silvana

 

flickers of abandon – aerial -
dancing along the scythed shore
like a divine chase
of autumnal borealis over tundra -
confined to
the cosmic squall’s off tempo beat -
keep the ice
far from bells and icons
as argent hail weeps lunar relief
down her lenten wreckage.
down a thunder stillborn in the void.

 

the bird is free.
for no divide.
no view of a fury-laden ocean
to thrive on the sparrow’s euphony.

 

and embers are ———-
clover in amber aramaic
that the meadow writes
from her bruised chain away
across the span of spheres
kindling easter light by eastern fire
of the voyageur’s gospel.

it’s quiet

and heights shift into eternal haze
simply
because
the night knows his name.

 

.

.

.

(photo taken in Caesarea, Israel)

 

yelena, 2012

 

 

this poem is linked to Open Link Night ~ Week 42 at dVerse Poets

Beethoven

 

piano’s essence is a molten sacrifice
defaced with the basswood timbre,
black spring consuming white winter
in its most terrible and bright moment -

 

the massacre of any distraught flare
at the core of forte’s solemn mass
clings closer to a porcelain heart
than dove’s devout eyes sky-fixed.

 

basic are lowest octaves, sotto voce,
when the hammer stirs a frail string
and tremulous ivory sighs in chords
to reshape even the sheltering high -

 

for a vibrating wire and faint ruins
that slam on the cartesian world
the keys fever cadence after cadence,
shard after shard – tempered hectic.

 

C minor-edged on a nowhere’s pyre
the bleeding note speaks obsidian,
emotion as a dim archaic shimmer -
and the galaxy’s glazed bare, wingless.

 

if you kiss this fractured reverence
while adagio turns presto agitato,
toss feathers into a perfect catastrophe,
bless it with your abysmal geometry

you can fly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

yelena, 2012

 

this poem is linked to Open Link Night ~ Week 41 at dVerse Poets

sub rosa

 

swift as Mont Saint-Michel tides
flame is a deep blue blossom taming
planet’s breath beneath a nocturne
for the lucent lake where we lay.

 

and i, a whisper on his lotus lips,
and he, filling me with lotus tears.
and i, melting on his silken snow,
and he, a red voice over my moon meadow -

 

and this, my sunken cathedral
of starfish between florentine pillars
is calm for the one who confesses,
her muse encrypted in silver marble.

 

my little ship, revived and sung,
sees the lighthouse of his clarion call.
my little ship, revived and sung,
sails to the oracle where he burns -

 

and when rainbow drips on purple
of the soundscape’s stellar zephyr
the angel sleeping within a slipstream
awakes to his softest smile.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

yelena, 2012

.

this poem is linked to Open Link Night ~ Week 40 at dVerse Poets

spring rain

 

beauty
walks
gently
into
the
heart
through
a
delicate
tempest
of
playing
branches
when
spring
rain
waters
swirl
and
sky
steps
adorn
streets
with
dance

.

.

.

 

 

melody

 

 

the eventide

flies on carmine wings, in a dark-alleyed wind

where slumbering fancy’s pale pastels

collect the dizzying pollen of damask roses.

ripe air rings with a vespertine chord,

touches like chiffon

attached to skin’s frail rice paper.

 

i open the door letting a trembling sound in -

accompanied by warming april’s fabric

devoid of any frosty winter stitch across.

the city stoops towards space

in a near-infrared peach sunlight,

and the piano is tuned to sea

many miles away.

i imagine – in the coming dusk

mountains appear as flemish woodcuts

shadowed on railroad tracks and waves

 

absorbing aromas of tea and verbena,

exhaling the blur of a crisp forest

and velvety dandelions.

equinox traces

abound in a cascading dazzle

diffused over the coastal line

…

and i surrender to the dreamhunter

as his nomadic euphoria

becomes my stardust.

 

 

 

 

 

 

linked to Open Link Night ~ Week 38 at dVerse Poets

 

 

yelena, 2012

‘Song of Spring’ by Anna de Noailles

here is my translation of excerpts from ‘Song of Spring’ (‘Le Chant du Printemps”) by Anna de Noailles – open to critique, of course. i recommend everybody to check this poet who in my opinion deserves to be more known. i’ve learned about her thanks to Claudine de Faÿ’s wonderful art piece. you can also check more of Claudine’s art here.

 

 

 

‘Silence and noise, sudden, in the air humid
Extend wider, are more ardent this evening;
February flees fastly upon the wind thinned,
Someone returns, I feel he comes, it’s spring!

 

(…)

 

I’ll follow you, despite the memory of the dead,
Despite all the living ones engulfed in my soul,
Despite my heart that only moaning spreads
Despite my proud spirit that blames itself and scorns.
- But what! isn’t that a new happiness
Which this evening tempts me with its sweet charm?
These hopes, these wishes, these regrets, these apathies
Beautiful as a long arpeggio, they are the past;

 

This sublime desire to perish and live
Is the past, the ingenuous courage
That my youth was when you met me,
You, from the book’s symbolic page!

 
It is the past, this fragrance in the wind.
(…)

 

I am but an ardent and grave prisoner
Who weeps and looks back on the road!
Who on her tired wrists feels the weight of rings
And what I always search for is the past.
To past I was going! As if it is possible
To discover the unique rite of love
And still approach this sensitive isle
That now doesn’t have boats around,
And shines on the wave like a rock inaccessible
Where escaping archers have chosen us as targets…’

 

 

(the original)

 

 

‘Le silence et les bruits, soudain, dans l’air humide
Ont ce soir un accent plus vaste et plus ardent;
Sur le vent aminci Février fuit, rapide,
Quelqu’un revient, je sens qu’il vient, c’est le Printemps !
(…)
Je te suivrai, malgré le souvenir des morts,
Malgré tous les vivants engloutis dans mon âme,
Malgré mon coeur qui n’est qu’un gémissant effort,
Malgré mon fier esprit qui résiste et me blâme.
-Mais quoi ! ce n’est donc pas le neuf et frais bonheur
Qui ce soir me tentait par son doux sortilège ?
Ces espoirs, ces souhaits, ces regrets, ces langueurs,
C’est le passé, beau comme un long arpège;

 
C’est le passé, ce courage ingénu,
Ce sublime désir de mourir et de vivre
Que ma jeunesse avait quand je vous ai connu,
Vous, qui fûtes la page insigne dans le livre!
C’est le passé, ce parfum dans le vent.

 
(…)

 
Je ne suis que l’ardente et grave prisonnière
Qui sur ses poignets las sent le poids des anneaux,
Qui pleure sur la route et regarde en arrière !
C’est le passé que je cherche toujours,
C’est vers lui que j’allais! Comme s’il est possible
De retrouver le sacre unique de l’amour,
Et d’aborder encore à cette île sensible
Qui, désormais, n’a plus de barques alentour,
Et luit sur l’onde comme un roc inaccessible
Où des archers courants nous ont choisis pour cible…’

 

 

 

 

(Anna de Noailles)

 

 

 

 

yelena, 2012

found

not quite a poem — some lines about Lyca’s parents’ journey that came to my mind after reading a beautiful poem ‘The little girl found’ by William Blake.

 

 

 

..and on day seven he saw the valley of empty temples in azalean sleep.

like shooting stars sparkling raindrops fell upon roofs -

a mirage it was – still of hope reminding, of Lyca’s silver laughter they so loved

-

vision too distracting, almost blinded – but the sand embraced leaving them

far enough from the death-towered spot and anaemic ghosts’ grips.

 

and the way unfurled further. as the liquor of rare desert moist was his pulse

and her breath for centuries – endless minutes when the dry night conquered -

 

they reached for vaults and volcanoes.

 

and in his weakened arms she sang of deliverance coated in her fading memory.

 

and when a subtle gleam’s expanse from cerulean fire lightened their path

the lion – splendid – appeared from a tangible corner of the argent hill,

 

like from the sixth sense of exhausting quest – emerged -

a savage spirit’s sacred wine -

 

the purest energy – the origin – in thrill and truth -

 

 

and through fear

they followed

 

 

and in wilderness they

found —

 

 

 

 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Little_Girl_Found

 

 

linked to Open Link Night~Week 37 at dVerse Poets

 

 

yelena, 2012