Category: poetry

* Mnemosyne *

I wasn’t trying to tell you that that Saturday afternoon is the best a day could ever be
But I really couldn’t help.
I don’t know how to put it all together,
But can only heave through all the telltales, 
All the sadnesses and fulfills.
But I also know that drizzle;
I collected for you the earthy wetness after a sparkling breeze
And another time captured an early river gauche
Then turned the ordinary morning to a new wave scene.
I keep the empty redden Moscow sky only
For a film you have yet to see.
I let colours die, mourn the pass-by,
But sometimes I just sit quietly watching, 
That timeless smile fixed in the fainted eyes.


Threads of miscellaneous and
Specimen of light,
Those are my favourites,
Apart from the everchanging time.

* A World Alone *

That late afternoon silent moon gently crawled 
Across the vast blueish vault
Without the fainted stars, without smoothing clouds.

You bit my chest; I licked your wound.
We were sleepless, attempting to scoop
A piece of the world, a world full of poison.

Yet we insisted, drunkenly devoured.
Sugar melted caramel burning,
Ginger tea brewing with your nervousness;

We teased and ranted, talked about butter & bread.
Your words tittering, my mind danced. 
Caress as much as it could be.

That late summer night walked
Empty Bernard to the Jewish town
We thought we knew each other

But maybe we were both clueless,
Perhaps I was the unicorn
and you are somehow simply lorn.

Now that it’s all bygone I couldn’t
Burn all down
I keep dancing in this world alone,

Because we were all alone.
All the future and dream
All that delicacy on which we lean,

I am dancing in this world alone,
Because we are all alone.
We are all alone.

It’s not going to be everlasting, maybe,
But I set on to let it happen
Till one day my smile were gone though I still feel it wortheverything.

Get me still,
Get me distilled, millions of seconds passed but
That space time frozen like arctic glass.

I never imagined it getting rough,
We might make love
Which was what you think of

But now it’s all bygone,
I keep dancing in this world alone;
We are all alone. 

* Scar Tissue *

Susanna told me that scar tissue has no character.
They don’t age.
I heard organs don’t feel pain, mostly.
That’s how some people swallow objects;
Blade does not exist if you don’t feel the cut.

Embrace it.

But what about the heartache?
May be a nocebo
That exists only in fMRI scan.
Not paid by the insurance plan.
But stanza after stanza
Engraves the adversity
Onto the monument of our existence,
That is, our body,
As we move on.

Scar tissue has no character,
It made us a character.
And pain does not age.

* Sheep in Fog *

Whiteness swallows,
Vines, wires, distant hills
Within that stillness.

That sheep regarded me
Composed with shadows
Shuffle through the aisles.

Morning leaves its breath
On the tip of the autumn leaves
Before the brightness became apparent.

My face embraced by
The damp delight
In the break of a May day.

They prune
While the sheep in fog
Brought me to this fairy land.

* Youth *

The empty space you left permeates,
Infectious, hollows mind.
Frontier expanding,
A world vast and warmthless
Merges, 
Future starts.

I’m still breathing with corrupted lungs,
Chocked by the ashes that fall 
As the winter comes.
The lover that went wrong,
My name forgotten, blurry and gone.

I was the reckless, the only youth (between us)
Falling for that youthful dream that drowned in your leaden truth.

I knew you were bleeding (before all this),
But you are the lucky one.
Because the dying is the one that you think went wrong.

I am the one naïve youth that you will soon forget,
Left in the far field
With the blade still deep
Bury under the skin.
Missing the hand that
Once hold the grip.

I’m still missing.

After Daughter, Elena Tonra “Youth”

* Morning Mist *

The morning mist is famous to the musing gaze of the wondering soul,
Whiteness hooves across the fields,
Single minded, 
Taking away the breath
Of the leaving train.

We disappointed her,
Letting her through to that stillness.
Her skin bright as a lampshade.
She is famous
To us,
While loneliness is famous to
A poem.

After Naomi Shihab Nye “Famous”
And Sylvia Plath “Sheep in Fog” and “Lady Lazarus”

* Re: Cut *

How unfortunate –
a detached fetus,
yet an unborn,
fragmented with still lukewarm

Blood,
A lump like a lemon,
lifelessly quite,
That greyish red tissue.

Flat placenta,
A cake marinated with cold jelly,
Your warm affection
Ichor injects

No more into the heart.
I hold (on to) it,
Clutch our unborn
of rosy future.

A grief, that is.
Alone in the room
A dead silence
Sing with the drifted weep.

Where is the mother?
O my
Love, “I am ill.”
I’ve been prescribed a pill to bury

The thick
Tenacious feeling.
Tristesse,
do(es)n’t leave me.

The stain on your
Glove merciless
Remark
Misty and mistaken and when

The pulse
Agitate your heart
Change your dark
Room of wound

How you depart –
Resilient victim,
Dream girl,
Mother without birth.

*Recomposed from Cut by Sylvia Plath