Kitabı oxu: «Letter of Letters»

to you,

whose eyes are now looking

in the mirror of my lines…

© Sergei Tsimbalenko, 2023

ISBN 978-5-0060-5368-7

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

I

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!

II

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.

III

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!

IV

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…

V

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…

VI

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?

VII

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.

VIII

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?

IX

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…

X

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…

XI

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…

XII

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.

XIII

endless office space…

fingers tapping on keys:

composers of a new music.

the notes are numbers —

the symphony of a prison hell…

XIV

what do you think, it is i do,

when i’m left alone with myself?

i remember myself.

that is how i am able to remember

who i really am.

solitude helps me

maintain myself.

then comes the time to give

a piece of myself to others.

and thus it happens over and over…

in the whole process there is the meaning of love.

a lonely icy ocean,

its eternal nursing not in vain:

i’m learning from it.

XV

my wife —

cherry lips of mine,

vanilla hands of mine —

my tender flower.

i will see you again today:

again you will complain

that i do not appreciate you,

about my indifference to you —

about your imprisonment.

the universe dims outside the window —

i will cry from the injustice to you…

and again i won’t hear you.

XVI

hold me tight in the hug of yours.

protect me from all of my enemies.

love me more than my notions.

raise my needs above those of yourself.

allow me to experience happiness next to you.

pour me some warm milk,

and we will contemplate the blizzard

from our nest

under the thick blankets…

did i dream it?

or are you calling me?

XVII

a house of horror.

i’m walking down a dark corridor…

the white fuse plugs of the electric meter come alive

before my eyes in my stupor —

i scream silently,

i awaken.

again an echo from childhood —

a reflection of the sound waves

of a subcutaneous scream

from the obstacles of the past…

in the here and now.

XVIII

raging people, who look like shit;

raging shit, which looks like people;

fucking dicks

in over fucked vaginas and assholes;

knives,

machine guns and bullets in the hands of bastards;

crap being broadcast from the stands;

other shitheads and fuckers…

interesting, can blackness

become even blacker in our consciousness?

dead silence in radioactive nuclear dust —

is that the limit of the mob

or enlightenment?

XIX

the drops of my weakness hung on the leaves.

my strength is made stronger on the roads,

that lead to the goal.

my foot stepped over the threshold of the doorway —

i stepped over the line of the horizon,

from where there will be no return.

XX

when i’m devastated

or depression has taken over me,

i put together a puzzle

from what, i see,

surrounding me:

women and men

moving about on foot —

an eternal dance within time.

a shopping center of coffee marble —

artificial happiness for a paid receipt.

a multitude of doors, purses, letters,

cell numbers —

the entourage of our biographies…

thus the mosaic of my city is ready:

i’m consoled with a masterpiece.