tea house in summer (II)

 

 

one suspended moment:
a dovey murmur of mint breeze in sleepy branches
mingles with cinnamon haze
nesting the early dawn with lullabied sky yarn
powdered by distantly chanting constellations
as the orange blush of a citrus solace
dapples the steeped leaf
and the nectar’s subtle ginger
dissolves into sweetened hails;
from echoes of a lost eventide
the magnolia sprouts, its blossom a home
for blended lores that unearth the wood
towards a velvet firmament
where silken clouds of blues
are beamed with transient fallings
down the star-woven space;
strawberries are drunk on soft vanilla,
an orchestra of sighs sails
along the inner meadow of wandering
to summon a gentle heart,
to revel in the enchantment of spice billows,
and nightingales kiss the dark
with lightly sung feathered enigmas
trembling by the reign of his misted luminary.

 

dreams compose a cooling minuet
of the shimmer from mid-air
dissolving to tiny worlds threaded with hidden ways

and the whisper of a dew-scented reverie
reveals grace as a sacrament
of the vanishing night.

 

night_light

 

(yelena 2014)

secrets

 

 

i ache in the nearness of this.

there’s a pool of whispered yearnings
and i never knew how to spill it
in the way of gentlest lilac rain,
the one from those phantom dreams,
ever followed by a triumphant sun.

i’ve seen how a soft thunder
outlines the dark and weeps stormy blue roses
like snowflakes falling to bless the grey
with colors of vigilant sky
unraveling the mystery behind your appearance.

and how doves murmur your spring to naked trees
and place their warmth in the beauty
of heavy, flowered summer.

and how the miracle of holding
is realized as a miracle of giving new breath
to another’s afterglow
when arms become fluttering clouds in surrender
unashamed to weep the ashes and emerge into remedies.

and how seconds make you
the wind and air
when blood is the flowing soul
and the adagio of silence is a canvas
for musing senses in the state
of dawning devotion.

but i ache.

i ache in the nearness of this

.

.

.

.

.

(yelena 2014)

blue foundation

 

may be
it’s an echo
of a breaking heart’s litany
or a bird chant,

but i embraced a wound that light can’t touch
and let every moment cherish it, timelessly.

it’s living like
nothing was ever shattered,
as if the sky made me lungs of mirrored glass
and broke them, yet i learned to breathe
through splinters and still love
the reflections of its thundering clouds–

and reveal a beautiful chaos
of things too brittle for embraces,
or poems or even wordless songs
in the lands of exiled dusk
where soft edges are blurred so deep
you’d fathom shadows of infinity.

this is how voiceless feelings wander
and flow as tired autumn zephyrs

then discover their eternal home
in a place where they were born.

 

 

(yelena 2014)

hallowed be thy name

tell me you still breathe above
because higher hopes cease to breathe
and sky’s mystery flows in grey.

raindrops fall on your grave
like tears of angels
to the melody of warm rosy snows
as i sing the fragile nature
of your heather wings
and late eastern winds.

a faint ray
in the windows of cathedrals
holds the memory of your voice
as lavender haze spreads
towards the horizon
on the cloudy waves of ancient lores,
and the ether of cotton sky
is etched deep on velvet midsummer again,
on antiquity of wooden realms
where your gentle ways linger
and make the earth spin.

pain has faded but remembrance never does
and i still stand beneath the streetlight glow
waiting for your sanctified stillness.

(yelena 2014)

mirror room

 

 

i welcome you:
the grace of a black swan
uncut from divine marble.
the bleeding ink
in a brooding agony of night.
an unfathomable musing
under the weight of coal galaxies
when worlds scream apart.
a frightening scripture of spaces
caged in slow motion.
daggers through the heart
in hours of horrors
where every vision
forms a shadow of a shadow
and you fight the obscurity
of dust pavements
as cinematic flashes
burn your skin and my lungs.

once
i saw your filmy soul of snow
fade beneath dead branches,
yet you swallowed the gun
and grew a fragile being
in the heart of raw earth
that knows no prophecies
since we confess ourselves
out of bulletproof masks.

i welcome you
right here in my arms.

 

(yelena 2014)

light club

i’ve spilled the ache over untamed spaces
and smoldered one memory into snowing sky

scars are what releases, you told me once,
if we just let them be and let us fly.

there’s a taste of ash and our dreams wither
as the real is a land where fears thrive

so i map the eternal wind on wilting roses
in the end of a book where we are still alive.

 

(yelena 2014)

Sonetto I from Francesco Petrarca’s Canzoniere

Voi ch’ascoltate in rime sparse il suono
di quei sospiri ond’io nudriva ‘l core
in sul mio primo giovenile errore
quand’era in parte altr’uom da quel ch’i’ sono,

del vario stile in ch’io piango et ragiono
fra le vane speranze e ‘l van dolore,
ove sia chi per prova intenda amore,
spero trovar pietà, nonché perdono.

Ma ben veggio or sí come al popol tutto
favola fui gran tempo, onde sovente
di me mesdesmo meco mi vergogno;

et del mio vaneggiar vergogna è ‘l frutto,
e ‘l pentersi, e ‘l conoscer chiaramente
che quanto piace al mondo è breve sogno.

 

(English translation by A.S.Kline)

Francesco Petrarca (1304—1374)

You who hear the sound, in scattered rhymes,
of those sighs on which I fed my heart,
in my first vagrant youthfulness,
when I was partly other than I am,

I hope to find pity, and forgiveness,
for all the modes in which I talk and weep,
between vain hope and vain sadness,
in those who understand love through its trials.

Yet I see clearly now I have become
an old tale amongst all these people, so that
it often makes me ashamed of myself;

and shame is the fruit of my vanities,
and remorse, and the clearest knowledge
of how the world’s delight is a brief dream.