Talking of Tennyson: Transience

So runs my dream: but what am I?

An infant crying in the night:

An infant crying for the light:

And with no language but a cry.

(In Memorian A.H.H., 54)

And so I walk across the sites

Of past and present intertwined,

Caleidoscope of shapes and lines,

These labyrinths of shade and light.

.

These labyrinths of day and night,

These human passions carved in stone,

They laught at you before they´re gone

And burst and burn as they collide.

.

They burst and perish – ask not, why.

Scattered across the shingles ashore,

One may not ask nor hope for more.

Nor will, nor soul, nor mind survive.

.

The Sense is conceal´d. Behind the veil –

And what am I to disobey:

All of them, all, who dreamt and prayed,

They all have passed! And so will we…

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Let my voice sound…

Let my voice sound,

as it never did before,

sing, sing,

sing like a dreamy madman,

cheerful, calm and blessedly hopeless,

smiling to the invisible universe,

multiple realities of one´s heart,

smiling back,

Sounding back,

Resonating …

 

Let my voice flow,

break the damm of my choking silence,

of my terror to call things

by their names,

real and utmost,

Endlessly fascinating….

Let it break out of the hoarseness

and whisper

and this throat,

so soar of yearning to speak out,

yearning to yell,

to dwell,

to sing,

to pray,

to call out your name?

our rags of light…

Puzzling and humbling:

living them through,

these stolen moments of peace,

of sacred shared-ness

amongst the daily roam.

These tiny emeralds of easiness,

of unexpected fun

of being

simply me

or

simply you.

Cheerful recognition

of those

rags of light

smiling back in the eyes of the other.

 

 

Простите (Forgive me)

English version follows bellow 

 

Простите, что я такая…

Странная? –

Пожалуй.

 

Знаю, со мной трудно:

Я живу по небу известному календарю и кодексу.

Говорю – когда не нужно;

Молчу – когда следовало бы говорить;

Глуха – когда надо слышать

И слышу несуществующее.

Влюблена в образы,

ушедшие или просто выдуманные.

Моя голова – большая свалка,

И я мешаю сплетни с экзистенциализмом.

Наверное, предаю и первое, и второе…

 

Нет черного и белого,

И потому,

наверное,

я дальтоник, когда речь идёт о людях.

Я люблю и ненавижу как-то ненормально…

Глубоко? –

Очень-очень.

Иррационально.

 

Простите…

Я бы много отдала,

чтобы

просто быть не помешанной.

Почти столько же,

Сколько отдам, за то

Чтобы помешанной остаться.

 

Просто знайте.

Просто или сложно,

Крича или без слов,

Не вовремя уходя и возвращаясь,

Я так люблю вас!..

2008

 

Forgive me for what I am…

Creepy? – 

I guess…

I know, it is not easy with me:

For I live according to God knows what calendar and code.

I speak when one shouldn’t,

I am silent, when one should speak;

I am deaf, when one must hear

And I hear the non-existent. 

I am in love with images

That passed or never existed. 

My head is a huge landfill,

And so I mix gossips and existentialism,

Betraying them both, perhaps…

There is no black, nor white.

That might be the reason, 

Why I am so colour-blind about people. 

I love and hate somehow out of norm…

Deeply? –

So deeply!

And irrationally.

I am so sorry. 

I would give much

for not being that lunatic. 

Almost as much,

As I would give 

For the right to stay as mad, as now. 

You just should know – 

In easy or complex way,

Shouting or keeping quiet,

Leaving or coming back so untimely,

I still love you all so much!

Cognitive hunger attack

Gruesome

grinding,

greed of a

feverish! –

brain:

feed it, feed

again and again!

 

Starved, thus aggressive.

Insatiable hunger:

bitter sweet torture.

I am posessed,

Itching for wonder,

a puzzle,

a verve.

 

Tireless urge:

give me a piece to think!

Anything, any thing!

Addict, I burst,

Shaking, unnerved

In my infuriating

cognitive thirst.

 

 

 

 

Hangover

… and this crippling awareness emerges,

and the oyster, devoid of her shell,

grips for pieces of it in an urge

to re-cover herself. All meant well,

yet the pieces lie fallen apart.

.

Every breath feels so dizzy inside.

Pumping blood open-air, her heart,

unprotected for any more surges,

gapes for silence, and comfort, and light.

Between the lines

Lost so deep between the lines,

Far too smart for implications,

For unwise insinuations

Far too earnest, far too fine.

 

Lines with lead still feel so light,

Following your shapes. No touching.

Modest, decent. Am I blushing? –

When the lines collide…