev is the author of 4 poetry collections and two chapbooks, published in the USA and Europe. His poems have appeared in many literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Front Porch Review, Hiram Poetry Review, Hawaii Review, Barrow Street, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, Sierra Nevada Review, The Cleveland Review and many others.