rebirth

Soft darkness wraps its hands around me

Touching my shoulders ever so slightly

I let go of all thought and inhale dry air
rocking myself into slumber

A stroke of wind dishevels my hair

I tremble in surprise and it withdraws 
I sit up and pray in silence, hoping

For something I have yet to know

A stork flies through the night 
Startled, I stare into obscurity
A baby’s cry pierces the air

“A newborn”, I think; “how lovely”

a summer trail

the trail leads you

where heavens unwrap
sapphire curtains 

into jade forests

where lakes join
in beads of silver

strung on golden wire

where birds embroider
sky with ribbons of joy

laced with frivolity

where night quenches 
the thirst of virgin grass
with morning diamonds

the trail leads you

where summer dwells

in childhood memory

Inspirations

I have not written, read, or seen anything that was worth sharing, and have not felt like sharing much lately. I've reached an introspective time, during which I prefer to ask questions, listen, read, watch, collect information, think and process it. It's delightful to find hidden treasures in the deep recesses of the subconscious. I tried going out again and socializing or emailing, but it brings little pleasure now. Blogging feels very isolated and self boasting. I much prefer to communicate in person. Speaking to someone gives me a sense of understanding and involvement in the conversation, as opposed to posting a monologue.  

And I have not really done anything exciting worth talking about. It's easier to talk about something radical and brilliant created by others, like the Italo Calvino's classic If On A Winter's Night a Traveler or a new film by Woody Allen To Rome with Love. Though completely unrelated, both Allen and Calvino explore radical methods of communication by involving the reader/viewer in their stories. Allen's technique is very different, he does not make the viewer participate in the film, yet I could not help but feel as though I was a part of it. (Viewer participation would be interesting in terms of a play. Perhaps Calvino's book can be turned into a play with viewer participation, but I am not an expert on plays.)  

What I like best about both Calvino and Allen is the ease with which both artists express their ideas by unitizing means much different from what we are used to. Both are incomplete, both leave the reader/viewer in search of the rest of the story, yet both manage to involve you in their plot-lines as one of the characters. In Calvino's novel, the plot explores the art of reading, while Allen explores the art of creating something ridiculous, which he politely describes as "ahead of its time". Both create a feeling of nostalgia and melancholy discovered in creation of a masterpiece that surpasses the imagination of an ordinary spectator. 

Another genius is Isaac Asimov. I love his simple eloquence and linear approach to story telling. The strength of his writing is in use of logic in place of high poetry. Unlike Woody Allen, he communicates his stories almost clinically, leaving it up to his readers to create their own visual and sensual references from individual perception and ideals. Despite the lack of high literary style, Asimov's work does not lack in skill and interesting notions. One of my newly discovered treasures is Asimov's short story called Cal about a robot who wises to write. It has become my favorite short story. It can be found in a collection of Asimov's writings entitled "Gold". 

Сон стучится украдкой в окно

Что любовь? Легкий пыл похвалы,
Неведения  нервный припад
Мимолетный прилив новизны
И безделия вольный расклад

Мягко светит сквозь тучи луна
Сон стучится украдкой в окно
Напилась я сегодня вина
И на улице тихо, темно

Поезда не стучат за стеной
Только шорох соседних колес
Потревожит не временный сон
Почерневших замерзших берез

На стекле напечатал мороз
Сообщение тебе от меня
Только ты не пришлешь мне ни проз
Ни Стихов, ни строки за моря

Тихо светит вечерний фонарь
Подкрепившись наивной мечтой
Я засну улыбаясь сквозь даль
Под нелепо счастливой звездой

Spring sonata in G minor

April. Puberty swells in the glands of a girl
The garden’s abloom with butterfly twirl
The children run restless from a pool to a park
The forest grows heavy with foliage and bark

Nesting under my window fifty species of birds
In the midst of migration stop to throw idle words
In G minor enticing fifty feathered throats groan
Yelling over each other in an endless love song

April came into my bed

Tell me something I forget

Tell me something to regret

Lately, I have lost my head

Who loved whom first?
Who quenched whose thirst?
From birds to flowers
From sun to showers
From song to dance
From smile to chance
From fish to sea
From you to me

A smile was bright like evening star
Never enough, always too far
Like a reflection of lost soul
It burned right through the night with coal

April. Love came to my head

Left me swimming in cold sweat

Leaving little to regret

Took away what I forget

Bringing flowers and evening showers

Bridging the sea from you to me

Weaving a dance from glance to chance

Driving a spree from glee to plea

April came into my room

Found me rising in full bloom

Told me birds and I were free

Left me nothing but to be

here's a new song

Baby, it ain’t no use now trying to write

Another pretty love song

And ain’t no use in trying to analyze

How or where our love went wrong

Baby, ain’t no use writing poems of doom

I’m the reason you keep coming back

But when your heart will step on another new bloom

You’ll find nothing except for regret

Baby, ain’t no use reminiscing of old

Our souls have said their goodbyes

Baby, ain’t no use all the stories we told

When all we are left with is lies

I wish I could take back some things I had said

But words don’t change anything

I never did much I now wish to regret

So forgive me for wanting nothing

There ain’t nothing left now, I got no more love.
I once loved you but you were too proud

I'm done wondering and thinking and crying out loud
And it ain’t time for you to be loud
I gave you all the love I had but you wanted my soul

Like you never had it before
ain't no use to write it ‘cause nothing’s the same
I can’t feel anything anymore

Baby, ain’t no use in throwing facts in my way

For tonight this is final good bye

I don’t know where I’ll end up but I know what I crave
And I’ll look for it till I die

Though it’s dark, I see light at the end of my road

Night is coming and now I must leave
There is nothing to change and there is nothing to hold

                                                         There ain’t nothing but sense of relief 

variation no. 2

Impatient travelers in search for facts will question

Intent behind the nuptials of affection
A fear ran astray or pride gone wild
Could leave a skeptic weeping like a child

Relentless words repeated over time

Could break a pattern of true love's design

Under the wrinkled brow of shifting blame

Heart has no tolerance for ego's flame

But expectations failing, faith will find

Reason prevailing over passion's bind

With every bend of trials and tribulations

Love tames with fortitude the heart’s impatience 

for my love

I love you not as a favorite thing gone lost,

which absence drives me to despair.

I do not miss you when you are gone, but wait for you,

distracting intellect with thrill of new encounters

Not missing you supports my heart with vigor,
drawing a knot around my core to grow with yours.

What's wrong with that?

Your words are filled with angst,

A fear for future crumbling down with time.
I have no dread of age or growing old with you;

I fear myself and idleness of mind in empty night,

A day without work or inspiration.

But thousand nights with you burn mystery 
into my soul with depth of your embrace, 
creating memories that burrow through my being,
Beneath my skin, beneath my eyes, 
Beneath my breath, into my mind, where heart

shall sing a lively song of joy, with every new return.