<style type="text/css"> .wpb_animate_when_almost_visible { opacity: 1; }</style>

13
 
Fate’s snowstorm circles,
covers black hair with snow.
My friends memory is a carousel 
sings to me with dear voices as I go.
Paths rush from year to year
throwing before me new roads,
round the planet I try to go
and not avoid my loved ones’ thresholds.
And in every home at every window
I light a candle and decorate the walls
so that youth should not get old alone 
there, to pour friends into torn veins so that
those could slide up the arms with the blood
putting down on pages of paper
giving inspiration to the lines
in once born moments...
 
A PEBBLE’S STORY
 
The stars shoot, entice and fly, the stars don’t know why...
In a puddle on the ground the unneeded one is found.
 
No talents shine: it’s uncouth,
unremarkable, grey and smooth.
It struggles at the bottom in vain
while by day it’s kicked in the spine.
Hope and waiting
for a meeting will linger...
 
It knows the hour will come
when the heavens us too will remember.
The ringing of heels will fall silent,
the horizon will darken
and far from the bustle of eyes
the light of its star will rise!
 
Magic with its transparent light
will be mirrored in this puddle’s site
and dreaming up dreams in a swoon
it will reach to the Moon...
 
... stars shoot, fly,
captivate, stars don’t know why...
 
TO SING OF FLAME:
 
is to burn,
is to burn out,
catching the end, not feeling pain!
And so from the tips of your toes to the tips of your hair
raise a scream to a hundred voice-power.
And so to trust its disordered
sounds, 
             thuds
under rib,
under wing,
 
under the axe of the stranger…
 
Nests, trunk – all to the fire,
Ah, my head is whirling.
 
I feel a song…
 
Is this really Love?
These slippery glances,
these groans of silences
of a heart adored...
I will open my eyes.
 
I will try again 
to fuss with outfits,
to polish crowns for  us
so the door should click open
between us two.
 
Is this really Prayer?
Cold shoulders
surrounded by numb yet hot arms.
 
I blow out, I light once more 
exhausted candles,
to catch the light in shadow – 
 
Are these really eyes 
dark blue as the sea, 
their pupils’ fingers
reach to the bottomless depths.
 
I love the feel
of long dresses,
ones whose hems linger 
to catch heels.
 
Is this really a Dream?
Strange faces look strangely
how we seem to cancel each other out.
Days, nights binding blood in lines.
Headless from headaches.
 
We grow dull.
 
I’m tired, or perhaps the opposite –
unkissed mouth crammed with silence.
 
Loneliness casts off my shoulders
to feed a fateful prophecy:
sacred hands don’t shine
on the paper woman from the pen.
And if my head whirled
that means I didn’t rot in boredom…
 
Amen, I’m grateful for the full dinner,
for the good walls and roof.
I searched for a miracle for a thousand years:
I went blind – found it – and cannot see…
 
*
 
Rain drops its trails on the windowpanes,
night prophesies their sliding down them
and no one is nearby
and something tears with tatters
under the breast of the former woman,
hours remember young days,
those same ones that once
howled like a she-wolf at the full moon.
With hands in half-sleep 
to discover, wrap up, be forgotten,
in that distant country
to become princess for the prince.
 
WHITE
 
Snowed
white
and white on my heart,
signed in chalk,
clouds left tracks – white pages.
I am a line of ink – long eyelashes
and on each of your eyelashes
your letter – a snowflake.
I drew outside
little white pictures with white snow,
with a man.
The snowstorm will dance,
feather thread,
I shake my eiderdown,
swan winter 
is building now in my breast
ice houses,
paints a colourful woman
in white to white, a white colour.
If you wish I’ll copy myself
and give you the portrait,
and on it:
white, so white, a white page.
I am a line in ink – long eyelashes.
 
11
 
Under the layer of make-up of the slender skin
to breathe in the fragrance with an effort,
desire can get lost
when no one enjoys it.
 
A smile, salted with a tear,
makes others’ hearts happy,
an overgrown mistake in the chest
interminably eating away with its roots.
 
Hand over the scissors and the bodkin
to cut  – excise – and shape
all that is, all that was,
for all that was a lesson.
 
ANDALUCIAN GYPSY WOMAN
 
Strike – feel
hurricane of heels,
over eyes, lips,
hands on hips.
 
Flows silver
over breast and ribs
like a river.
Wild mouth
sings out…
Over fingers, veins,
castanets reign.
Again she yearns over
him who doesn’t yet burn her.
 
Just to light a fire…
 
Another attempt…
 
do you remember how on the floor
heels in blood beat out for more!
 
FLAMENCO
 
Scratched my breast!
Teased my thoughts with its comb.
Somewhere hovering above the earth. . .
a beautiful essence.
 
Dress weeps –breathes passion,
passion groans under heels.
What lost happiness
is up your sleeve?
 
You tousle the night 
in the shameless colour red.
Do you remember, you sought out
a pair of arms in a stranger’s arms…
 
Do you remember an alien bonfire –
Ah.
Time for heart to firewood,
how my head whirled…
 
My heels beat out raw memory
so that it never again dared wound.
I beat it out in a hurricane
to cast my Wounds into oblivion.
 
Scratched my breast!
Teased my thoughts with its comb.
Somewhere hovering above the earth . . . 
 
 
 
 
To remember
line after line,
the danced out dance, 
the rhythmical rhyme?
To steal…
Memory of resounding moments?
 
I acknowledged then wiped from my face
the damp impression
of the Muse who’s visited.
It seems I can endlessly
sing of these bonds
of mine and this maiden,
but I don’t want to.
As king and Petrushka in the hall
to make money and drown the people:
I didn’t climb onto the stage for these,
I didn’t test out my voice for them.
I’ll run away
from the bazaar trill:
to where they couldn’t manage to shit me out,
those who drank and ate me
for twenty long-tailed weeks.
 
 
 
Clouds into clouds – in a cloud
of oblivion, tearing off from the earth,
wings hold where legs could not.
And to Him Himself into nowhere
for moments that are years,
leaving after me –
oh my God.
 
67
 
‘Where is your king?’ I  asked her.
‘Where is your paradise? I can’t see it.’
 
‘I will weave him a tunic,
only I haven’t enough thread.’
 
68
 
Eyes are naughty,
wrinkles cry.
Dreams, hopes, thoughts gallop 
Who means what and why?
And in her tiny skull there’s not enough space,
for a third,
that she has to face.
 
Hair falls out – the leaf is autumnal,
but it hovered in spring’s memory eternal.
 
Her eyelashes flash
again in the mist.
to the right hand of a stranger.
She will wake,
and when she will wake
she’ll be older.
 
SERENADE TO THE SEA
 
I long for
your salty lips...
 
for the slipping of foamy fingers,
for the penetration of skin in them
and deeper in blood the scream in the heart...
 
For eternity! For just a moment!
 
My sigh is in your depth,
in my breast is your whisper…
 
The flowing together of two moist hearts into one.
 
I sank to the depths at the altar,
                                 to farewell…
 
DIALOGUE
 
She:
    My lips were sealed – I didn’t speak a word,
    I’ll greet you with a glance. . .
He:
    You see we smiled at fate again
    and now we’re together. . .
    I waited for you.
She:
    I searched everywhere.
    Calluses ate my eye sockets.
He:
    I am so tired it hurts. . . 
She:
    My darling I’m so tired I feel no pain. . .
    Do you know – I put so many candles
    by the battened down widows. . .
He:
    Let me cover your slender shoulders
    and kiss your curls.
    Soon we’ll forget those roads
    that drove us out of our minds.
    Presenting us with strange thresholds
    they led us into houses. . .
She:
    I leant my head on
    so many doorways
    believing I’d find a new You!
    At nights over the earth
    by the light of the Pole Star I flared
    so that in the dark of burnt up hope
    your look should not be extinguished.
He:
    You are even now that star as before,
    only stars burn like that.
 
TO THE ARTIST
 
Can I tell you about yourself...
 
A strange wanderer away from her home,
for a minute, a moment, I was carried away by the wind.
I’ll listen and you tell me
what our craft means
today –
to go naked? To bare the heart?
To wake and wake up – rubbed eyelids.
All this without beginning or end
and we are all only human beings!
 
I will listen and you sing without songs,
casting light spells over time
your little ray kisses others’ dreams
on the canvases, granting them immortality.
 
Why words – you’re far beyond these sounds,
more bright than your own icons hanging here.
In heart beats and bitches you cherish
and torment your groan, drowned in wine, utterly sober.
 
TO THE CASPIAN 
 
Oh for an inch of blue sea,
for just enough to go through the eye of a needle!
O. Mandelstam
 
Without you – this summer is lonely…
I rushed around the wide world,
in the tracks of sounded-out poets,
stirring in my little skull
 
that which breathes...
 
As in your young-grey kisses,
in the whelming foam of sounding hair,
I slid in dreams – I got properly drunk,
I groaned from happiness in a hundred voices,
 
without screaming
 
and it seemed in the captured moment
you will hear in a distant land
my voice becoming foolish from longing,
my voice with which I sing
 
of the salty, shy little toes
drawn down to the very sea bed.
I drowned in you so long ago
in a sea story for boys…
 
but today
 
in the misty, cherished land,
having flown over a strange shore
I whisper to the oceans of now
that I will run off to the sea king.