© Sergei Tsimbalenko, 2023
ISBN 978-5-0060-5368-7
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
i spent a long time thinking,
about how to start my book of letters…
and what to call it?
poems within letters…
letters from the loony bin…
letters from paradise…
letters to myself…
letters to you…
we all write letters to someone.
so i didn’t notice
how i had already started…
reading yours – i write an answer:
hello to you!
witness to the great battle
of illusion and reality!
in the subway.
the underground home of a large gloomy family.
here there is us,
our consciousness,
our memories,
which means that there is everything here.
birds,
space,
continents,
kings and queens,
presidents,
artists…
what difference is there between a Mondrian
and a marble pattern
on a subway wall?
the first and the latter both attract people to themselves,
as destinies rush past one and the other,
staying true to their values…
to their art…
to their prisons.
here a person sits:
what is the difference between the real
and the imagined,
what if you never actively interact with one
or the other?
getting up from his seat, Redon leaves…
freeze!
go away…
the voice on the speaker says:
Trubnaya Station…
the train stops,
the doors open —
no one, anywhere.
taking my son to school…
a tired young woman
slips past me
poetry whizzes past the woman
on the panes
(the windows of the houses sing today
with patterned ice,
regardless of quarrels
with the households) —
what a unpleasant, grievous loss!
the underground country of the subway.
a smiling lady
against the background of the vertical black rivers
of the tunnels.
your smile seeps into me
in slow currents…
my unexpected and sudden love!
my unrequited love.
the palm of your hand touches your hair,
you caress the eyelids of restless travelers,
and only your subtle glance down
betrays your secret pain…
as
i try to understand
the source of your pain,
the train makes a stop —
you quickly harvest your eyes
and head for the exit —
there,
where the guillotine of doors
divides your life and mine
into the before and after…
i contemplate yet another failure…
trying to cradle the irrepressible pain inside…
the number of times i’ve been told no —
is the number of times a butterfly
has flown over my shadow…
the number of times i’ve been told no —
is the number of times the flowers smelled sweet
at my feet…
the number of times i’ve been told no —
is the number of times the birds have sung
in my honor…
the number of times you’ve been told no —
is the number of times the morning rose
outside your window…
the number of times you’ve been told no —
is the number of times your lips have been pampered
by pure water…
the number of times you’ve been told no —
is the number of times the wind has been stilled
around you by an invisible hand from heaven…
how many times have we forgotten
to allow a triumph of victory inside ourselves,
when every no was smashed to smithereens…
the happy face
of a subway employee,
the days flying by sitting in a booth,
between the iron teeth of escalators:
what is a prison?
what is loneliness?
what is despair?
hunted legs,
the grinding asphalt, granite, marble… earth:
what is freedom?
a complete bum,
decomposing against the backdrop of people
relaxing in the park:
what is society?
somewhere children were forever silenced,
not having begged for bread:
what is this our word?
in a stranger the response
tour timid moans —
what is the basis for our word
and in whom do we sow
the seeds of words?
within the urban noise of engines
i hear the splash of a river,
in the gray texture of asphalt
i see Cezanne, which cubism predicted,
in the universal stench
i inhale the scent of the sea…
i’m not here.
who is this guy,
who are my feet carrying
into the whirlpool of ordinariness?
i don’t know who he is,
we are not acquainted.
the more you fight against it:
screaming, getting angry, crying…
the more i see
a friend within you.
how do i recognize your secrets?
i look at our child —
his eyes:
they’ve known everything for a long time.
why with age do we lose the ability to
understand?
strangers
on the naked streets —
their glances paint me
as i truly am…
a bird flies away into a white cloud —
a certain clarity in this sign:
secret knowledge about myself
is moving away from me
irrevocably…
chains of seated passengers…
they pull out their heart
and mold a smartphone out of it,
holding it like a prayer book —
a quiet prayer service.
in the slicing impacts of the rails
the needs of every martyr are reflected,
and the train goes on and on
in its own wretched direction…
again you’re raising your walls!
your shrub wall turned into a garden,
then into a forest…
and again you sow seeds for the wall,
and again you wait for the harvest…
you are reflected in passersby —
i am reflected in you —
we are reflected in the faceless crowd —
the faceless crowd is reflected in us —
everyone is rushing around within the four corners
of the cubist hell…
let’s exit this museum —
there’re no authentic works here.
endless office space…
fingers tapping on keys:
composers of a new music.
the notes are numbers —
the symphony of a prison hell…
what do you think, it is i do,
when i’m left alone with myself?
