The Poetryzine magazine presents the selected poems by the Russian poet Alexander Limarev
Did the little boy exist?
Who was that little boy
In a frill from magpie fluff?
Who was that little boy
whose fingers are tenderer than tarragon?
Who was that little boy
in a cloak from the tears of Harlequin?
Who was that little boy
with a look of a work-worn scaffold?
Who was that little boy whose thoughts...
But what do we know?
Precipitated into a hellhole
(for the next to feel shame)
‘cause he couldn’t bear
in his haggard body
the gift of God –
a beautiful soul?
An immortal soul.
Did that little boy exist?
It seems that all this is rubbish
and cowardice.
I am alive
On the edge of a caramel circle or, perhaps, of an abyss.
Sliding with my right sponge foot, when going left and…
Sliding with my left shortcrust foot, when going right.
I’m discovery.
I slowly comprehend.
I hurriedly clamber.
I get back.
I clamber.
I butt.
I shift my feet.
I catch up.
I’m concealment.
I step with my knees on my own unremarkable hands.
Vanilla stick crust…
I am alive.
Predestined
It’s predestined
blood-coloured sunset
it’s predestined
bleak cold day
it’s predestined
gulp of poison
to my lips
you brought
it has come true
I’m the past
I’m the shadow
all over
and all is…
predestined.
Truisms in Marengo
Man is powerless over time.
Man wastes time.
Man is powerless over destiny.
Man creates his own destiny.
Man is powerless over happiness.
Man searches and finds happiness.
Man is powerless over inspiration.
Man works very hard and gains it.
Man is powerless over death.
Death searches and finds man.
Winter Depression
The word combination “winter depression”
Doesn’t work on me like a red rag on a bull.
Doesn’t arouse any special worry or fear.
This state is known to me in all its symptoms and nuances.
I was born and have lived in Siberia for half a century.
I had an intention to do away with this theme quickly,
By claiming that
Depression, including the winter one,
Is the product of idleness,
Intellectual deficiency,
Overwhelming infantilism and so on…
And that
if existence during winter period does not imply
Pure physical survival
(struggle with cold (warm accommodation, warm clothes,
fuel, physical activity)),
consequences of undercooling and chilblain,
Plain unhealthy food,
Poor in quality and quantity
(preserves, pickles, lack of fresh vegetables and fruit),
Then it is a banal inability or unwillingness
To organize your leisure time and fill you head
With something worthy.
But I suddenly remembered February 2012.
Ten hopeless nasty days one by one,
Monotonously, cold-booldedly, maniacally, consistently
Sucked the sap from me,
Deprived me of will, made me fall into slumber,
Strong hypnosis, dull despair.
It is minus 35 - 40 degrees Centigrade outside.
Traditional heating devices –
Tea and vodka – warmed up, but did not rescue me
From my depressed and melancholy state.
Painting, reading, music, communication
Seemed to only postpone some
Inevitable tragic outcome.
All those were half-measures.
I seldom remember about it.
Such a condition is not rare.
There is no universal medicine to overcome,
To cope with this bad condition.
But I clearly remember how suddenly and auspiciously
It was all over.
On Saturday around midday I looked out of the window
And saw through the frosty mist three bright spots on the snow.
I could hardly discern them at a glance,
But curiosity did not leave me…
Finally, in about an hour,
When it got brighter outside
I saw three balloons,
Blue, red and yellow, tied up with a bow.
They were lying on the white snow, hooked
By brunches, fragile from frost.
It meant only one thing.
Not all people suffer from depression, including the winter one.
«People meet, people fall in love, people get married…»
Life goes on.
Two fists
Two
fists
pressed
to breast.
Two
fists
cold
as ice.
Two fists…
Today
revived in them –
death.
In the Belly of the Whale
by Alexander Limarev
It's well known what was the outcome
of Jonah's being in the whale's belly.
It's unclear what will be the outcome
of my living in the belly of a block of flats.
But it looks like nothing good
will come out of it.
Its gastric juices are digesting me every second
Is it time to burry hope?
...or to wait a little more?
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