शमा गुल हो गयी दिल बुझ गया परवाने का – Yaas Yagana Changezi

सिलसिला छिड़ गया जब यास के फ़साने का
शमा गुल हो गयी दिल बुझ गया परवाने का

वाए हसरत कि ताल्लुक़ न हुआ दिल को कहीं
न तो काबे का हुआ मैं न तो सनम-खाने का

खिल्वत-ए-नाज़ कुजा और कुजा अहल-ए-हवस
ज़ोर क्या चल सके फ़ानूस से परवाने का

वाह किस नाज़ से आता है तेरा दौर-ए-शबाब
जिस तरह दौर चले बज़्म में परवाने का

Mujhe Dil Kii Khataa Par – Yaas Yagana Changenzi

mujhe dil kii Khataa par ‘Yaas’ sharmaanaa nahii.n aataa
paraayaa jurm apane naam likhavaanaa nahii.n aataa

buraa ho paa-e-sar_kash kaa ki thak jaanaa nahii.n aataa
kabhii gum_raah ho kar raah par aanaa nahii.n aataa

mujhe ai naaKhudaa aaKhir kisii ko muu.Nh dikhaanaa hai
bahaanaa kar ke tanhaa paar utar jaanaa nahii.n aataa

musiibat kaa pahaa.D aaKhir kisii din kaT hii jaayegaa
mujhe sar maar kar teshe se mar jaanaa nahii.n aataa

asiiro shauq – e -aazaadii mujhe bhii gud gudaataa hai
magar chaadar se baahar paa.Nv phailaanaa nahii.n aataa

dil-e-behausalaa hai ik zaraa sii Tiis kaa meh maa.N
vo aa.Nsuu kyaa piyegaa jis ko Gam khaanaa nahii.n aataa

इल्म क्या इल्म की हकीक़त क्या – Yaas Yagana Changezi

किसकी आवाज़ कान में आई
दूर की बात ध्यान में आयी

आप आते रहे बुलाते रहे
आने वाली एक आन में आयी

यह किनारा चला कि नाव चली
कहिये क्या बात ध्यान में आयी!

इल्म क्या इल्म की हकीक़त क्या
जैसी जिसके गुमान में आयी

आँख नीचे हुई अरे यह क्या
यूं गरज़ दरम्यान में आयी

मैं पयम्बर नहीं यगाना सही
इस से क्या कसर शान में आयी

River of Stars – Akiko Yosano

Left on the beach
Full of water
A worn out boat
Reflects the white sky —
Of early autumn.

Swifter than hail
Lighter than a feather,
A vague sorrow
Crossed my mind.

Feeling you nearby,
how could I not come
to walk beneath
this evening moon rising
over flowering fields.

It was only
the thin thread of a cloud,
almost transparent,
leading me along the way
like an ancient sacred song.

I say his poem,
propped against this frozen wall,
in the late evening,
as bitter autumn rain
continues to fall.
What I count on
is a white birch
that stands
where no human language
is ever heard.

A bird comes
delicately as a little girl
to bathe
in the shade of my tree
in an autumn puddle.

Even at nineteen,
I had come to realize
that violets fade,
spring waters soon run dry,
this life too is transient

He stood by the door,
calling through the evening
the name of my
sister who died last year
and how I pitied him!

Labor Pain – Akiko Yosano

I am sick today,
sick in my body,
eyes wide open, silent,
I lie on the bed of childbirth.

Why do I, so used to the nearness of death,
to pain and blood and screaming,
now uncontrollably tremble with dread?

A nice young doctor tried to comfort me,
and talked about the joy of giving birth.
Since I know better than he about this matter,
what good purpose can his prattle serve?

Knowledge is not reality.
Experience belongs to the past.
Let those who lack immediacy be silent.
Let observers be content to observe.

I am all alone,
totally, utterly, entirely on my own,
gnawing my lips, holding my body rigid,
waiting on inexorable fate.

There is only one truth.
I shall give birth to a child,
truth driving outward from my inwardness.
Neither good nor bad; real, no sham about it.

With the first labor pains,
suddenly the sun goes pale.
The indifferent world goes strangely calm.
I am alone.
It is alone I am.

Hokku Poems in Four Seasons – Yosa Buson

Spring

The year’s first poem done,
with smug self confidence
a haikai poet.

Longer has become the daytime;
a pheasant is fluttering
down onto the bridge.

Yearning for the Bygones

Lengthening days,
accumulating, and recalling
the days of distant past.

Slowly passing days,
with an echo heard here in a
corner of Kyoto.

The white elbow
of a priest, dozing,
in the dusk of spring.

Into a nobleman,
a fox has changed himself
early evening of spring.

The light on a candle stand
is transferred to another candle
spring twilight.

A short nap,
then awakening
this spring day has darkened.

Who is it for,
this pillow on the floor,
in the twilight of spring?

The big gateway’s heavy doors,
standing in the dusk of spring.

Hazy moonlight —
someone is standing
among the pear trees.

Blossoms on the pear tree,
lighten by the moonlight, and there
a woman is reading a letter.

Springtime rain — almost dark,
and yet today still lingers.

Springtime rain —
a little shell on a small beach,
enough to moisten it.

Springtime rain is falling,
as a child’s rag ball is soaking
wet on the house roof.

@Summer

Within the quietness
of a lull in visitors’ absence,
appears the peony flower!

Peony having scattered, two
or three petals lie on one another.

The rain of May —
facing toward the big river, houses,
just two of them.

At a Place Called Kaya in Tanba

A summer river being crossed,
how pleasing,
with sandals in my hands!

The mountain stonecutter’s chisel;
being cooled in the clear water.

Grasses wet in the rain,
just after the festival cart passed by.

To my eyes how delightful
the fan of my beloved is,
in complete white.

A flying cuckoo,
over the Heian capital,
goes diagonally across the city.

Evening breeze —
water is slapping against
the legs of a blue heron.

An old well —
jumping at a mosquito,
the fish’s sound is dark.

Young bamboo trees —
at Hashimoto, the courtesan,
is she still there or not?

After having been fallen,
its image still stands —
the peony flower.

Stepping on the Eastern Slope

Wild roses in bloom —
so like a pathway in,
or toward, my home village.

With sorrow while coming upon the hill
–flowering wild roses.

Summer night ending so soon,
with on the river shallows still remains
the moon in a sliver.

@Autumn

It penetrates into me;
stepping on the comb of my gone wife,
in the bedroom.

More than last year,
I now feel solitude;
this autumn twilight.

This being alone may even be a kind of happy
— in the autumn dusk.

Moon in the sky’s top,
clearly passes through this
poor town street.

This feeling of sadness —
a fishing string being blown by the autumn wind.

@Winter

Let myself go to bed;
New Year’s Day is only a matter
for tomorrow.

Camphor tree roots are quietly getting wet,
in the winter rainy air.

A handsaw is sounding,
as if from a poor one,
at midnight in this winter.

Old man’s love affair;
in trying to forget it,
a winter rainfall.

In an old pond,
a straw sandal is sinking
— it is sleeting.

Poem – Nothing Changes

We might to live and survive
in our misery and pseudo-freedom
another quarter of century or even more,
but hope not for changes.

Yes, nothing changes
from such stagnant and deadly existence,
and a living standards of Europe,
even if it was fallen Greece
suffering from crises
left beyond our reach as fairy-tale mysterie,

while we are not to stop
right now and forever
to lie
and skip with propaganda.

Yes, we are all,
our president, prime-minister,
parliament, gubernators,
majors, human rights keeper
and civil society leaders,
our writers and journalists
must stop to lie
to each other’s
to our people, country
as under the penalty for death sentence.

Nothing happens
while we continue
to play this evil games
trying to find own justice and sucker-candy continuum
in company of post-soviet bandits and stealers in power,
when all science, knowledge computers and their programs,
sophisticating and increasing only art of profanation.

Damn all these post-soviet tricks!
Who could to hook us in belt
right nor from all his craft
for extract out
these poisons of falsehood
by several generations accumulated and multiplied
and printed in our blood?

Nothing changes
even if we will live and survive
another centure
under the guide of our stupid lieders
most successful and immortal
in their tricks, lies and propagandas.

Poem – England or Death

England or Death! –
proclaimed illegal migrants
from Senegal, Nigeria, Libya, Afghanistan
attacking Caley tunnel
I am to have got my spade
and digging own personal tunnel
navigating toward small aisle in North Sea
to the dear England
through entire body of Earth,
as prol from Wells fantastic novel
one day I hope get out there
in the marvelous garden of future
in the country inhabited
by so polite and delicate gentlemen
and so nice and strong woman,
I don’t know what the reason for
we are all going there
and seeking what
running out from our paradise
in Senegal, Nigeria, Libya, Kyrgyzstan
where woman so marvelous
toward the sinking Albion
who need itself for our helps,
attacking by gays, feminists, transvestites’, global warming
and now by the mad immigrants,
proclaiming England or Death?
Go out right to the Hell!
I am too all my live
digging tunnel to England,
not for living and finding shelter here,
but for saving poor Englishmen,
when Ocean drown down their aisle.

Poem – The Anti Darwinism of Love

Nay, even the genius of observing far horisont eagle
soaring in heaven,
carefully selects convenient victim
before attacking down as Death,
so do the fastest runner cheetah
hunting for antilopes
he never run for the swiftest one – yes, ah
up and down the slopes,
and so done flying bullet like falcon,
even issying sound as Mig-35 jet
when he fell down for unhappy prey
shocked by fear and humiliation
with awful sound and blood freezed acceleration.

So do the master of fast slaughtering wolf,
and even domestic cat,
and crafty bear and vivid sable
they are all not playing with over expensive tricks.

All these animals and birds
from the best championships in wild world
giving us the clear hunting methodology
and excellent lesson for surviving,
the great advice for them
who inclined for madness from love,
from money hunting, searching glory
and other expectances extraordinarily
as for our dear tamed gini-pig, pigeons, sheep and doves
never ever target for yourself
the most unreachable aims and dreams.
Learn from primarily nature.
Eagle do not plunge
for the non-ordinary deer
cheetah do not risked
hunt to recordsman spring back
and the celestial falcon
chooses among the pigeons
the weakest one,
and wolf never pointed
the strong mountain sheep.
Only mister poet
do not learn at all
the principes of economy of force, energy and possibilities,
ever prefers fours-majors

trying to find, reach, caught and capture
the most fastest
unreachable
unexplainable
unreal and desirable
beauties, marvels and mists
emerging in nature.

No wonder that such anti-Darvinizm
produced so much failures.

Poem – The Secret of Woman Beauty

What has become as the best makeup for woman?
Her youth, health, nature attractiveness
or just how she get looked to mirror, repaired tresses,
how she smiled and turn to glance?
Maybe mystic lied on her way of wearings,
in her fashion and subtle taste

All these things look as extra-precious
But beauty of soul, perfection of deep knowledge and reason
beyond all competitions and comparisons
as a parts of her grace and eternal elegance.

Poem – Let’s Go to Live Forever

Let’s go, dear, to live together
and we should look eventually
what happen with such decision,
certainly we are growing fast older and downgraded
going to end, my sugar candy,
but we have been together,
that s sound finely, doesn’t?

So let’s keep living together.
No one warranted
what happened from such idea:
would we live in peace and harmony
or our life have been hurly-burly,
the whole one endless cacophony,
maybe we are both drown
with tsunami of troubles and problems
or we shall find way for harbor
our safety and harmony,
or our ship will moved to divorcee
and fighting for shearing joint collecting property.
No one know answers for that hellish questions
and predict future possibilities and revelation
in all its damned variations,
maybe love will thousand times cursing
and regretting and lamenting
for this occasion and acceptance
of long waiting meeting, suggestion and dance.

But let’s keep living together
right now and without any postponing
traying never miss each other’s
and we are looking for what’s happened later,
growing older and downgrade
but we have been live with you together
my dear sugar candy,
let’s, please, living forever.

Poem – In a Hopeless Desert

You must love in any case,
find somebody or something in this desert –
close or far from you – to attract them
and revive himself.
That is vitally urgent for you.
If you lost any hope
let love ancient stature or crumbled idols
for the stretching yours wings,
and capturing wind
moving away from desert
waterles and lifeles for you.

Poem – The Deep Secret of Love

Our world was born from one genuine strong intention,
pressed in simple sentence,
one astonishing spelling out
the magical composed phrase
that deeply stressed frozen black matters
and born and expanded our Universe
with myriads bright stars
and galactics,
as a one wholly composure,
(where invisible and unmeasurable part and game
handred time more really and value
then what we could fixed) ,
have drifted to eternal motion
and come eventually to that unusual existence
with limitless secrets and powers in micro and macro realities
teeming inside and around us
in close and great distances,
with perfectly worked
and tuned physical constants and laws
as only truly vitnesses, ambassadors and heralds
of our transendence.

Try to do the same
on his small level.

Love also has
its hidden formula, cod and mission,
if you have a strong power and great passion
you might able to do it
relive and save for life
the dear one who look now maybe
as the world before its born.
Or try to resurrect our people and country
that too long suffered
from lack of perfect knowledge and love
for creating sustained and stable community,
pressed out by abundant black will, jealous and hatred
on the base of dack ignorance.

Poem – War for our Peace and Soul

Since 2000 these skilled and brave American boys were fighting for our safety and freedom. That is the greatest truth of our days and of the modern history, and it was carefully kept on the shadow by our artful philistine-politicians and pseudo-experts too long.
While we and our governments have experimented and dreamed about various ways to create prosperous community and non-corruptive state, while being in the comfortable place and under the double protection of American and Russian soldiers, those soldiers have been fighting for our sake in the global politics. Americans were killed and injured in the severe mountain deserts of Afghanistan for our survival, sacrificing their souls for us, stopping for rest and recovery in the Manas airbase. And what have we done? And what have the Russian soldiers done, who were deployed in the airbase in Kant close to US air base the same time the US troops came to Kyrgyzstan? The distance between these two airbases is less than 60 kilometers. Have Russian soldiers helped all these years to Americans? Yes, our and Russian officials told they had done. But in fact, from the first days of their deployment, the Russian soldiers ‘protected’ us from Americans soldiers – not from Afghans, Taliban or anyone else.

The government of the Kyrgyz Republic knew that our country borders with the most troublesome region of the world, and that this war was rather ours than theirs. Therefore, Kyrgyzstan tried to perceive the world that we were with the West and were helping them, especially the USA in the decade long war against the Taliban. Our government did not stop repeating again and again that we were helping the West Alliance efforts in their effort to create peace and stability in vast region of Central Asia. Yes, we gave permission to the US and European countries to deploy their airbase in our territory from the early beginning of the war in Afghanistan, but the USA provided us more than a billion dollars within the last ten years. It has never been truly friendly help and support. It was primary the subject of heavy and dishonorable (certainly for us) bargain and these shameful bazaar goes on and seems will not stop in the near future. Instead of expressing gratitude to America and its boys, who struggled, were wounded and died for peace in the world, especially, for our peace, we have been permanently playing on the enemy’s side. Instead of helping our protectors or even better to participate in this war, we made a dirty baseness not only by earning money from them for our peace, but also by humiliating them, our truly friends, and continuously demanding the expulsion the US forces and closure of its airbase in Kyrgyzstan.

Yes, from the very beginning it was quite clear that Russia and China would be against deploying the US airbase in our territory and pressed out them eventually. That by the time we would be left along without supports of West countries under strong pressure dictatorship regimes around us in Central Asia with troubled forever Afghanistan and under global patronage of our authoritarian superpowers-neighbours -Russian and China.
Yes, nothing happened, and war and Global confrontation last forever.
But I want asked from ours and worldwide politics – for what so many soldiers from US and other West countries have died and been wounded? For what have hundred our Kyrgyz soldiers died, who protected our borders in so called Batken wars from attacks of enemy troops from Afganistan before deploying Americans troop in our country? And for what thousands of Soviet soldiers died in the same prehistoric war in Afghanistan, which began in 1980s and finished with the collapse of the USSR?

Poem – My English

It was very hard for me
to speak with West
through translators,
usually Russians
anchored by intelligent services,
KGB or related them
with such or others way.
Sometimes we have met Kyrgyzes mediators,
but they are also spoiled
by soviet or post-soviet propaganda,
hated our own cultures and nashient freedom,
heavily abscessed
by dyed glory and greatness of USSR,
ardently dreamed, poor one,
to return in that golden cage and Edem.

So damn all of them!
I want to learn English
for escape from
various interpretations and interpretators
and traitors and crack down
in the hub of crossroad
of Big Game.

Poem – Honestly Say

From Kerdegey,
(the famous modern Kyrgyz poet and writer)

You asked me
why I have not mark my verses
with dots, slashes,
double dots and others grammars.
My answer is simple:
I don’t give up them as words trashes,
I just have no idea
how, for what, and where
to enter them carefully and apty.

So my precious
mark them
as you liked and preferred
and be happy, healthy and hefty.

Poem – Going Somewhere

I’m finally getting somewhere
Just maybe
I’m going somewhere
Hopefully.

Just think positive
think
think
think positive….

Finally,
I might be
able to say
I love you.

Again.

Feel your gentle arms
wrapped around me.
Your hand, resting
in mine.

Oh, doesn’t love
work so mysteriously?
So beautifully
So… unpredictable

I might be going somewhere

Going somewhere, going

Where to, I’ll see
when I get there

Poem – There is no River

A river once flew.
with all it’s majesty.
Giving life and love,
to a single tree.

And the tree grew,
Tall and strong,
But one day,
The river stopped.

And the tree did not grow.
It needed the river.
And it’s roots shriveled.
And it’s branches drooped

The water left.
And the tree stood dying.
Wishing, hoping.
That the water would come back.

Poem – Time Shall Rule Forever

The seconds pass
the minutes pass
weeks, months
years, Time rules everywhere

Nothing can escape it
All must be its subject
condemned to live in Time
One way, never the other.

Time is a mysterious thing
it works in interesting ways
Not seen, heard, smelled, touched, or tasted,
It’s just there

And it’s undetectable, yet there
it’s everywhere.
It dominates
Time is not any more, any less

Time shall rule forever.

Poem – From The Ashes

Black soil engulfs
the shine of his skin.
His moans for help are weak,
though undeterred.

Stumbling forward, back
the blinding sun watching
guiltily.

It could have been him.
Or them. He didn’t know.
Who did he die for?
Selfishness or Selflessness?

Neither did him well.

His hand brushes the
dirt and soot from his eyes
and cheeks,

And brushes the
tears from his eyes,
and cheeks.

He returns to the grave,
where he rose,
valiant over Death,
victorious over Fate.

Standing over,
he looks down
into the broken coffin

He laid back down.
Closed his eyes.

And called for Death
to come once more.

Poem – I Dream

Living in a dream,
I feel free.
Free from the limits of reality.
Boundless and free.

A dream, my dream,
Longed for.
Here at last.
Living in a dream

A dream unlike others,
This is my dream,
When I lie in bed at night,
I dream,

Dream of distant lands,
Far-off worlds,
Strange creatures,
I dream,

Dream of adventures,
Risks,
Living on the edge,
I dream,

Dream of discoveries,
of oceans,
of mountains,
I dream,

Dream till the night,
has no more dreams for me,
And I wait throughout the day
Till evening, when once again,

I dream.

Poem – The Silent Tree

Gentle and forlorn,
Darkness creeps,
Slowly stalking
The solemn presence.

A misplaced light glistens
As the moon shines softly
Upon the tender branches
Of the Silent Tree.

And the winds lightly
Speak, very quietly.
Unspoken voices
Of the Silent Tree

And the tender river
Flows smoothly,
Life pours into the aged roots
Of the Silent Tree

And unheard by Nature,
The delicately woven song
Beautifully voiced
By the Silent Tree

Poem – The Piano

As my fingers rest on the keys,
Preparing for the song,
I close my eyes.

I visualize the song,
Hearing the melody in my mind,
And I close off my mind.

I simply stop thinking,
And let the music, my soul, and my fingers,
Do all the work.

My fingers begin the journey,
Flying through the keys,
Like cheetas.

The music fills me,
And I drift off,
Into the beautiful harmony.

My fingers soften,
Into an Andante pianissimo.
And a ralentando takes into affect.

As a decresendo takes me,
To a near-impossible pianississimo,
I pause, and jump into fortissimo.

The pace quickens to Presto,
With a cresendo livening up the feeling,
Marcatos are suddenly followed by rests.

Without warning, my fingers fly into 64th notes,
And I keep it up, even in cut-time.
The audience is awed, but I haven’t even breaked a sweat.

Finally, the song ends with an arpeggio,
Growing louder in the room and in the soul,
Until one, quite Minor chord ends the song.

For the first time in,
-What,5 min., I can’t even tell-
I open my eyes.

The vibrations are still heard,
within the room,
and the audience erupts with clapping.

I bow and my smile beams,
but it is not the attention that gets to me.
It is the music.

The melodies and chords,
They are my life.
Music is in my soul.

Music is my soul.

Poem – The Hit of Love

It’s really hit of great Master,
when millions other just a dream waster…
Try to find in dream the largest empire
and after that a town in them
and a street in the town
and a home and a window
of the room where grown and white you
so carefully hidden by the times and distances
you dearest one and a love indispensable.

Poem – Be Carefully

Be carefully
when you have dealed or communicated with world,
overfilled with trytory, corrupt and decaying.
You are lived among ‘deads’ plying as living,
dansing with corpuses and vampiers souls,
your everyday path run, crossed and interspersed
with unnumerous ways, traps, deadlocks,
mastered by thievs, robbers, bandits and cleptocrates.
Especially afrade
our unchangablle presidents, depyties and their stakeholders and supporters.
They were all sqillfulled
for kill you, drowse
and weep aut your name
from short list of eternity.

Poem – The Bad Boys Song

I know I am poor wretch
without any moral codes and barriers and senses.
I am ended cretin and cynics.
I spat to all –
to ours or others, friends or enemies.

I have held in my hand
the nuclear bomb
and ruled firmly
by the great country,
where self-governing chicken community
frozen to death,
as the doctrines of cursed justice.

I spat to democracy, wisdom,
for human rights of men,
and what left there else?
Fair elections
and other values and social perfections?

I tramped them all,
that might to corrode my legitimacy.
I am bad boy
and know that never lose power.

Better this great country
together with honest sheep-like population
that so adore me
when I am spitting to West and East
will go to hell
then I am lost my favorite toy.
I am bad boy
and want to stamp that forever
I spit to past, up-to-date
and to face of forthcoming day.
I am bad boy
but the national leader also.

Poem – Titan

Everyone
must share own part of heaven.
He showed it,
when he lifted universe
on his arms.
He had perfect knowledge
about inward
and outward
structure and deep sence of limitles
and about tight integration
every soul
with the whole.
He knew,
everyone
must share own part of heaven.
from unfolding existence
after Great Big Ban.
But mankind
made from him goddess,
instead share
own part of heaven.

Poem – The Pearly Shell

first version

On the darkest bottom
of deep salt sea’s Sahara
one creative mollusk
searching diligently
the precious dream
about unknowing beauty of pearly sunrises,
somewhere far above the water,
this sea floor genius devoted his life
for searching dawn and Sun
in totally helpless and unavoidable darkness
amid the awfull monsters and predators
and realm of blind and cold creatures.
But his love was so great and powerful
that eventually dawn
descendent to him
to live with his dream
and marked wall
inside his shell
with the eternal masterpiece-picture
even more beautiful
than real sunrise.

second version

On the darkest bottom
of deep salt sea’s Sahara
one creative mollusk
searching the precious dreams
about the unknowing beauty of pearly sunrises,
somwhere far above the water,
and left after himself
on the wall of his home
the masterpiece-picture.

Poem – The Prisons Bless

It was the happiest week
for him,
who 10 years has survived in trap of Siberia.
ex-oligarch who sacrifaced
own milliards for justise and future great nation.

The comendant of prison
suddenly after sanrising
did sent him nice slice of chocolade
and ordered
for often meeting with relates
on the eve of Crismas.

Who knows
what fanny things got run
right now
on the far Moskow?
Maybe he is relly
the future president of Russian
this new Nelson Mandella?
Dasnt history want to play with us new trick?
Let fhanks us and forgive if so.
If we did sometimes wrong things for him
according with secreet demand of high body –
forgive, please us, for holly blankness.

Maybe we need to prepare
to open the myzeum of modern history of Russian
just In this place
where such man as Khodorkovski so long prisoned?

Heaven cake.
What is the iron ironia of history!

Poem – A RussianTale

The star our little father had grown old, very old. Now he could not even strangle a dove with his own hands. Sitting on his throne he was golden and frigid. Only his beard grew, down to the floor and farther.

Then someone else ruled, it was not known who. Curious folk peeped into the palace windows but Krivonosov screened the windows with gibbets. Thus only the hanged saw anything.

In the end the star our little father died for good. The bells rang and rang, yet they did not bring his body out. Our star had grown into the throne. The legs of the throne had become all mixed up with the legs of the star. His arm and the armrest were one. It was impossible to tear him loose. And to bury the star along with the golden throne – what a shame.

Poem – Objects

Inanimate objects are always correct and cannot, unfortunately, be reproached with anything. I have never observed a chair shift from one foot to another, or a bed rear on its hind legs. And tables, even when they are tired, will not dare to bend their knees. I suspect that objects do this from pedagogical considerations, to reprove us constantly for our instability.

Poem – Our Fear

Our fear
does not wear a night shirt
does not have owl’s eyes
does not lift a casket lid
does not extinguish a candle

does not have a dead man’s face either

our fear
is a scrap of paper
found in a pocket
‘warn Wójcik
the place on Dluga Street is hot’

our fear
does not rise on the wings of the tempest
does not sit on a church tower
it is down-to-earth

it has the shape
of a bundle made in haste
with warm clothing
provisions
and arms

our fear
does not have the face of a dead man
the dead are gentle to us
we carry them on our shoulders
sleep under the same blanket

close their eyes
adjust their lips
pick a dry spot
and bury them

not too deep
not too shallow

Poem – An Answer

This will be a night in deep snow
which has the power to muffle steps
in deep shadow transforming
bodies to two puddles of darkness
we lie holding our breath
and even the slightest whisper of thought

if we are not tracked down by wolves
and the man in a Russian sheepskin who swings
quick-firing death on his chest
we must spring and run
in the clapping of short dry salvos
to that other longed-for shore

the earth is the same everywhere
wisdom teaches everywhere the man
weeps with white tears
mothers rock their children
the moon rises
and builds a white house for us

this will be night after hard reality
a conspiracy of the imagination
it has a taste of bread and lightness of vodka
but the choice to remain here
is confirmed by every dream about palm trees

the dream is interrupted suddenly by the arrival of three
tall men of rubber and iron
they will check your name your fear
order you to go downstairs
they won’t allow you to take anything
but the compassionate face of the janitor

Hellenic Roman Medieval
East Indian Elizabethan Italian
perhaps above all French
a bit of Weimar and Versailles
we carry so many homelands
on the shoulders of a single earth

but the only one guarded
by the most singular number
is here where they will trample you into the ground
or with boldly ringing spade
make a large pit for your longing

Poem – In A City

In an eastern city where I won’t return
there is a winged stone light and huge
lightning strikes this winged stone
I close my eyes to remember
in my city where I won’t return
there is heavy and nourishing water
the one who gives you a cup of this water
gives you the faith you will still return
in my faraway city that has gone
from all maps of the world there is bread that can nourish
throughout life black as the faith you will see again
stone bread water and the presence of towers at dawn

Poem – Pebble

The pebble
is a perfect creature

equal to itself
mindful of its limits

filled exactly
with a pebbly meaning

with a scent that does not remind one of anything
does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire

its ardour and coldness
are just and full of dignity

I feel a heavy remorse
when I hold it in my hand
and its noble body
is permeated by false warmth

–Pebbles cannot be tamed
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and very clear eye

Poem – Home

A home above the year’s seasons
home of children animals and apples
a square of empty space
under an absent star

home was the telescope of childhood
the skin of emotion
a sister’s cheek
branch of a tree

the cheek was extinguished by flame
the branch crossed out by a shell
over the powdery ash of the nest
a song of homeless infantry

home is the die of emotion
home is the cube of childhood

the wing of a burned sister

leaf of a dead tree

Poem – Report from the Besieged City

Too old to carry arms and fight like the others –

they graciously gave me the inferior role of chronicler
I record – I don’t know for whom – the history of the siege

I am supposed to be exact but I don’t know when the invasion began
two hundred years ago in December in September perhaps yesterday at dawn
everyone here suffers from a loss of the sense of time

all we have left is the place the attachment to the place
we still rule over the ruins of temples spectres of gardens and houses
if we lose the ruins nothing will be left

I write as I can in the rhythm of interminable weeks
monday: empty storehouses a rat became the unit of currency
tuesday: the mayor murdered by unknown assailants
wednesday: negotiations for a cease-fire the enemy has imprisoned our messengers
we don’t know where they are held that is the place of torture
thursday: after a stormy meeting a majority of voices rejected
the motion of the spice merchants for unconditional surrender
friday: the beginning of the plague saturday: our invincible defender
N.N. committed suicide sunday: no more water we drove back
an attack at the eastern gate called the Gate of the Alliance

all of this is monotonous I know it can’t move anyone

I avoid any commentary I keep a tight hold on my emotions I write about the facts
only they it seems are appreciated in foreign markets
yet with a certain pride I would like to inform the world
that thanks to the war we have raised a new species of children
our children don’t like fairy tales they play at killing
awake and asleep they dream of soup of bread and bones
just like dogs and cats

in the evening I like to wander near the outposts of the city
along the frontier of our uncertain freedom.
I look at the swarms of soldiers below their lights
I listen to the noise of drums barbarian shrieks
truly it is inconceivable the City is still defending itself
the siege has lasted a long time the enemies must take turns
nothing unites them except the desire for our extermination
Goths the Tartars Swedes troops of the Emperor regiments of the Transfiguration
who can count them
the colours of their banners change like the forest on the horizon
from delicate bird’s yellow in spring through green through red to winter’s black

and so in the evening released from facts I can think
about distant ancient matters for example our
friends beyond the sea I know they sincerely sympathize
they send us flour lard sacks of comfort and good advice
they don’t even know their fathers betrayed us
our former allies at the time of the second Apocalypse
their sons are blameless they deserve our gratitude therefore we are grateful
they have not experienced a siege as long as eternity
those struck by misfortune are always alone
the defenders of the Dalai Lama the Kurds the Afghan mountaineers

now as I write these words the advocates of conciliation
have won the upper hand over the party of inflexibles
a normal hesitation of moods fate still hangs in the balance

cemeteries grow larger the number of defenders is smaller
yet the defence continues it will continue to the end
and if the City falls but a single man escapes
he will carry the City within himself on the roads of exile
he will be the City

we look in the face of hunger the face of fire face of death
worst of all – the face of betrayal
and only our dreams have not been humiliated

Poem – The Hit of Love

It’s really hit of great Master,
when millions other just a dream waster…
Try to find in dream the largest empire
and after that a town in them
and a street in the town
and a home and a vindow
of the room where grown and white you
so carefully hidden by the times and distances
you dearest one and a love indispensable.

Poem – The Love Magic

My favorite star
on the darkest sky.
Your light is coming to me
throught abrest of times
and cold distances,
measured by milleniums
of light years travell.
Yes, what is have seen right now
and inspared me
had belonged to ancian times,
when lived Ramses and Nefertary.

But why the star
so impressed me
and I am not beliving
that what I have seen and felt
came to me from dead fares?

Becouse love as a thought
break out all the basic phisic laws,
she has primerily occupaed all
around us,
even was born with uneverse
from hottest point.
So our feels move instantly
and don’t respect the dictats of time and distance.

That’s why
when I look for you
my heart know you feel me
that I love you
right now.

Poem – Gandhi And Gangster

After Gandhi there are left anyone for speaking honestly’
V. Putin

Yes, I know,
how help you
and save yours teflon image
of steep national leader
in eternity.

You must start reforms
immediately
in all post-soviet area
where you so busy and artfully
have kept stagnant regimes
for own benefits and glory.

If you could nоt to do that,
people told about you tomorrow:
he was certainly steep old boy,
but better not born and our time borrowed.

Poem – Help to Obama

Right now
World needs from you
The songs of peace,
The songs which able
To join East and West,
South and North,
Christians and Muslims,
Juda and Budda.

Help to Obama
To drift in right direction
with China, Russian, Iran and Abu-dabi.

O.K.
Don’t worry about words.
You are ought only sing a songs
About peace in the World.
As a great whale
Or submarine of friendship
That floats up from North Ice Ocean,
Break cold war
And what else
Left from them
In frozen poles of our souls.

Help to Obama
To drift in right direction
with China, Russian, Iran and Abu-dabi.

Poem – Love Sonnet XXVIII

Give me a child!! Dear Heart, we have loved long,
Draining each other’s sweetness to the last
Wild drops of honeyed madness falling fast
Upon our limbs in ecstasies of song.
“More love,” we cried. “More, and still more.” And, strong
And fierce, the tide of passion filled the vast
Immeasured space of our desire, and cast
Us breathless to the realms the white gods throng.

My Poet, let the tempest rise once more,
Until from spirit out of spirit, wise
And free, we draw our own youth back again—
My dimpled chin, your eyes; and learn the lore
Of everlasting life and all emprise
From the sweet child that comes to us through pain.

Poem – Love Sonnet LX

My mind and heart both love you utterly.
And so each thought of mine is doubly yours,
And all my will about your body pours
Scents of my blood and fires that flow from me.
Who has created me, so young, so free,
Eager to-day to close convention’s doors,
To-morrow to return and sweep the floors
With my loose hair in blinding memory?

Dearest, you have, who gave my heart such love,
It sang the marriage of our mingling blood;
Sweeping us on in a supreme control,
To those vast stillnesses that move above;
And in the wonder of its mighty flood
My mind drew God from your eternal soul.

Poem – Love Sonnet LVIII

Do not surcharge our souls with that vile blame
To which our bodies are subjected here;
Nor heap them with the horror of dull fear
Base-borrowed from a life of torpid shame.
But let them linger like a lovely flame
Above the clay to which they must cohere,
Lighting the earthly to the heavenly sphere
To meet the mystery from which they came.

As midnight drinks a message from the moon
And morning takes her orders from the sun,
So let our bodies to our souls submit
And live for ever in their still high-noon,
Where morn and midnight gather into one,
And only angels on their missions flit.

Poem – Sonnet of Motherhood VIII

Make me the melody of meeting palms,
The roundelay of little running feet.
Strike me a measure to a trembling sweet
Of the mouth’s laughter and the fingers’ psalms.
I know of music in the ocean calms—
A siren singing where the long tides meet.
I know of lyrics in the leaf’s long beat,
But the child-chant is symphony of balms.
Sing it to me. O, sing it to my blood…
Through chord and fibre of my being run
The liquid quavers, and the pause and turn
Of every note in its seraphic flood.
Sing on that anthem of the sea and sun
And the deep dreams that in your being yearn.

Poem – Love Sonnet XIIV

Love is the sepulchre of all my sin,
If it be sin to let the body sink
In that slow dying the sick senses drink
That ne’er have felt true Love’s delight rush in.
Hot Vice may sear the bloom of Beauty’s skin
Polluting Virtue with a painted wink,
But Love smiles lightly at such guilt, I think,
And cures corruption e’er her ills begin.

I cannot tell the wonder of desire
That flames my cheek when you are by my side.
Nor dare I speak the secret of that bliss
That sets the senses of my soul on fire.
Ah Love! all my sin vanished into pride
When I drank Heaven from your first pure kiss.

Poem – Love Sonnet XXVI

O my Beloved, when to-day you said:
“All this must perish and we two will go
Soulless and senseless, to the dust below!”
I could but smile and fondle your dear head.
I could but catch your fingers as they fled
Over my throbbing breasts and whisper low,
“Whence came this breast to lure your fingers’ flow?
These burning pulses, leaping passion-fed?”

Dearest, you had no answer. But your blood
Drawing from mine the primal fires of God,
Leapt, laughed, and shouted, panting into mine—
“Love…love is all; and sweeps in mighty flood
Minds, souls and bodies, from the nameless sod
Exultant to the feet of the Divine.”

Poem – Elegy on an Australian Schoolboy

I would not curse your England, wise as slow,
Just as unjust in deed.
I can believe that from her heart may flow
The truest human creed.
She sounded one high call of Liberty
That despots heard with dread;
I know not what high purpose to be free
Crowns yet her starry head.

Do I but raise a ghost? Is England dead?
Lies she in lands forlorn?
Shall Kentish orchards never hear the tread
Of eager life at morn?
Is she but memories of old men and sad
Since youth has left her side?
Has that vast glory that you dreamed she had
But perished crucified?

England! Though all her vaunted heroes rise
From Nile to Flanders red
Calling you from the long, red sunset skies
You shall remain still dead.
You shall not touch her woods and flowers again,
You shall not sail her Thames,
You shall not see in her soft April rain
The fairy diadems.

She cannot honour you. You do not feel
Her tears and pity deep.
Though all her multitudes in homage kneel,
That cannot break your sleep,
That cannot give you back the dew of earth
The light upon the sea,
The soft, sweet ripple of your child’s first mirth—
Your immortality.

In every man there is a great, new world—
Perhaps a glorious race.
How can we tell the hero that war hurled
To death bore not Christ’s face?
How can we tell what nobler nations lie
Now on the fields of France,
What unborn masters of creation cry
Through murdered, white romance?

I only know you, brother of my blood,
Have gone; and many a friend,
Trampled and broken in the Flanders mud,
Found Youth’s most bitter end.
God! You are not yet one with the kind dust
Before new war-horns blow
And sleek-limbed statesmen in their halls break trust
To tell of other woe.

I speak as if you heard me, O my dear,
From England’s far-off shore,
As if that land fills me with such fear
Held you not evermore.
I live too much to feel that death must be,
Though men make death to-day;
I will not set the blame on Deity
Of murder tunes they play.

And yet you have not uttered one poor word
While these harsh thoughts I weave.
Silent as God! No murmur have I heard;
’Tis I, not you, who grieve.
How should I move that vast eternity,
Enough loud my cries and wild?
No more am I regarded than the sea
Regards a brawling child.

Poem – Love Sonnet XIII

My true mind makes as many loves of you
As my full heart contentedly can hold.
And when the one grows dull, the other cold,
Yet comes another swifter in to woo.
I could not rue such changing retinue
Nor chastise circumstance that keeps me bold.
I make you young or middle-aged or old
Just as it pleases my own whim to do.

And then to counterbalance what you give
Thus all unwittingly, I smile or frown,
Am thoughtful, mirthful, grave or sunny-eyed
To meet your mood and help you best to live.
In me, all women to your wish bow down.
In you, all men at my desire abide.

Poem – Love Sonnet XXXV

I cannot find a fault in you; and yet
I think you are not perfect many ways.
I have seen lips more meet for maiden praise
And eyes less shadowed with a grey regret.
But pure perfection of your love has let
The tenant mirrors of my mind such rays,
All other men reflect a smoky haze
And in the murk their virtues I forget.

He knows not perfect who has found the best,
Nor worth who would deny unworthiness.
But meanest flowers are fair as any rose
When blowing fragrant to our least behest.
So you are perfect in my heart no less
For that unworthiness my poor mind knows.

Poem – Love Sonnet LIV

What have you more than I, who crave you so?
Have I not hands and feet and thoughts to tell?
All my sweet senses and fine dreams that swell
Rich with contentments that the star-winds blow?
Yet do I need you everywhere I go,
As if you held me in some stinging spell;
And nothing living but yourself could quell
The conscious longings that tumultuous flow.

I am myself; and yet I cannot move
Hand, foot or eye but I am drawn to you.
I want you all—dreams, kisses, thoughts and eyes.
Dearest, it seems, my very wants would prove
I am yourself, dreaming we measure two;
And lack myself, that which yourself supplies.

Poem – My Mother 

Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping on my cradle bed,

And tears of sweet affection shed?

My Mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,

Who gazed upon my heavy eye,

And wept for fear that I should die?

My Mother.
Who taught my infant lips to pray

And love God’s holy book and day,

And walk in wisdom’s pleasant way?

My Mother.
And can I ever cease to be

Affectionate and kind to thee,

Who wast so very kind to me,

My Mother?
Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear,

And if God please my life to spare

I hope I shall reward they care,

My Mother.
When thou art feeble, old and grey,

My healthy arm shall be thy stay,

And I will soothe thy pains away,

My Mother. 

Poem – Mischief

LET those who’re fond of idle tricks,
Of throwing stones, and hurling bricks,

And all that sort of fun,

Now hear a tale of idle Jim, 

That warning they may take by him, 

Nor do as he has done.
In harmless sport or healthful play

He did not pass his time away,

Nor took his pleasure in it;

For mischief was his only joy:

No book, or work, or even toy,

Could please him for a minute. 
A neighbour’s house he’d slyly pass,

And throw a stone to break the glass,

And then enjoy the joke!

Or, if a window open stood,

He’d throw in stones, or bits of wood, 

To frighten all the folk.
If travellers passing chanced to stay,

Of idle Jim to ask the way, 

He never told them right; 

And then, quite harden’d in his sin,

Rejoiced to see them taken in, 

And laugh’d with all his might. 
He’d tie a string across the street, 

Just to entangle people’s feet,

And make them tumble down: 

Indeed, he was disliked so much, 

That no good boy would play with such

A nuisance to the town.
At last the neighbours, in despair,

This mischief would no longer bear: 

And so–to end the tale,

This lad, to cure him of his ways,

Was sent to spend some dismal days

Within the county jail.