Captured by the Snow Queen

(to my childhood friends, Lucy and Alv)

The childhood time was golden and slow
Like honey from a plastic bear bottle
The old apricot tree would get dressed in pink lace
Alive with the purposeful buzz of the bees
The wet clay between fingers was fat and pregnant
With a host of ideas demanding immediate implementation
Even the moss had its own inimitable sligtly pungent smell
Colored sea glass spoke of distant shores and adventure
Dead goldfish were awarded lavish funerals
Cats on the roofs engaged in mysterious rites
A boy and a girl were reading a book together,
Their shoulders barely touching, and it was important:
Trust and intimacy; in November the wind tore off
Acacia pods, sharp, curved and pointed Tartar swords,
Their seeds perfectly smooth, their juice bitter-sweet and gooey.
The unbearable backpacks were dragged on the ground,
And even the pouring rain could not interrupt
The conversation of two fifth graders.
And at home there was the hot stove, yellow light and cocoa
The fervent wait for the snow would be followed
By the impatient hope for the spring
The last icicles like some crystal amber imprisoned
All sorts of strange little creatures, wood chips and sand.
Sitting down by the bluish mounds of ice by the water
Lost in the halls of the Snow Queen,
I am still expecting a miracle.
December 31, 2008

Snow at night

Snow fell like a pause between a breath and a heartbeat
Listless, inexplicable, pristine,
The white maiden pages of streets before dawn
Scincillated palely, promising magic
Of new beginnings.
Cars by the sidewalks froze
Under thick blankets, enchanted monsters,
Hunching before a pounce.
Empty parks peered into the white silence,
Zealously guarding rabbit tracks
And the summer-time benches of lovers.
Trees stopped in the windless quiet,
Dropped their last yellow leaves
Into the snow and ice,
Frozen, fragile,
Like hard candy and equally bright.
Puddles stifled by frost, loomed black
Like negatives of lost sunny days…
A homeless man from Renton can no longer remember
A warm home that was his just three months ago
Policemen in heavy black coats
Look like Malevitch’s black square
Awkward in their attempt
To help
Ice on his blanket
Tarp, covering
Remnants of personal possessions
Snow
And oblivion

The tall historical bridge of dull gray concrete that is stretching between Queen Ann and Freemont neighborhoods is known to Seattlites not only as the Aurora Bridge, but also as the Suicide Bridge. During past decade at least 39 people leaped to their deaths into the dark churning waters of the Lake Union - or into the parking lots and rooftops nearby. This is the bridge that witnessed the bus hijacked by a madman go over the rail... While the city is still pondering how to suicide-proof the bridge walkway, the bright yellow boxes with emergency telephones were placed on the bridge in the hopes that the suicide might pick up the phone. In November, another person plunged to death from the bridge.

Early twilight

Multilayered clouds of all shades of storm
bleached the lake and the city
to the same dull silver,
left it twitching in agitation and fear
pierced by the red-and-white snakes
of the highways.
The wind threw handfuls of black birds
into windshields,
gigantic firs stretched their dark looming arms
in a sinuous macabre dance.
Early twilight swallowed all colors
painted dark circles under tired eyes
masked familiar faces with heavy gray make-up.
Damp cold numbed the fingers,
the concrete rails rose for the occasion,
the rain denied vision
and so
it was impossible
to see
on the bridge
the hope of a yellow box
with a telephone

To my friend

Caressing glimpses of thoughts
scanning the words
images of the vain busy days
and low quiet echoes
of a heartbeat in the twilight of the empty rooms
golden evenings
floors like honey
conversations
about the most sacred
and the most mundane
are left behind somewhere
the overwhelming
separation
in the physical space
rolled with the red apples
from one coast to the other
fell with a wall
of the bright autumn leaves
eclipsing the other time.
And only the moon,
the all-knowing crone
shed her pale light
on my secret path
to the new house.

Homeless in December

A homeless woman is leafing through
The yellow pages of her newspaper
Her face is bruised, worn and shriveled
Like a forgotten pear
Under a tree.
What long-lost news is she searching for?
What story keeps her
Lips moving?

Equally homeless dogs trot by
Unperturbed
Preoccupied with their own woes,
And the passers-by
Scorch her with indifference.
The city is getting ready for Christmas.

Post by the road

Post by the road stands unblinking
in ragged remnants of forgotten
words
like dying saint
his body pierced
with thousands of staples, pins and nails
He calls with hope and
vends the glory
and offers deals
and sells
at a discount
both self
and everything in a garage and home

post by the road’s deadly wounded
with biting cold of cruel lonely nights
and rains
and the indifference of the passers-by
Each crack is bleeding tears
and deep uneven wrinkles
run
like furrows, each one pregnant with a word

Like soul
that ever wanes in solitude
Like soul that ever
hopes to see

February 24, 2008

Turkey

To Seva Rzhondkovsky

Like Earth’s blue eye
The deep pond roundly gazes
Into your face
And burns the lips
with thirst,
insatiable sigh of longing,
Or music’s rich elusive balm.
Do not rip strings,
Don’t break the chains
Of lazy afternoon daydreaming,
Allow me yet to linger at the edge
Of the impossible
Mediterranean
Eden.
But lo!
A rider gallops in the distance
And cuts
with a thin blade
of trailing
dust
The periwinkle-painted skies.

November 11, 2008