Я живу в Нью-Йорке. Переводы, стихи, публицистика и короткая проза публиковались в многочисленных журналах и альманахах русского безрубежья, а также на сетевых литературных порталах и в коллективных сборниках. Переводы, стихи и проза на английском опубликована в журналах Америки и Азии. Неоднократный финалист и призер различных конкурсов, шорт-листер конкурса “Open Eurasia-2017”, член Союза писателей 21 века, редактор портала “Золотое Руно”. По профессии психотерапевт.
Country : United States of America ( USA)
I live in New York City. My poetry, short fiction, essays and translations of poetry in two languages appeared in a number of literary journals and almanacs, most recently “Former People”, “Unlikely Stories” and elsewhere. I am a finalist and a winner of several literary contests, and was shortlisted by the “Open Eurasia-2017” for short fiction. I work as a psychotherapist.
The child, as he matures, stops nudging and moaning;
no longer demands a seat on a minibus ride;
understands that his mother is not there, he’s on his own,
that she, no joke, died.
Here he is, confused, a salt-and-pepper pariah,
with the unzipped bag, in the old shabby coat,
just the way he’d already shaped his persona prior to
acquiring his own mind.
The fog is falling down… I pull it up but it is falling down…
Don’t disturb my sleep…
What is next?
As a child I would hand my face
to mom and ask, “Kiss
this old bird.”
Mom used to laugh, “What kind of old?”
and planted a kiss.
These days, I mutter under my breath,
“An old bird,”
And answer, “What kind of bird?”
No one kisses me.
an octopus of October is rushing
while its two gill-hearts pump
the smoked morning air
of an ink variety or good with beer
freezing at the point
of the ballet shoe, like linden
trees swaying under the abyss of sun
under a stillness of water
through its breathing and pulse
in the slenderness of its eloquence
(shoulders and their, like, blades)
takes off necklaces and shawls
disrobes and cries
On a brink of exhaustion, lying down for a nap
on the bed, under two blankets and three cats,
cover the right ear from the humongous draft –
a girl at times, at other times an old hag.
Rains outside multiply the commiseration
for that leaf, and little by little surround
your, somewhat homeless, house where you are napping
under three blankets and under four cats for a cover.
And when the last of leaves falls onto the ground,
and unhurried onlookers disband their hordes,
you will fall asleep under five blankets and ten cat covers,
so deep that the sleep itself finally ceases to hold you.
And while you resurrect, I bake the cake
for Easter. While under the shroud
the flash photography bares the holy face,
pupils dilate, the joints are getting warmer,
and signs of life develop like film
through your concerned paleness, I pour in
wheat flour, pinch by pinch;
I tenderly fold in my wheat affection.
In the meantime, the resurrection hurts,
and merry-go-around of my head
goes ‘round, registering in passing
your shadows and colors, comes to a boil.
And I whip up the egg whites high and firm,
only to let them sink in the holiday dough.
You massage your temples with fingertips,
get up and step down from your seat,
while the shroud, grasping onto your leg,
makes a half finished move
across the floor of the suddenly lit cave.
And what just happened enters realm of faith.
And then, right after moving the death aside,
you move the rock and walk into the light.
I want to be a strong old gal
to be a lean ninety-year old
blessing her God
having come from the well with her water
having cooked her great-grandson’s morning porridge
getting her nap on the old-fashioned bedding…
on the window, draft is caught by a muslin curtain
spring is breathing asthmatically in the sky
a cat is purring under her side,
old-womanly dead yet kind…
My body, a hundred percent fireflies,
lights up and turns off on encounter;
flutter and light are festive and hold us firmer,
slowly unfolding to its full height.
Do not approach: everything may take flight
up into a sleepy blue, and will leave the burden
of the poor carcass; sadness; a sense of burglary,
aging and dying and all that related junk.
This is a museum rarity, – every touch
or flash photography can only damage or break.
One can use just a melancholy gaze,
long and frank.
watch how this fall flies off the window sill through the air
and I am much and same here but there’s nothing to write
watch wheels of death over the house that tick and tock in the heart;
my server is dead and (be quiet!) beyond the repair
that half of my life which I walked toward you without you
watch it: the foliage of the sky is apparently near –
my autumn is buried under the cold and the strict
my books and my legs and my lips and the hair
all want to partake in familiar reverberation, tongues and roots
I’m near I’m close I think that I must be you
there is school dictation to grade- I agree silently
as if not to jinx it but to utter it’s very gist
watch how the listless leaf of the ancient tree
tilts, lost in thought, towards the silent center of earth
Nauseatingly dim is the streetlamp that illuminates
imperceptible steps of the watery cold. You see,
leafing through the last volume of your hand,
resting my ears, head and trunk on your knees
makes it easy to understand that my dark well
of affection and downfall has no floor.
It’s like death – one goes there alone,
With no passport, no money or phone.
You don’t have to listen or scramble for reply;
you can stay silent, turning away and pretending.
Lips dive into your shoulder’s melancholy, get caught in my rhymes,
lips surround, leaving my rhythm unsettled.
It’s like a dream – the railway apartment of dreams,
that, sticking their trunks out, rock and wake me.
Let me kiss your neck, whisper in your temple,
spit it out, squeeze, curse your lameness –
no one’s here, and post demolition landscapes
anesthetize all pains in one general sweeping gesture.
Affection’s like death. Both are brewing inside.
Former is nearer. The latter is more elemental.
I am not feeling well. Are you feeling me?
What does your heart tell you in the voice of trees
sleeping- on behalf of the flying snow-
of the lengthy winding road spinning you,
bringing everything back to the enchanted town?
Charmed, – -armed, —med,
the day pauses, reluctant to end.
Lull it into crib, into to sleep, into unending light.
A delicate granny in the felt hat,
my old and awful winter will smolder its pipe,
cough, the sound of a marching band,
and blow the horn between her driver’s legs.
Weird as it is, as if I am remembered,
villagers went searching for me now and again
in the boggy swamps, in deep woods, and up the slopes.
I turned into a mermaid – slippery and morose.
Tickle you dead, hide under the ice.
Beware: no one will find us.
he doesn’t need all what makes “I”
my stomach spine my rhymes my silence
to walk to sit to stand to lie
to nod and shrug as well as
to enter to exit through the window
to shed reflections, monotonous
and dull, on breaking daily fibers
with our loose, unbridled voices
all that he doesn’t need is – mine
the whole list of half forgotten
things existential mundane
not way–of-life don’t be be not in
I am a prickly cucumber: touch me for itchy poetic rash.
It’s even funny. Even sad. Even disgusting.
Most of all – even funny.
All this time was used by me
to bear kids,
to get used to my own face,
to realize that soul wrenching pity
is one and only faithful love,
to see my own helplessness,
to see that God won’t leave us
yet won’t help,
to ascend that hill, the light of which
will transform everything into coherent and forgiven.
It is not much but leaves one with hope,
and joy occurs
and to breathe,
and all that breathing.