Syrniki
I walk in thick azucar couched in these I wash my hands
the world red like paint leather chairs, the white seats with the pure clean
crushed onto a blank canvas bring a certain comfort, a pillow desensitized water
in thick crusted acrylic of sun for me to nestle upon briefly the white sink
the soldiers pass me a hay-bale which can be cut in half with its cool ceramic tiles
under a red haze I wonder and dug with a fork, papier mâché and the soap
how I'll get free from this red storm glue oozing from within, I guess that comes out
the snail's pace you could call that a pancake like white snow
the red womb that creams within
of slow time what we call comfort your hands
spent on a summer's evening is really a moment's pleasure how can we not
every man is an artist a squeeze of lemon zest in the mouth feel alone sometimes?
when he brushes jam with a baker's syringe, a pastry's-worth cleansed, white, a stream
on a piece of toast of filling, allowing us to pad the world of dispigment
his palette knife oozing with pillows, big white marshmallows a plain piece of paper
the sugary acid which melt in the mouth, foam filling an artist's dream
onto a blank page polystyrene lozenges for us washed with the chemicals
find me a world that is blank, however they use to make toilet paper
this street is packed with somber eyes I dream of bouncy castles a sour flavour
people pass through large white sofas to hop upon in the mouth
the acrylic glass memories that cannot be recreated that clings
of crystalline sugar like the first time you felt waffle mix to the upper palette
with long steps elapse on your tongue, padded out and makes us clean it
I must avoid this red rain you can almost fill your adulthood with the tip of our tongue
that pitter patters along the street with enough pillows and plushies till we all turn as white
I'll duck inside this coffee shop to keep the inner-child quiet as a 99 flake
What the Poet Says
This poem explores the experience of eating syrniki in a lonely coffee shop in Lviv. Syrniki are a traditional Ukrainian food which is usually eaten for breakfast, made from jam, cheese pancakes and sour cream. The poem attempts to capture the loneliness of an empty coffee shop in a country at war, when there are no customers. It also draws on the personal thoughts of the poet, who feels lost in another country far from home.
Hector Wood is a poet from Norwich, UK. He recently travelled to Ukraine to find out what life was like 4 years after the full-scale Russian invasion. His upcoming collection, 8 poems, frames his observations in Ukraine through a variety of different shapes.