The Dialogs

Vs.

The Dialogs

To my teachers, the Kiev’s University Linguistics Department Professors Tatiana Evgenievna and Natalia Borisovna. To my family. To my friends and all I was blessed to know and talk with.

It was business from the very beginning in 2014, and I’ve dropped all personal as much as it was possible. It’s all about and for the one I’ve never seen or heard, or always seen and heard in all I talked with. It’s more this one than me, whose supposed initials gave me the letters to sign my ‘wordings’, which accidentally got the meaning if typed in Russian, МЫ, us.

It started with a question ‘do you know how the piano was invented?’ I ventured ‘someone dropped a harp and had his Eureka?’ Word after word, I answered ‘try me’ to that ‘epitome of challenge’ and was offered a piece in Hindi to “translate”. Being a translator by education, I took the task and with the Google Translator and other unfathomable help and means, for I’ve never known no Hindi, I had done what I could…That piece triggered the rest, a chain of talks and encounters, or the beads of jams rather. I’ve written them down as verses and short stories, thoughts and questions. What I was, a sheep, a flute, paper or a pen or any other tool? I don’t really know.

My birthday gift to my son. He turned 32.

12.10.2024, Moscow

Acceptance.

The pond is strewn with stones. Some boy just got overexcited with the process of contemplating waves he deemed to be the sole Creator…

Alas, there is no pond, no more, but water found her way with grace: in tinkling rivulets, went up, turned into clouds, came back as rains, joined seas, and oceans, no hurts and no regrets…

***

We ever are on different shores and never plunge. It’s always about reasons…

What are we to each other? “Lesson vs blessing”, some books of exercises, or coaching dolls, afraid of getting soaked… whatever.

Someday I’ll turn myself into a river, into a calm, and slow one with lots of curves and turns. Oh, let me mirror beauty of the Earth, blue sky, and birds, and clouds of all colors, and stars at night. I’d breed some mermaids in my depth.

Let me behold your face… My wish is to reflect your whole life, your friends, and family. And laughter of your kids, I wish, would ring between my banks. Just promise, you’ll come often, I want to see your smile.

***

November fogs… they come and shawl all nooks and crannies of the Earth.

Her face gets white and smooth; she looks as if she was just born.

Sometimes I wish they'd shroud all those bloody wars, all tears and fears, all ugly and polluting structures and machines, and midday winds would wipe it all without a tiny trace.

Sometimes I crave those winds would carry me away wrapped tightly in that foggy shroud with all my silly, childish dreams and hopes…

Please, let me this weak-kneed confession.

***

Лицемерие… Hypocrisy in Russian sounds like changing faces, or trying them on, like masks.

***

Three Parkas mastered their task through eras. One weaves, the other measures, and the last one cuts the thread of life. Their work is pure improvisation, no attachments. One eye for all of them sees closely to it.

The thread, the matter of your time is in your hands from birth. What will you do with it? Knots to remember, or a shroud for your grave, clothes for your children, bright and safe, a shawl to put on the shoulders of your mother, or gifts for your beloved, and friends? Or a canvas to paint the world you dream about and use all colors…

***

It happened on a train. We never even talked. We were just looking into each other eyes all night which seemed to last for ever. We were so young…

Our ways just touched and ran in different directions. We knew we’d never meet again, and never would be able to forget each other.

And maybe then I chose to dwell here often, on my little station, just seeing off and meeting trains.

My friends and my beloved would come, bring new ideas, trends.

Sometimes I wouldn’t recognize their faces, but with a cup of coffee and a talk I’d find that they are same, the way I loved them once. And they would always leave.

Well… here I am, enjoying silence, contemplating new thoughts, and concepts I was left with. I’d send my thoughts into the sky amazed at how they fly, how play with winds and draw sophisticated patterns around the Sun, or Moon at night. I swear that nothing could distract me from being awed by the process, all seasons are my friends, all weather, or conditions, even pain. And now pondering on thoughts which I unwrapped once as your gifts… yours are the first I can set free. I will remember how they soar.

***

What should be taught at schools?

We are the fields where all wars start. We’re stuffed with definitions of what is good and evil weaved tightly into nets of morals, ethics, politics, religion.

But what is evil here turns into good across the country border, sometimes across the fence of our neighbors.

We grow up appreciating our borders, not our differences though.

***

I wonder how we will sound at our premiere…

For now, I guess, it’s still a dress-rehearsal dragging on and on. We've got transfixed with polishing our parts, not listening to our neighbors…

Will we be ever ready to the words announcing our opening night, all soffits turning slowly to our conductor?

We’ve just forgotten in his hands we will be confident and safe…

***

Here on the floor next to my sleepy cat which won’t be stirred by words spirituality, philosophy or art, reality unfolds to all his senses without editing or censorship, my eyes against the 3yo mark made by my father on the doorpost…

It’s not a place of happy choice, indeed. Yet, it might be the closest to the level of unmarred perception of childhood, where I can hear the silence and recall what was forgotten long ago, forgive, let go, cry over, and accept, jump to my feet again and run to share with the whole world my heart and soul!

***

Sometimes you have to live for half of a century to realize the things you’ve lived for years with: NOWHERE IS EVERYWHERE, NOWHERE MEANS EVERYWHERE!, and fall in awe of such simplicity and beauty, and feel so thankful.

***

Some authors choose to deMONSTRate the others.

Well, work is paid, booked, filmed, staged, Pulitzered and Oscared.

We’d better deMONSTRate ourselves.

This process is quiet, far from entertaining.

But the results! Might add to positive statistics.

***

It’s such a pleasure travelling without luggage! Our “here and now” are so ephemeral possessions… The moment we forgot it, we’ve lost the art of flying.

Jailed by weak bodies, chained with thoughts, surrendered to our hearts, we are left here with a gift of our ever flying, dreaming, and creative souls, birds singing in a cage. And look at some of our creations, listen to our songs… Are not them beautiful?

***

How do you know, that all those shades of winter grey are melted by the Sun alone? Can you be sure, that birds can’t hear us talking to our kids, “Soon very soon my boy they will be back! Soon… swallows will be graffitiing the skies and nightingales accompanying our dreams with their soothing songs in May”?

And maybe rivers, and forests are longing for our laughter, and fields are eager to ripen their crops for harvesters?

Who knows what turns this world around, who knows?

I don’t, I’m simply contemplating…

***

– Please, tell me, river, you are not the same you were an hour ago?

– Says who?

– Says everyone for ages!

– It doesn’t matter seems, how many times you say same words, they won’t be a truth. I feel as young as born today and hope we don’t discuss my age here. So, what about you?

– Don’t know yet…

***

To make a painful choice and deal with a consequence, which never fails to follow. Stay face-guard down, or go with the flow, with somebody’s advice, for shelter?

Remember Amazons? Those used to mutilate right breasts to be the best at aiming.

Hard choice or just the only way to go?

***

My answer used to look like turning of my head, brisk talk over my shoulder while walking, light on foot.

And now… it looks like a maneuver as elegant as that of an aircraft carrier, the time of turning reasonably used to load an answer.

***

Those moments when daylight is spreading wings still young and weak, unsure of own powers, yet making light of streetlamps just… excessive.

And in the evening, fading into twilight, it kindles golden spheres to life again along with windows, candles, hearths of our dwellings.

I love them all and wonder with a cup of coffee in the morning, if that is just routine of working shifts to them, or still the meeting they are looking for?

No need to know for sure, though… Let stories of tomorrow be slightly new again.

***

I wish I knew a lullaby to soothe all hearts deprived.

I wish a mere candle light could warm them all at night.

I wish we felt how sunlight melts all our fears.

I wish we knew that wind with time will dry all our tears.

I wish we could believe in power of simple words,

And had the faith that we can live without wars.

They say all words are just sea foam…

What is sea foam? A joyful, careless daughter of the Wind and Water… If not for Her, what tide would look like, or what would turn an ocean into terrifying awe at storms? And don't forget, the beauty Venus once was born from sea foam, too.

***

What if our voice has dual nature, both particles of thoughts and waves of sound? Sometimes we shout, but not because of anger. We shout because of hope. Waves smashed against the walls that separate us, yet particles might reach the aim in hearts and heads, or vice versa. It might take years, millenniums, or eras… Hope is eternal.

***

How often our dialogs die as a pair of monologues unheard…

Some monologues survive with bitter knowledge, that they were just unheeded parts of dialogs already dead.

Which one survives? The one, which is strewn with quotes acknowledged, or potential, or quotes are born acknowledged?

***

At times you drop the reins got lulled by hopes and dreams, caught in your thoughts…

Blessed is the one, who’s got a friend, or stranger, or an angel flying by to get a nudge from, who’d tell you simple ‘Move. Your horse is getting fat and lazy in the shadows of a maze, you were the sole creator, the maze that’s weaved from your illusions. Move on!’

***

Don't close your heart. It’s big enough for all your memories to dwell.

Right whiff of scent, right words, right music, and lo! your memories are back, awaken! And you may cry and laugh again…

With time you’ll find your tears are just same happy as your smile.

***

First drop of rain, first thunderstorm of Spring, first snow,

First star, that surfaces bright ink of evening skies; first tear…

While kids we welcome them the very moment they come.

We grow to wait for them with years, and meet as something sacred,

As our blessings, or redemption. At times, as resurrection…

***

No matter, that from time to time they’re out of touch.

The youngest one would run ahead for calls he solely heard,

Or older one would stop to ponder….

They’ll meet again and share what they have learned,

For feeling of their touch is dear to both.

***

Good will epitomized!

Those simplest at times creations connecting us in noble silence,

No bargaining, no threats, no flattery, no wiggling…

They’re always waited for and live a long and decent life.

The first to suffer from the hands of those, who want to separate us.

I wish our hands and words, or treaties might be at least a half as trustful

As the bridges!

***

My way to the beginning,

A hundred thousand millenniums and miles along the road,

That winds up to the Ocean shore.

Its waters are ringing, bright and clear. Deep lilac skies above.

Enjoying every step. That's why so long.

***

I'm thinking about feelings, those ugly ones, like pain,

Which nail us to the ground…

I'm thinking about wars and those, who die from wounds,

From hunger, thirst and cold;

About those, who learned what REAL means.

The last, and ultimate edition…

I wonder if there is the one, or many who can prevent, or stop,

Or do not to start at all, or simpler still not shoot, not pull the trigger…

I pray you would get help the moment, you might need it.

***

I wish you’d only tolerate “the same” as a refrain of songs, that took your breath away.

Or when your shadow at sunset would point exactly to the East,

As promise, as a sign, that Sun and you will meet again tomorrow;

Or as another peaceful day, a day without war.

***

New Spring is yet ephemeral…

Not in my dreams or even thoughts, it’s rather feeling, and evasive either.

Like freedom promised through bright patches in the dusty curtains of the clouds.

March wind would tear at them, and fly towards the blue of open skies above.

My heart is with the wind, recalling warmer touches of the Sun,

Green haze that shawls the trees in May, and starry summer nights…

***

How can we choose the color of a dawn?

It comes as Heaven’s gift each morning.

It might be black or white, or “hundred shades of grey”,

You won’t know the up from down, and left with only gravity to trust

Before you make a step outside.

It might be bloody red, or loud pink, or orange, or honey gold,

And Moon is melting softly into the pale blue of skies…

They never come the same from under the creative brush

of Gods’ imagination, His dawns… and His sunsets!

***

Dull, faded skies above, all colors are turning rusty,

And only molten gold of a sunset sears the eyes…

All sounds withered.

Paint me some rain.

Revive my silence with the songs of tinkling drops, and ringing rivulets.

Please, read me poems about rivers.

They all are beautiful.

Please, scent my nights with smells of our garden after storms.

I know, you can…

***

The ratio of space we see while looking at the Earth and in the sky is awesome.

We’re rather scared by freedom opened by the vastness…

We're often looking down, like seeking for confinement in prisons of our minds and bodies, concepts, ideologies and views. One cage inside another, and another…

Are you still flying in your dreams at times? Why would you need more proof to know freedom?

***

They killed your Dream and at the funeral they sobbed, woeful.

An ambulance was fatal late to your ill hope.

‘You know, traffic…’

And by your own hand you cut the life support of Trust.

Your Kindness got into a lunatic asylum.

Yet, here you are by embers in the hearth of your belief,

You, with your tears and smile and love…

That's how you have survived and will survive, with love.

***

Those precious patterns of the words mosaic, old as the world itself.

Yet, colors are still fresh, gold, emerald, and turquoise.

It doesn’t matter how you rearrange the pieces.

Truth never fails to show itself in this Kaleidoscope of life.

***

“Let it go, set it free…”

I have doubts about this… concepts. What is missing? I’m still in doubt, or I’ve just buried it too deep…

We were friends from the first day of our first year as students. We turned into logical extension of each other. One started the sentence, and both of us finished it, always. Suddenly he turned his back on me, stopped talking at all, and I was shy to ask why.

We were teens, and our connection was pure and innocent.

In two months he was drafted, and spent two years in the army.

He came to me the day he was back home, asked if we could be together again.

– But why you left me?

– I set you free.

– Why should you?

His answer… can’t remember it.

I’ve never told him, that I was heartbroken, turned rough, started smoking, rebelled against the whole world, against myself, above all – myself…

Well, in short, why don’t ask for consent, or at least, let know?

***

У Мамы всегда был маленький блокнот, куда она записывала понравившиеся цитаты, важные цифры, нужные номера телефонов, другими словами, все, что нельзя забыть. В детстве я любила листать его. Это высказывание Конфуция осталось со мной на всю жизнь. «Счастье – это когда тебя понимают, большое счастье – это когда тебя любят, настояeщее счастье – это когда любишь ты.»

*My Mom used to keep a notepad in which she wrote important sums, telephone numbers, some quotes not to forget. I loved reading it. There was a Confucius quote I loved the most ‘He is happy, who’s understood; he’s very happy, who’s loved. Yet, real happiness is to love.’

***

Look at the picture and enjoy it, can’t you?

You always look for meaning, do you?

When darkness comes and somebody's helpful hand turns on the light…

It helps to guess the meaning of the lamps, does it?

‘Shine on’ if asked, enjoy the weather for the rest of time.

***

It’s always about loss they say…

I’d say it’s loss of the ground surface and fall you can’t control.

It shows in your demeanor, face, your… everything!

Yet, seems your closest won’t notice.

They look at you as if through foggy glass.

And you, you won’t lie, you just… won’t say away the truth.

Who knows, what separates you?

If something’s meant to happen, it will happen..

Well… falling? Make a decent face and persevere.

***

Like honey, deep yellow air of sunny evenings. Long shadows on the ground…Dense silence of the city before the weekend.

And people with their dogs are still on emerald-green lawns.

I like the feeling of being frozen in that amber…

***

The most delicate, fragile is the fabric of harmony.

It’s weaved of precious threads, of love and pain, of care and kindness…

It’s difficult to weave just as it’s difficult to love, be kind and honest, worry and forgive.

It is so very easy to destroy.

***

‘No strings attached’, he offered. She returned, ‘no strings, no music’.

***

‘As much as we are different those people, who had died in World War II,

And us, crippled badly by civilization, more cynical, less fit…

We are as much the same.

If needed we will rise, take arms and fight for our country.’

My Son has said this when he was 15.

I looked into his eyes, I knew, it might take longer and be bloodier…

But in the end we’ll win, no matter what it takes.

***

We got so close in those 900 days and nights of Leningrad blockade, my death and I.

I didn't even have to outstretch my hand to feel His face.

I had acquired His traits and features to survive.

Got numb, not screaming under bombings…

Turned blind, while looking on dead bodies in the streets

So calm, and peaceful, as if sleeping…

Grew deaf to tears and moans of dying friends and relatives…

Fell into senseless limbo to adjust with those incessant cold and hunger…

Why I survived? To say those words again and-yet again?

Alas… Who feels my words? Who can?

***

Another spring, still young…

Green gaze, that shawled the trees a week ago

Turned into stars and constellations, grew dense…

And lo, now those are bright emerald leaves,

Which donned up gracefully their lanky trunks and branches

Can’t get enough of it, and savoring this magic transformation…

***

We are so human with our pets, as we should be to our fellow humans.

It’s just relations paradise!

We look into their eyes, we wait for their answers, not interrupting…

More understanding, laughing at the words we think they’d utter in response.

No posing, no offence, we feel ourselves.

Just saying it away, and feeling grateful even if the answer is the silence…

***

Our swallows are back again.

Like a sign, we've been forgiven,

Like a promise of another Summer.

You know, this promise has never been broken yet…

***

Don't let me go. Don't send me into an exile of freedom.

And even if you do, I know, you have to.

I'll stay, I'll wait, I'll always be over here for you…

***

My ultimate addiction, this planet, I’ve hardly seen and know, yet love.

This awesome world, it’s gorgeous patterns, mighty wilderness.

Its people, “perfectly imperfect”…

God’s only matter of concern, eternal inspiration!

***

Keep talking, tell me all the stories on earth, I’ve heard you know all of them, but one.

This one, unfolding gracefully for us to contemplate.

You weren’t ready, were you?

***

She came with a smell of mown grass left drying in the sun.

She brought a fair and windy day into his attic.

She left. He stayed to wait for the smell of rain next time.

***

Wrapped in black folds of darkness

White face of Moon shone brightly till the morning.

Now, sparkling blanket of the Night is thrown away,

And slipping slowly behind the horizon;

And Moon is melting in the hands of Sun

On bare blue sheets of skies.

***

She rises up in the sky too kiss her love to the Sun,

And turns ephemeral, like dreams.

She plays with winds.

They’re painting clouds all day long

Till darkness comes

In the embrace of Night

She falls back down to the Earth

To sleep all cold and calm.

She turns into sparkling dew

To mirror sky and stars above

To dream about the Sun.

***

The Sun was fighting rough and stormy clouds

Chased by the winds of June.

I’ve closed my eyes.

The dark was changing hue from bright

Light yellow, lighter still, to orange and maroon…

Just like my memories of you.

***

You've filled me with your words and poems,

Your thoughts and songs,

You've filled me up with you.

Your care and mastering were too ascetic.

Your riddles were too teasing;

They put me under showers of doubts too cold.

You've got me broken in embrace too strong.

Not whole anymore.

I can't be filled. I'll always be thirsty…

***

He did it with his eyes “wide closed”

He thought about his “goals”.

I’d better he would enjoy the process…

Oh, my Pygmalion.

Seems, I’m your greatest disappointment.

Well, time and weather will polish all drawbacks,

And I will fall in love with time and weather.

***

And If I grow some enemies along the way,

I won’t spend my life on waiting when the river carries their bodies to nowhere.

You’ve taught me to enjoy the simple things the way they are.

Not as utilities to please my ego.

***

Enchanted by the smell of nettles, and jasmine, and linden.

Your skies, that rest in waters still as mirrors.

Like dragonfly in ember I’m getting molded into

Your honey-yellow evenings, young July.

***

There’s always been that silent force,

Which soldiers are not frightening, not frightened.

The army of dreamers,

Who see this world much better place.

Oh, you’ll be conquered sooner than you recognize

And realize their mighty power.

***

Призывная комиссия в Мариинской больнице, Санкт-Петербург. Анкета одного из призывников. В графе диагноз написано «звездная болезнь». Боец, несомненно.