Poetry by Anna Polibina-Polansky *** The Inner Vigilance (a poetic auto-rendition from Russian) 1 Rough copies of the life, are of no scars. There is a stitch beyond you, in the stars. You watch the sky, you plead the upper blessing. Its snows still, and you are blind from guessing. The rainbows in the sky, are snakes and lizards; You are so short of those mighty wizards. The triviality weaves in your breast, Its heavy nets, its ever wandering nest. So you are hooked at horoscopes foretelling That visions are inevitably melting. The deputy of the descending Lord, Your spirits are of absolute discord. Those lofty spaces touch the constellations: We seek for those delusive revelations. Too general are flaws here, to be helped. Too much, against our reveries, is held. Oh those explosions of our wings, at heights! There is yet much, from outer views, to hide. I am ashamed of upper spheres reached: So the ideals are left, to besiege. The roaring blizzards, keep us still awakened. Close to our hearts, no pains are ever taken. The humans, are too humbled and benign.
The sky is burnt, under the figure "nine". 2 The lilac beats against the glass. Details do promise so, to last. The chestnut tree fights daily rains. The midday slowly goes gray. The night is sparkling from afar. The moony face is left ajar. This May is poisoned by its bloom: Sweeps clean, its ever mighty broom. That immortality's of birds, Of tunes that I have never heard! Like monks, are fasting those springs: I do attach the broken strings... In mounts, resounds our will. We are all doomed, and still, and still... Those revelations play their song And teach us so, to grow strong. Eternity won't keep the terms. Within the glance, ideals stir. Theatrical dolls walk the way, All through, with no place to stay. Soon, all those vision out melt. Things diappear, on what we dwelt. We won't ever recognize
The grief that still, fills up the eyes. We won't be back to where we start. The voice is bleak. The note is tart. 3 The darkness drops at our way home. The Moony landscapes come and go. Alienated from the sky, We look yet for a better guide... So we are doomed to blankly hope, That with those things, we'll ever cope. Delusive lines come up and thaw. Oh, can you trust in that see-saw? The ash of troubles, drops in vain. The mask will not conceal the fame. Those velvet stars ornate the throne, So we are left, the things to own; And we are left, to sadly reign. The earth goes off, the heights remain. The food is good, and we are fed. The needles welcome camels, yet. The way is hard, the hill is steep, And there is nothing, yet, to keep. The clock is old, the time is wrong; The feet are sore, the will is strong. 4
We do recall the path we tread. The pride is even more unsaid. Impeccable are orchards green: Anticipated's the unseen. Until the very misty grave, We meekly dream, we blankly crave. Despite the silence, stories last. We trust, we seek, we need, we ask. The voices of the cellos brave, So, will suffice, to make us pray. Too generous are given days: Old wives spread their unfair tales. We loose the world just when we die, But ceaseless, proves to be the time... That route can't ever be returned. The sun is hot, the wind is stern. I'm not allowed to receive, But I can judge, the things to see. I seek for just a place to be, For option good, from which to pick. I can't make Moony ebbs, from tides: The place accompanies the time... Dysthopias of sweet relief! The aspiration's stark and brief! The pleasant moments are too scarce.
The stitches slowly turn the scars. The wounded deity humbly waits When emptiness, will turn his traits. You smell the world of prompts and cues! You paint the sky in brighter hues. You try so to rejoice, to laugh... But one wrong step will be enough. The curtain drops, you don't know when. It's chiming five, it's chiming ten. In twelve, all out, are the spells. Those steps in dark. Those evening bells.
"The Inner Vigilance". Here is a fresh English lyrical cycle by Anna Polibina-Polansky, a poetess and a script writer from Moscow. It is an...