Tulips. Central Asia.

The irrepressible lark fills the warm air with a joyous trill,
the lusty grass gulps the sun in,
red headscarves and silk dresses burn against
the pristine verdant hills.
Tulips bleed onto the road
in bunches, clutched by dirty-faced urchins,
and on the back seats of dust-covered cars, or
woven between the spokes of old jingling bikes
upon which olive-skinned boys
with almond-shaped eyes,
carefree, boisterous
ride past.
By the side of the road
loom
mulberry trees
with the stumps of their chopped-off arms
that haven’t yet shot into the sky
the new arrows of branches and leaves.
The earth is still heavy and moist,
the brooks are still ringing with cold crystal
young girls on the roadside hide timid smiles behind their narrow mahogany palms

Arboretum

Yet again the giddy sakuras drop their tender pink petals
Onto the furious lusty green underneath;
Trembling tiny leaves
Tender like the touch of a new-born baby
barely opened their translucent bodies
to the unfamiliar warmth.
A young couple lost their chaff of clothes:
in the brightness of this day they are two luminescent angels
completely engrossed by each other,
their light skin breathing warmth and
a slender hand unexpectedly traces
the slight depression of his chest.
Circles on the water
run from the bare feet
sending shocks and sighs away
like heartbeats among the creosote-soaked piles
rocking arrogant yachts in their white solitude,
still further,
where the wild ducks are courting each other
where the dead cattails, silvered by the frost,
fall in a jumble of slain stalks,
where the blackbird sends a high-pitched cry
to claim his territory,
crimson badge on his sleeve,
on a thin branch in the wind
dark, as a coal drawing, waiting for his mate.
The flight of a hawk cuts the azure space of the sky,
his shadow sliding along the bars of a joyful chorus
like a dramatic pause.
Pink petals in my hair, I stand at the gate of the fall

Time and phenomenology

Most of us have contemplated Time at some point of our lives. Have you not experienced the existentialist Angst while pondering the ultimate end of self? Or mayhap you considered the transient nature of the Universe itself? Have you ever wondered why some moments of your life you remember with such clarity and vivid details and do not seem to remember other ones at all?
Philosophers from Aristotle and St. Augustine to Heidegger, Al-Ghazal to Lenin, scientists from Dekart, Newton to Einstein grappled with the notion of time. For some – time is the objective quality of substance. For the others – a means of internalizing the outside reality by the subjective conscience…
Aristotle defined time as “a number of change with respect to the before and after”. His time is unbroken, consisting of infinite number of instances between any two instances.
Augustine's time is, on the contrary, made of separate instances. Augustine’s inquiry into the nature of time arises from his attempt to understand how God, who is in Eternity, could create the world, which is in time. Like Plato, Augustine wants to understand the relation of Being and Becoming. Because God creates time itself along with heaven and earth, Augustine argues that it does not make sense to ask what God was doing “before” creating.The creation of time and becoming must somehow be a timeless act. Augustine also presents what is perhaps the first phenomenological description of time, observing that the past and future are never directly experienced as such, but are only known as certain types of experiences in the present.
“Thus it is not properly said that there are three times, past, present, and future. Perhaps it might be said rightly that there are three times: a time present of things past; a time present of things present; and a time present of things future. ...The time present of things past is memory; the time present of things present is direct experience; the time present of things future is expectation. “(Confessions, 11, XX)
“...see that all time past is forced to move on by the incoming future; that all the future follows from the past; and that all, past and future, is created and issues out of that which is forever present. Who will hold the heart of man that it may stand still and see how the eternity which always stands still is itself neither future nor past but expresses itself in the times that are future and past?” (Confessions, 11, XI)
Augustin’s time exists as long as the universe, created by God exists; dying, we are freed from the chains of time and would be able to view the totality of Creation…
Dekart and Newton view time as flowing evenly, and Einstein as relative and changeable. Husserl's Phenomenology views a continuum of experienced time similar to viewing a space continuum and demands a conscious reflextion; the retention of the past and the foreshadowing of the future are, in essence, the present. The flow of time becomes the intentional flow of experiences, a subjective passage that can be faster or slower...
The retained past – however subjective it may seem to the outside viewer,- is quite objective to me, the insider... The Heraclites river suddenly stops in its flow, and I enter it again and again watching my winged shadow flying ahead of me on the pale tiles at the bottom of the swimming pool, as I re-live this moment today, yesterday, tomorrow...

The Hedge

The tall dusty hedge divided the world
Into “my own” and “theirs”
Bitter-smelling dark leathery leaves
Deliniated the safety of space
And held the uniquness of the moment
Where a three-year-old boy
Is lost in baking his sand pies.
The softness of warm light and the thickness of time
At the bottom of the brook red worms wriggle among naked roots
The water between my fingers is clear and same always
In that instant I am forever ten
And my mother is still wearing a beautiful short dress
Standing in the doorway
With a song on her smiling lips.
A transistor radio and strange noises of the unfathomable planets
Under the golden moon
When loneliness is a gift you prayed for
And night belongs only to you
And you belong to the night...
And on the other side – noisy footsteps and loud voices
And the abysmal clanking of a trolleybus
Speeding along in a reckless abandon,
And multitudinous roads
Convoluted, endless
That lead you away
from your own self.

March Snowfall

Suspended in a strange kaleidoscope
of night
and twirling snowflakes
I fall without sound through the wind
My car is weightless
The street below
Unfolds its sleek and lonely arm
To catch my heart
excepting both
my fears and the quiet hope,
exuding sense of a wondrous
new beginning…

And yet - how mercilessly snow falls
on trembling innocent half-open blossoms…

Artemis and Gaia

Artemis, tall, white
Radiance in the night
Half-moon in her braid
Keeper of our last dolls
Breasts like the teats of a she-wolf triangular pointed
Long stems of her slender legs
tensed muscles and bowstring
Caressing the lucent pale curl by the ear
On the exhale – a faint whistle between clenched teeth
And the flight of Death

Gaia, shade of the day
Lithe in her flowing deliberate movements,
Her thighs are strong, she carried many children,
Her buttocks are perfect spheres
The sky and the earth
And the juicy ripe mangoes.
Where her tender foot treads,
Lakes are filled with life-giving water
Grapes dream, translucent in the sun,
And the irrepressible desire of lovers
Burns mortality with a sigh...

Then why does Gaia discover with trepidation
a grey hair in the tumbling mass of that dark waterfall?
Why does she peer at the mirror
Studying a new line at the edge of the dusky eye?
And why does the virgin vernal Artemis
Weep for Aktaeon
Why would she flee the enchantment of the starry effervescent night?

An Old Tree

An old tree twists its body over the intersection:
How many times have I passed it by?
How many times did I promise myself
to stop and take a picture of it
at dawn
wrapped in its pale diaphanous gown
of lilac mists,
black branches engraved mezzotinto
across the vellum of the skies;
in spring clad in tender buds,
dreaming, luminescent, pregnant;
in summer its dark heavy leaves cast a shade
of the deepest emerald hue;
in the fall the intense acrylic of carmine and ocher
seep through the threadbare foliage
in reflexes of gold and green.
And today, amidst cold and sickly grey,
nakedness and sulking silence
I have finally noticed that
moss
streaming down dark massive branches
was robust and fresh, filled with vigor and sunshine
like the grass in July.
Wet colorless day was suddenly transfigured:
The dull greyish February palette
flashed the fiery crimson of a flicker in flight,
a patch of turquoise smiled
upon the roiling led of the fleeing clouds,
and wrinkly puddles burned
with reflected viridian light
My tree does not ponder the bygone days