These days I dream of sleeping next to you.
Poets and prophets…
Poets and prophets are stricken with poverty.
Post-modernism is all about the profits.
Quit counting paper! On your street, there’s probably,
At least a couple of starving prophets.
I’ve reserved a place for myself on the corner,
In a cardboard box, with a dumpster near.
Sir, are you a registered organ donor?!
Is there anyone willing to lend me an ear?
I’m pregnant with poetry, anything will help!
I’ve sold my soul into prostitution!
If you ignore me, I’ll have to poison myself,
Inhaling the toxins of urban pollution!
Sir, I implore you! My words are orphans.
I can’t support them on my petty pension.
Please, kind people, donate your organs!
The poets are starving for some attention!
If only for the simple fact…
If only for the simple fact
That distance nurtures ardor,
Somehow, one must adapt
To live without the other.
The parting seconds must
Be passionate and brief.
You kissed me by the bus.
I didn’t want to leave.
Although I could’ve stopped
The flow of time, this rapture’s
Reserved for cameras and not
For poetry to capture.
By God, I swear, I’ve tried
(I understood - time flies),
To savor everything that I
Could not immortalize…
Happiness
How did this happiness happen?
I remember: grayness and the ashes
of the sun's ember dying on the aspen
leaves and on the puddled asphalt
when we went outside for a smoke.
We spoke of old habits.
It was all a big joke.
How did this happiness happen?
- Suddenly! In a fraction
of a second, that's all it took!
- An instant attraction?
- All by the book!
- Not quite, we were both hesitant,
neither of us wanted to make...
- But everything seemed so pleasant then,
we didn't want to awake!
- I remember everything lucidly.
the bed-sheets, the throbbing pulse.
the curves of your body were glued to me.
- Is that why you convulsed?
- Electricity in my veins. I shook.
We were two live wires.
- A mere second is all it took
to ignite the fire.
- I remember I answered your call,
"Lunch at Cappy's?"
- You said, "yes," and that’s all
that it took to be happy....
Shatter
The camera captures your face at a slow shutter.
Mascara runs down your lashes, the mirror is smeared.
Don’t dwell on reflections, let the glass shatter.
Let the glass shatter, dear!
Let the past shatter around your ankles.
Ignore small talk and meaningless chatter.
Learn to observe people from every angle,
If they seem shallow, -- let them all scatter!
Don’t you dare rest your head on a cold shoulder!
The wall may be harder, but choose the latter.
Let your body shudder if the wall is colder,
If the body's colder, -- let the wall shudder!
This town…
This town is a maze of winding streets,
Built inefficiently, but as a form of art,
They are a testament to man’s creative feats,
And every intersection plays its part.
A college graduate, I live in what remained
Of an archaic duplex, right behind
A tiny church that never bred a saint,
And should it be demolished, few would mind.
I’ve studied mathematics, now I pass
My knowledge to indifferent adolescents
That hardly find the time to come to class,
To talk to friends and to ignore my lessons.
I read and write when time allows. I tend
To find peace in poetry, but mostly,
I like to read out loud in my bed;
My girlfriend falls asleep to Mayakovsky.
I’m from…
I’m from Moscow winters, mud mixed with snow,
from the hands of the clocks that were moving too slow,
from the hole in the fence of the school where I went,
from the grip of the girl that was holding my hand,
from Nabokov, Kerouac and Mayakovsky,
from the dust on the bookshelves turned gold in the light,
from cigarette smoke that dissolved in the night…
and the country that nursed me that dissolved in my sight…
From the dirt on the asphalt, the sun on my back,
from the triple-threat stance: pass, shoot and attack,
from the chains on the rim that I couldn’t yet reach,
from the summers I’ve spent with my dog at the beach,
from the bully at school that tested my patience,
from the music that blasted from the radio station,
from the choices I’ve made and felt no regret,
from poems I’d write every night before bed…
to the poems I’d hide every night in my head…
From the back of the building where my idol smoked pot,
from the same building lobby where my teammate got shot,
from the image I saw when I looked at myself,
from the ghetto I loved and the ghetto I left,
from the college in Waltham where I searched for my place,
from the girl in my math class that I started to chase
from the library steps, from the innocent glance,
from the ring on her finger and her hand in my hands
to the moment where everything froze in suspense…
Katrina
The story was simple:
Katrina loved Jazz...
The cymbals, the sax
Were all merely symbols.
The eye of the eagle
Met the eye of the storm.
The cry of the people
For the city had formed
A new wave of sound
That rose up to drown-
Out the drums and the bass.
She was dazzled and dazed
By the blues, by the riffs
Of the weeping guitars,
By the crumbling roofs,
And the howling alarms,
By New Orleans in water -
By this modern Atlantis
That was soaked in a tear
And washed off the atlas,
By the scene on the canvas
Where clouds were smeared.
The greatest lies…
The greatest lies are those we tell ourselves.
I once believed my words were heaven-sent,
Arranged old chapbooks on the dusty shelves,
And found some meaning in a compliment.
Behind a wooden desk, I spent each night,
In yellow light which made the pages ancient,
Believing that, like God, a man could write
The world into existence, with some patience.
Through all of this, I never paused (to breathe!)
To see that life passed by unnoticed while
I looked for adjectives, that beauty’s span is brief,
And that my writing is an act of self-denial.
Waltz
Teach me to dance a waltz,
To lose myself and lead,
Synchronize my pulse
With the music’s beat.
Teach me each single turn
And a firm grip,
So that my hands can learn
Not to let yours slip.
Show me a way to kiss,
Keeping my eyes – closed
And afterwards, savor bliss
Of paradise lost,
To breathe, exhale air,
And again -- from scratch! --
To fall in love, flare,
Melting the snow in March.
The contrast of my green eyes…
The contrast of my green
Eyes and mundane anonymity
Is the thin line between
Humanity and divinity.
Whether I leave a mark
Or depart unrecognized,
My eyes will light up the dark
Casket or bright paradise.
Buried or swept away,
As ashes or in flesh, -
Even if bones decay,
My soul will remain fresh.
Words won’t slither after me
Into the cemetery.
My poetry’s my biography,
Silence - obituary.
The future came…
The future came. We didn’t greet our guest.
It waited by the door and turned around.
We sat down by the window. You undressed
And lit a cigarette. I read to you about
Two star-crossed lovers kissing by the gate
(You always loved my melancholy writing).
It must have been a Friday. It was late.
It poured outside. The sudden streaks of lightning
Lit up the room and all the space inside,
Between the kitchen table and the window
And if it wasn’t for the candle light,
Our furniture would surely vanish into
The pitch-black night. I took the final drag
And read the final stanza, dragging out
Each syllable as if to hold time back,
To stretch each silent second with a sound.
If I run out of paper…
If I run out of paper, let me write on a cloud.
First thing in the morning, in the outskirts of Ireland,
A child will rise to read my verses aloud,
He’ll weep at our love and the sky will turn violet.
I want to marry you over and over, each day.
Birds will sing and deer will eat from your hand.
In the middle of March, green birches will sway
And we’ll sprawl out and tan on the sand.
We’ll dance without music, find reasons to sing,
And travel the world to quench all our cravings.
Our trees will grow money during the spring, -
We’ll rake leaves in autumn to gather our savings.
I promise you -- I’ll milk the Milky Way dry,
Picking out pearls to make you a necklace…
And if we awake before pigs learn to fly, -
Well, at least, there’ll be bacon for breakfast.
Ella
How I wish that I could call you “Ella,”
know you on the first-name basis,
so I could sit and listen to your mellow,
peaceful voice in crowded places,
clouded by cigar smoke and blue light,
sip my drink and swaying to the rhythm
of the bass guitar and drums, each night,
feel your soul dispersing into ripples.
Yesterday, I heard one of your albums
for the first time ever, as you cast
spells on me through ageless, timeless ballads.
Yesterday, I fell in love with Jazz.
August 20, 2008
Seagulls are crying, like no one can hear them,
Elephant ears, lobster-tails with butter,
A bear of a dog and the little one near him,
And old photographs, - everything’s cluttered,
The wind from the sea is piercing and brutal,
Bare feet on the pavement, props for a movie,
A warm cup of coffee and a chocolate strudel,
And rocks on the coastline, - everything’s moving,
A woman from Norway whose English is German,
A bummed cigarette and a garden of flowers,
The opera singer, the street that we turned on,
The bench that we sat on - everything’s ours…
Let’s set some time aside for love…
Let’s set some time aside for love.
We’ll wake up early in the morning,
Concerned with work we’re dreaming of,
Which always proves to be concerning.
I’ll make the bed and brush my teeth.
You’ll make a toasted turkey sandwich
For me to take to work. We’ll leave
On time for once. Somehow, I’ll manage
To teach my students to graph lines
Without a graphing calculator
To reproduce - change over time -
A wage made by an average waiter.
You’ll search for errors in some code
(It’ll prove to be an extra comma).
The sun will sink. We’ll hit the road
And think about the passing summer.
We’ll throw out trash and do the dishes.
We’ll eat our dinner, clean the table
And crash down on the couch, wishing
To sleep a bit, but won’t be able.
We’ll go online and search for faucets,
Discuss refinishing the basement
And how our bedroom needs more closets,
And just before the evening’s wasted,
We’ll light a smoke and drink some wine
To ease our headaches just enough
For us to pause and find some time
To set some time aside for love…
Nights here are quiet…
Nights here are quiet, if you can ignore the crickets.
If you can’t, Natick should not be your town of choice.
Unable to sleep, you’ll chain-smoke, thinking
about money or schoolwork, her scent or her voice.
You’ll get to know insomnia on a first-name basis.
The electric bill will double before you can strike a match
to light a candle. In twilight, you’ll greet strange faces,
resembling yours in some way. You’ll feel detached
from any sense of reality. You’ll have to stop and retrain
your body to walk in the dark, aware of the landscape.
Your ears will catch everything from the horn of a train,
to someone’s soft breathing, to a far-away handshake.
You’ll get a job at store twenty-four, across the station,
drown boredom in tabloids and steal snacks from the shelf.
At dawn, the analog clock will start testing your patience
Sometime around noon, you’ll learn to talk to yourself.
You’ll scribble poetry on the margin of some magazine,
With a headline about Brittney gaining twenty pounds
And it won’t take you long to see that the grass is green,
And Chardonnay tastes better with no one around.
Prayer
What can I do? Pray?
Sadness - immense and vast.
Silence is dense and gray.
The skyline is overcast
with sadness. It swells and bursts
and overflows the drains.
Silence can’t quench my thirst, -
sadness alone remains.
I drink it with slow sips.
My eyelids are tightly shut.
Sadness – a kiss on the lips -
my tongue is blistering hot.
Teardrops are glistening,
uncontrollable. I can’t stop.
God, are You listening?!
Listen, God!
My hands - reaching high
to somehow narrow the breach,
to pull down the sky,
which appears out of reach.
Should I attend church
climb to the steeple’s top,
bridge the gap and emerge
from clouds (woken up
from a dream in a daze)
wet and newly baptized?
I’d like to study His face
as He stares at my eyes.
Stop her from leaving me!
Goodness, deceive me not!
God, are You seeing me?!
See me, God!
All alone. Lights dimmed.
She’s no longer here.
What could I tell Him
now, if He didn’t hear
then? What could I tell Him
now, if He couldn’t discern
my voice in a choral hymn
then, when I sang for her?
Prayers are far-fetched.
My fingers - nearly detached.
My arms are outstretched;
His are too far to latch
onto.
Elegy
Fingers bent in brackets -
Shield the candle’s flame.
It is bending backwards
Closer to the frame,
Liquefied and molten,
Now, - just smoke and air…
Once, I used to hold it -
Now, it isn’t there.
Once, he used to hold me, -
Now, I stand and stare -
From the heavy coffin,
- lighter than the air,
His soul, detached, will rise
In an upward curve.
His massive body lies
Six feet in the earth
In full depth and breadth,
Heavier than a sigh.
Lighter than a breath,
- one foot in the sky…
Especially from up high…
I
Especially from up high, the eye adores
This city, from a distance, in the evening
And life is wonderful again, - although, of course,
The last few times have proved to be deceiving.
Have I gone mad or is this love? I cannot say…
No matter what it is, this time I’m certain
That not a thing will change from day to day,
And every time I pull aside the curtains,
I feel convinced that I will recognize
The scenery unchanged. To put it loosely,
I will not miss much if I close my eyes,
As one might do when listening to music…
II
Especially from up high, the eye adores
This city, from a distance, in the evening…
I lay beside you and I hear your breathing,
I watch you sleeping and I’m short of words.
Have I gone mad or is this love? I cannot say…
No matter what it is, this time I’m certain
That any choice I make is inadvertent.
I know that life is predetermined in some way.
I feel convinced that I will recognize
The scenery unchanged. To put it loosely,