I. Cycle 1982-1983
A concert
The voice of the organ
Had carried me away
Into a gothic cathedral
And the Divine
Woke up in me
Penetrating my every fibre
And I was an enchanted
Speck of the atom
I was a spirit only
By spirit surrounded
I was soaring high
Or lying in catacomb
Ascetic I was
A monk
And time
Was following another orbit
Then someone bombarded the silence
With the intrusion of her hands’ clap
For me that was impossible
I was on a different map
A walk
I walk
Clothed in a dress of a perky beauty
And dolled up
On elated heels rattle
Behind me
A horny, bearded creep croaked
“Oh, sweetie pie,
I’ll eat you up!”
Who cares if my thoughts
Plough the nights
And my tongue sings in scores of languages
Tones of devoured books lose their significance
When the stronger sex clatters
His nervous fork
Training
I practice
I race in several corridors
I speed up at their far end
I don’t strike hands with the wind
I leap
Only lie has short feet
I believe
Mine are the right size
I stand in front of the mirrors
I greet the crooked ones with a stone
Then
I begin again
Memo
When the boiling water scalded me
The flange of the boiling tightened into a knot
So many things are repeated in history
Why shouldn’t I pull out my sword?
II. Cycle 1984-1985
Springtime
Pollen tickled the nostrils
And the pipe-drone sneezed
Through the sun’s bagpipe
Life’s nose sprang out
With a newborn cry
And the foliage’s dance
trembled with birds’ twitter
Triumph of Nature!
Until the fall shatters the mosaic
Of shimmering sunbeams
Summer
Bubbling sidewalks
Nearby—deaf streets
Perched on them
Snuggling benches
Torn song splashes in feet’s swing
And women carry both
Songs and drunken husbands
Smoke in step-down holes—
Throbbing musical islands
Among these
Some of those who have so much sky
That they long for a piece of shelter
Autumn
The autumn dissolved in me
In orange
Yellow
Brown
Not quite green
Not red
Indescribable
Vague
Indefinable
Like a sigh
Like a moan
Began gushing
And
Pushed by the lows of nature
Blood rushed through my veins
Maddened by the warmth of the colors
Infinitely amazed
Fully defeated
In mute delight
I stand
And I feel inside me
How
In radiant yellow
Gently
Not quite green
Not red
Indescribable
Indefinable
Vague
Like a sigh
Like a moan
Pours
The most picturesque
In his sad nobility
The most generous
For philosophers
Season
Donna Quixote
My good Rosinante left me
Resting his neck in the yoke of exhaustion
Like many other tired horses
That trot nobly
Down life’s deaf pathways
And stitching the corridors with nerve fibers
I wore out of shoes—all iron
To find a cart
Then after digging my nose from the mud underneath
I wondered whose little stone
Caused my long-faced struggle
So now I’m a rickshaw
Geared by the eternal with-no-answers questions
But I simply don’t have better choice
The rickshaw is the only conveyance
***
Well, if only I could…
Well, if only…
Well…
Bli-i-me-ey!
I made it! I could!
A day for things to be seen
The pitch-darkness
Which I often ripped with my cry
Went blind
Suddenly
The light poured from above
And a new day broke
And the songbird inside
Began fluttering so frisky
That I can’t stop my shining smile
I pinch myself—I am not dreaming
Sunrise I am feeling
The cloud that had dimmed the sun
With its shoulders within
Hissingly began crawling
The street stared at me with its arches
“Terpsichore!?!”
And I am ready
To turn myself into a crumb
To be pecked by these sparrows—
The street’s hungry branches
***
I am so tiny and small
That a drop seems huge
From you life drips away
Drop by drop
Drop
***
I was lying in the water
When you bent over the creek
Your thirst touched my lips
Did not blur my eyes
I flow in love’s stream
You drink from it
And fall asleep next to me
The shadow
The shadow swims
In ocean of tram’s shouts
I want to get off
But the sand sticks on the wet
(The tiredness of clockwork rhythm
does not bother
what is already baked)
And I put make-up on my days’ face
So as not to feel how prickly is
The colorless sand dress
Yet such is the cross of the shadow
Let it bear it
Let it
I already called the wind
And I’m drying
Gradually
***
When the glance lifts its blinds
thoughts stream down
into the tears of the woman
who chops onions
Sniffing
she soils the napkin
in which tomorrow
she’ll wrap her child’s lunch pack
A dialog with one’s three eyes
Recently I soothed my pains
Yet they got hold of me
And I walk amidst I’m-fine-how-are-you?
And among other such casual niceties
I am sad
And I know where this sadness comes from
And I pour it out on paper
Forgetting the link between gold and silence
And there
A flow of words
Extinguish the hardships
Of a fire dancer
Who gave her soles to the glowing embers
Not having right spirit within
I remember the link between gold and silence
I put away the relieving balm
In daytime—one, another, casual grin, no…
At night
I dream of Sts. Constantine and Helen
If the wine has been drunk
If the wine has been drunk
Let’s not sing praise to shortsightedness
Let’s admit: “There is no more wine!”—
(falsely clink glasses profaned by vinegar—
like a toast to a crumbling house)
If, at the table, in a silent scream
Lashes the slap of the “three-dots”…
Let us erase the last two
Let’s not turn into fish in the mud
Of whatever is coming
Do you want us
To give each other an edelweiss
And then break the glasses?
The 1985 New Year’s Eve
I wouldn’t curse even the evil
That married peace to crucifixion
To taste this chilling expectation
That cuckoo-nested in the eyes’ clock-face
Some say walls have ears
(what else could they have at this hour)
When the heels of the past flash clear
Through eyes drained by tense staring
So I leave no stone unturned
To find a clay to mold a smile
To fool the curiosity
That looks at my wet eye
God only knows in which tavern
You broke the pitcher into pieces
While crazy me
With desert throat
Was waiting for that water
In hope
Nineteen Eighty-Four
The foreheads of the dormitories grow heavier
Covered by the wing of inertia
Underneath the lowered eyelids
The eyes put on pajamas
With unmatched buttons
Tears don’t permeate one eye
The other one doesn’t shed a drop
In the early hours
Dreams tiptoe home from the tavern
In the mole’s room
The doorman jots the latecomers
Who slam through the door
Morning rustle
Whenever I feel the caress of silk—
Thinnest of cobwebs—
I let its tenderness sink in
I sway in its folds
While childish wonderment sways in me
From the crafty silkworms
From the eternity of the cocoon
From the butterfly of life
Whose oasis of colors alights on its wings
Before they wither away like a faded fall robe…
And yearning for flight
The frail shoulders
Shake off the burden of thorny sadness
And a hundred pipes soar
And I spread out my wings
Higher
And higher…
The good old boiling pot
I spring out of the fountain
In a robe of white lace
I flutter my wings—
Captives of the sky
Underneath
The grass sleeps
Tired horses do not dream of wind
Dreams do not welcome water or fire
Yet
The good old boiling pot is brewing
And the herbs in it talk to each other
III. Growing Up
***
The day—hit by a sling
Rests quietly in a starry nightgown
In the bed—a gaping precipice
In the precipice—a roaring fire
And I glow red and black
Having been all day long
Creamy-caramel-yellow
I take the chestnuts from the fire
And I jump onto the greenish-blue ship
Of the morning
1987
In such a harmonious nature
life—disordered
crudely forged
flows out—
as it should—
from a pair of eyes
in order to continue
to tickle naughty branches
that can hardly wait
to grin again
in green
1988
Verses in mourning
Remembering Chernobyl
Hunger got astride-on the shoulders—
Sunk his teeth into the slice of life
The slice—old
Crumbles like ripe wheat
The fresh bread flows into long arms
Those pregnant with utopias are so generous
But if the mothers of children with blank eyes
Abide their crosses
Let those whose children have no fingers
Poisoned in the womb
By air
Bury not their grief at home
In silence
Yet…the goddamned tram still screeches
Running over those with no blinders
1986 (One year after Chernobyl)
***
Wading through a quicksand swamp
I am trying to get out
But my strength is running out
Run
ning
ou
t
Two vultures across are chuckling
I do not despair
I do not despair
(I am already sunken to the waist)
I do not despair
I do not
de
spa
a
a
a
a
.
.
.
What death
Will come
tomorrow when enter the other land?
***
What is the last resort of a person
Hanging by one hand
On a worn-out thread of wool:
A knife
Sleeping pills
Railway
Heights
And
Depths
And most of all
A courage
To take the opportunity
Or not
1987
***
A toothpick
Teeth
Crack
Nerves
A knot
Thoughts
Gallop
Bending down
Sparkling dots
Staring at the ceiling
Nightie’s knobs
Graying hair
Subdued sounds
For the soul
For the grandsons
1987
A poem whose words I have forgotten
…… ….. …….. ….
…. ….. …….. …. ..
…. ……. ….. …… …
still my soul is pure
…. The rising down
…… … … … …..
…. …. ….. …… …
yet my soul is pure
….. … ….. …. … ….
…. … virgins of Vesta
The sun yearns for his bride
The groom—my glowing essence
1987
Wisdom
My childhood girlfriend passed away
She left a son
My six-year-old son passed away
He left a mother
My grandma is old
Often repeats
God is kind
1992
***
Night thins out
And dreams soak slowly
Into my heavy nightgown
How can I put it on tonight again
When it has imprinted all
And recalls things
Which the dawn
Wisely strives to put behind
Yet, woven whole by invocations
My robe will summon me
I’ll sing for her
And before next dark come
I’ll ask the Light
To hold me tight
1994
