Petr Borkovec for Ukraine

THE POETIC RESIDENCE OF PETER BORKOVEC 

“How can I imagine you there?” you write me to Bukovina. “You would like all those mute timid dogs on the streets and passages," I write evasively from Bukovina. One of them, slender with long legs and light brown wirehair, I track here for you: it lies in the sun in front of the cinema – which used to be a synagogue – during the day, and at night it sleeps in a flowerbed in the middle of the square, in front of the pale blue town hall. Curled-down, his head touchingly immersed deep in the frost-covered dahlias. You would feel sorry for him. You would be scared here. I don't write that anymore. You'd probably be scared here. I live next to the main boulevard, named after a female writer. The boulevard is nice, wide and paved, from the times when Czernowitz was part of the monarchy; you can get Lviv chocolate and coffee and Viennese coffee and roasted chestnuts here. But it is so dimly lit; after five o’clock, when it is getting dark, it is nearly dark between the repaired facades, people hurrying quietly, and there are not many of them. When I turn into the narrow streets that lead to my apartment, I find myself in another city. It's night here and yet, there are more people than up there by the cafes; they stand between the houses and in passages, in front of shops which are so dim that they look closed. The houses are entered from passages and underpasses that are intricately interconnected. It is so lively in that black tangled network: groups of old men are smoking here, schoolchildren and students are hanging out, women are sitting here with their huge crammed bags. There's a linden tree in my passage that touches the dirty windows and the walls without plaster. People often sing here (ten to fifteen people and candles). At the back, there are containers with no lids, overflowing with rubbish. There are people standing there all the time, eating. The house is always unlocked, the hallway is not lit, there is stacked old furniture in the hallway and somewhere behind there is a dead animal – that sweet smell is unbearable. I stand here smoking for hours, watching and sometimes I light someone’s cigarette; this is probably how you can imagine me here. 

Chernivtsi 2014