And Everything Will Stop…


Now and then I have shared on my blog poems that have caught my eye (heart and soul), and this is one of those moments once again. “Monologue (Requiem)” is a poem by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva  – one of the greatest Russian poets of the 20th century. Must admit I haven’ t read anyhing so raw for quite some time…

Oh, how many of them
have already fallen into the abyss,
waiting open wide ahead!
The day will come when I will disappear
From the surface of the earth.
And everything will stop-
the singing and always fighting back,
and shining, while tearing myself apart.
The verdure of my eyes and gentle voice,
As well as all the gold strands in my hair.
And life with bite of daily bread,
Will seem to have forgetfulness of the day.
And suddenly it will feel like
There was everything under the sky,
With only one exception – me.
So volatile, like children, in every expression,
And never staying evil for too long.
The one who loved the wee hours,
With all the wood in the fireplace
Turning into ashes,
Violoncello, the often cavalcades
And the tolling village bell…
It’ s me – still so alive and also real
On this very tender land!
Me, never knowing any limits
– nor mine, nor the ones of everybody else,
I turn to you, demanding faith
As well as with my little request of love.
Through days and nights
In whispers and in scribbles on paper:
For truth, my yes and also no,
For the moments of my often sadness
Of this still too early age.
For my constant inevitability
To forgive the old offences,
For all of my rampant tenderness
And always looking a little too proud,
For my need of rushing events,
For all the truth and the game…
Just listen, and don’ t forget to love me
Also for the fact that
Some day I will die.

PS: Not less powerful when turned into a song:

Song Of The Rain


A Lebanese artist, poet and writer Kahlil Gibran (Arabic: جبران خليل جبران) has been among my favourite ones for quite some time. And thoughThe Prophetand “Sand And Foam” will always be the number ones from his works for me, I have the feeling today the poem “Song Of The Rain” fits the mood well.  At least in these latitudes.

I am dotted silver threads dropped from heaven
By the gods. Nature then takes me, to adorn
Her fields and valleys.

I am beautiful pearls, plucked from the
Crown of Ishtar by the daughter of Dawn
To embellish the gardens.

When I cry the hills laugh;
When I humble myself the flowers rejoice;
When I bow, all things are elated.

The field and the cloud are lovers
And between them I am a messenger of mercy.
I quench the thirst of one;
I cure the ailment of the other.

The voice of thunder declares my arrival;
The rainbow announces my departure.
I am like earthly life, which begins at
The feet of the mad elements and ends
Under the upraised wings of death.

I emerge from the heard of the sea
Soar with the breeze. When I see a field in
Need, I descend and embrace the flowers and
The trees in a million little ways.

I touch gently at the windows with my
Soft fingers, and my announcement is a
Welcome song. All can hear, but only
The sensitive can understand.

The heat in the air gives birth to me,
But in turn I kill it,
As woman overcomes man with
The strength she takes from him.

I am the sigh of the sea;
The laughter of the field;
The tears of heaven.

So with love –
Sighs from the deep sea of affection;
Laughter from the colorful field of the spirit;
Tears from the endless heaven of memories.



“Strawberries” by Edwin George Morgan. Right taste in the right moment…

There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you

let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills

let the storm wash the plates

I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees…

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Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water,
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a bunch of flowers, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I alone can contend against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Curl round me as though you were frightened.
Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
Until I even believe that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
/Pablo Neruda/

There Are People…


Quite some time ago on my blog I use to post poetry that was not mine but had caught my eye…or, to be precise – had touched strings of my heart in one way or another. “There Are People” by Latvian poet Imants Ziedonis…you know, it just seems to hit the raw nerve when the world is out of balance.

There are people – very deep-hearted.
It almost seems they don’ t have heart at all.
Are they evil? Are they lovely?
When do they laugh? And when do they cry?

You thought you could cover the world with storms,
Dazzling joy, so painfully sharp!
Leaving and moving on, just later to notice –
Nothing has even happened yet.

There are people – very deep-hearted.
It seems they realise nothing at all,
But deep down inside love
Keeps breaking stones with bruised hands.

Bruised hands, without a single word
It breaks stones and crushes piece by piece.
It builds the world, destroys it
To rase and build all over again.

Where is your “love”, and where is your “want”?
Where is your tree, and where is your branch?
Where is your path to infinity?
Where is your plow and the one to plow?

Who are your friends, and whom do you love?
It seems you realise nothing at all.
There are people – very, very deep-hearted.
They laugh at you and they weep with you when you fall.

Time After Time


Tick tock
it repeats
again and again.
Seconds, minutes and hours –
all counted,
all faults minimized.
Always on time,
insanely precise.
Always busy
with something that
doesn’ t exist.
Something they are
always short of out there.
Plenty here but
no extra to share.
Walking in circles,
not allowed to stop.
Too fast? No,
neither too slow.
Bored, boring…
if only not the
cuckoo call.
That uncontrollable
clock’ s soul.
The crazy bird
mixing the time.
Unexpected emerges,
interrupting sounds.
Clock hands tremble in anger,
pendulum confused off round
for a second…
Tick. Tock.

I Love You More Than Nature…


Quite some time ago on my blog I use to post poetry that was not mine but had caught my eye…or more precisely – touched strings of my heart in one way or another. When I read “I Love You More Than Nature” by a Russian poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko, it kept echoing on the back of my mind and now it is here…

I love you more than nature,
As you are nature yourself,
I love you more than freedom,
Without you it will imprison me.

I love you carelessly,
Like the abyss, without any ruts!
I love you more than possible,
More than impossible…I love you.

I love recklessly indefinitely.
Even boozing, even being rude.
And more than myself – that’s for sure.
Even more than just myself.

I love you more than Shakespeare,
More than the beauty of the whole world!
Even more than the world’ s music,
As you are the book and music yourself.

I love you more than fame,
Even far ahead in the future!
More than any rusty country
Because my Motherland is you, not her.

Are you unhappy? Asking to care?
Don’ t annoy God with such requests!
I love you more than happiness.
I love you more than love.

PS: One of the ways it has become when the words melted with music in the original – Russian version:



 Image courtesy of L.Proffitt

Only a twist
To see the filigree petals
Depicting a rainbow within.
For mandalas to blossom
Into the light years ahead
Along the gnarls of the Silk Road.
The obscure ocean depths
To metamorphose into
Mosaics of shattered icebergs.
A gentle shake
For verdancy in all shades
From the Amazon rainforests to glisten,
And labyrinths of the mountain caves
Unveil the secrets of the fallen stars.
Another twist and turn
For crushed pieces to glide together
In amber, long forgotten
Among the grains of sand.
Pebbles of glass perplexed
With myriads of patterns.
Serenity lost in fervor of discovering –
I am learning to see
Myself in the world
All over again.

A kaleidoscope is a cylinder with mirrors containing loose, colored objects such as beads or pebbles and bits of glass. As the viewer looks into one end, light entering the other creates a colorful pattern, due to the reflection off of the mirrors. Coined in 1817 by Scottish inventor Sir David Brewster, “kaleidoscope” is derived from the Ancient Greek καλός (kalos), “beautiful, beauty”, εἶδος (eidos), “that which is seen: form, shape” and σκοπέω (skopeō), “to look to, to examine”, hence “observer of beautiful forms.” /