The Works of Paul Sohar

Paul Sohar got to pursue his life-long interest in literature full time when he went on disability from his day job in a chemistry lab. The results have slowly showed up in Chiron, Grain, Homestead Review, International Poetry Review, Kenyon Review, Main Street Rag, Poem, Poesy, Poetry Motel, Rattle, Slant,Wordwrights, etc, and seven books of translations from the Hungarian, but now a volume of his own poetry, Homing Poems, is available from Iniquity Press.


All Poems © Paul Sohar


Read Paul's Translations from the Hungarian of  Sándor Kányádi by clicking here



Sunflower Voices


Had enough,
no fight left in me.
I bow my head.
Summer's almost over,
and still the same thing.
Sun's as far off as ever.


Tired of sun's breath,
the overbearing smile.
To hell with it.


Too late now.
When rain comes I'll be
too stiff to lift my face.


Not hiding my face,
only not showing it.
It's the same as the others'.


My neck bent,
the blade will feel
like a relief.


Dropped a leaf or two.
Watching them turn to dust
in the dust.


I shall sing no more.
Turning to the ground
I'll listen to its song.


Don't know about the others.
Can't see them
with my head bent down.



The Myth of the Landlord


Forget the dripping faucet, the broken window with
scotch tape over the cracks,
forget the wild drafts and waves of choking
chasing one another all over the building…


I have bigger issues with the Management,
but I'm tired of having to deal with flunkies, their smirks
sending me to the super who fails to return my prayers,
and his doorbell only activates another answering machine…


And the Management?
Some say they're on a legendary gated island with no extradition treaty,
my certified supplications to them are returned as undeliverable, and some
say the Landlord is nothing but a myth perpetrated by the Management and
their henchmen, the super and his flunkies, always with their hands out…


Where can I take my issues? The cracks in the walls,
the dangerous tilt of the building's axis,
the desertification of the lobby,
the rat urine trickling from the sockets,
and the nuclear bombs transported in the elevator?


Today it's the lack of hot water, but tomorrow we may run out of water
altogether… and air, too… Yes, dirty as it is we still breathe it in,
but what about tomorrow?
Will the ruins trap enough air for the survivors?
I'm taking up archeology. Maybe our remains will give us a clue
as to why we are in this building in the first place
and whether it was indeed the Landlord who built it
according to an intelligent design that already included
pre-planned self-destruction in the blueprint.