Birdish

The soft-pounding heart of the North.
The simple chords of a clover.
Down a forest lake, as one floats,
one cannot communicate in prose.
Through wizardry or illusion
We will trickle and meld with the loons.
While the storm cloud down the boggy shore
will patter along with its drizzling paws.

With ears, with roots, with souls
we listen to the soft-pounding heart...

Frozen fairytale:
A winter Alaska.
Branches, just like wrung wings of the whitened birds.
Wind from pines and mountains
sweeps up all the snowflakes,
Blizzards, just like wolf packs, through the forests lurk.

Frozen fairytale:
a winter Alaska.
Without mittens frozen paws of animals.
Far beyond the Arctic,
Never reaching southwards
Like the northern lights, you’ll flash and lose your thought.

Frozen fairytale:
a winter Alaska.
What is that, which flickers ‘midst the winter fog?
Oh it breathes so hotly!
Come now and approach it
Squint and view it better…don’t you see? It’s us.

The prickly spires of selfie sticks
The gentiles preaching on the steps
The conversations, measly things
The bustle, profit of the prayers
It's grown too old to tolerate
All of this shallow agitation
The aging Notre Dame resigned
And self-ignited in objection.

If it's spring and you're still feeling timid
If from boredom, you have hung your nose
Belt yourself with some sandy white beaches,
like Barbados.

So that you can ejaculate foam
(island love whispers of salty lore)
and on lyres that have been crazed with rum
you can serenade the shore.

So you bleed only sugary syrup,
so your heart is a forest in bloom,
so you ail just with hurricane surfs,
with the sky's scorching fume.

When you watch how the sailboats all flit
in the harbors, sunrise to sunrise,
all your nerves will start prancing like chimps
Somewhere inside.

If you use stars to rate your hotels,
there's no better hotel than the sky.
Take a thousand Barbadoses, still,
To the sky we say hi!

Is it not better to shine by rays,
And one day, heeding to destiny,
to transform into a mighty wave,
and wash off to the sea?

Paris, Bonjour! A deck is barren without queens.
For what is art? An alcoholic drink.
And to this day, not only Quasimodos,
Rodins fall to Her feet from the bell tower.

New York, hey, hey! You're glistening by instinct?
Close down Wall Street, already enough shows.
There, Esmeraldas burn themselves like matches.
Everything else around seems cheap and false.

Moscow, privet, czar-city, rage eternal
Facade romantic, pragmatic in all else
Not every priest is Claude Frollo, and also
Not each madonna is the Notre Dame.

Buenos Aires, hola, your dance is endless
Where women, just like needles, scald.
But I? I sit among library silence
With Borges, sitting, reading Hugo's novel.

We, the wild grasses of the prairies
and the wild sands of the shores,
knew this state from its birth.
Our coyotes and chipmunks,
our seagulls and our ducks
Their years cannot be counted.

But hear the hooves and thunder,
the scathing descants of bullets
and the myriad sounds of love:
all that ever fell onto these grasses,
all that was ever silenced by these sands.

We don't mind: let there be a city.
Skyscrapers, lights, cars.
We are adorned on lawns,
potted carefully on beaches.
But, of course, this is nonsense.
Only we, like always, are tranquil.
Know, we grow with our spikes towards the sun
and blow our grains of sand into dunes.
And when everything calms down,
as silent as night, we will enter Chicago.
Very slowly, as if in a slumber,
we will sprout through all of its roads,
we'll push over the very last steeple

There's no anger, there is no regret,
and there definitely isn't revenge.
It is simply that this is our job
preservation

I'm in Iceland. I'm behind a lock. I am a bird,
Who settles on
Moss-covered rocks.
I would dream
just of warm lands beyond
If I knew of such lands
in my thoughts.
There are white nights and there are dark winters, They glisten.
There is the scalding grey smoke of geysers,
They beckon.
The burlesques of volcanoes, of waterfalls, Cliffs.
And the ocean that shakes with the whale's Wayward fin.
I read tales of the trolls and the sea's
Ancient song
And I soar to the moss-covered sky
From the rocks.

RUSSIA

Here, whether you love or you harm
The roots, and the thoughts, and the tongue

Among the abyss of roads untamed
Forever burning - an eternal flame.
You strike it with whips or with fables.
Unfading.

UKRAINE

You are happy or you are sad,
Just sleep it off.
See spring pass on into
a vivid grove.
June conjured out of crystal
Small raindrops.
I shouted to the world,
about my love.

USA

"From sea to shining sea",
from musicals to movies.
Wherever you may wheel -
hotels, gas stations,
and casual little diners - roadside beauties.
Here, smiles are mandatory prologues
To everything, whatever it may be:
From celebrations to conflicts.
Here, skyscrapers for people, are mountains for nature
Wherever you may visit,
there's turkey in autumn, and Jingle Bells in winter.
Wherever your wheels take you -
some with boats attached, some that mow grass green -
from musicals to movies,
"from sea to shining sea".

CANADA

No, I simply don't know why
But here, I want to swathe in ice.
And then, perhaps, I'll come to grasp
the icy water's shaman mask.
It seems that there, I am a bear,
The snowy poem of endless songs.
I dream of warming up the souls
of thawing patches - blue and black...

MEXICO

Cerveza!
A pair of iguanas, black,
make love among the ruins' cracks -
and softly fall into my glass.
Balche!
The guitarist, his strings he shreds -
with "Solamente una vez"
and softly falls into my glass.
Pulque!
The rocky jagged crevice trap
soaks in itself the times that pass -
and also falls into my glass.
Mezcal!
My thoughts are muddled by a fog.
Riviera where? Riviera where?
And what is falling in my glass?
Tequila!
I'm not intoxicated, no.
Say, which burrito should I snack
with all that fell into my glass?

DOMINICAN REPUBLIC

In the Dominican Republic
there is this knicknack - mamajuana.
You gulp two-three shots here and now,
you grab a chick - and grill bananas!
So why, beneath the palm tree, sulks Stefano?
Today he was rejected by Juana.
And now his heart's a wound savannah.
But not for hearts is mamajuana.

ANTIGUA AND BARBUDA

Scalding! Scalding!
Beer! Beer!
Oh to escape into the sea,
and lay there, like a sea urchin lays:
the top is spines, the bottom, ass...
If a pineapple, big and black,
declares a battle and attacks,
then we will slice it into halves,
we'll eat it up and drink a glass!
It's all because, on the bay's pier -
Scalding! Scalding!
Beer! Beer!

SAINT LUCIA

When the python stopped to rest
It found another python's nest.
A conversation then commenced
That grew the size of the mountains!
The ocean, bored of all the chatter,
washed off the restaurant with its waves.
But the Pitons ignored the matter.
Their freeform chatter had no end!
Today, they still stand where they were -
they chatter on, and chatter on.

I have concocted here, my friends,
an ancient legend for you all.
It all makes sense, but there's one catch -
There are no pythons in these lands!

BARBADOS

Let's leave the island jokes behind
And fall asleep, and see in dreams
The sun reflecting in our faces,
Inhabiting us for a minute.
A little window, washed by seas
Where all is speckling, spinning, twirling.
At once, your loved one stirs awake
And she reflects in the sun's rays.

ARGENTINA

A penguin strolled
Past southern glaciers
And, as fate struck,
Came to La Boca.
Well, "hola, hola,
Senior Piazzola!

A dream.
Bandoneon of destiny.
Some sort of a primordial moan.
All life, it dances alongside us.
But one that's loved,
Having traversed the world, like a pilgrim
Will drink the letters into smoky light
With the blind librarian at his side.

You all drink dry wines with your carne asado,
but I must return to my ice-covered mountains
Ah, the life of a pinguino!
Adios, nonino!

URUGUAY

Once again, the Atlantic beats the birdish chest of Uruguay
And the fingers extend, they seeking the light.
With that earthly light, the nest starts to play.
In that earthly light, all that's lacking is an artist.

Take a look: we don't think of that artist at all.
The Atlantic is stormy, thunder yaps from the sky.
But the girl with her easel won't leave, she keeps drawing
As the waves observe her, there in the earthly light.

ST. KITTS AND NEVIS

Can I come back in my next life
As a river, so clear and lithe?
And with my rapid, simple speech
can I just carelessly flow in
to the ocean of many salts?
To be a luring distant call
And, a companion to the sharks,
To wash the countries, large and small.

DOMINICA

Here, there are dark colored women in light colored outfits.
And in the spring shade of a multicolored garden,
There are two who are kissing - rewards to each other.
Here, waterfalls are nicknamed Papa and Mama.
And see that small pond down below, in the funnel?
The result of their efforts - a child conceived by the water.

But how much will they see, upon leaving their ships,
this crowd of such raucously chattering beings?
The bazaar by the pier, the parrot on the flag,
the rays on the trees and the can in the ditch.
Eyes glazed, they'll stall on the lovers a moment in time
And soon will garble together this isle and that isle.

GRENADA

The creamy white sky over the island -
coconut milk.
But milk from a coconut is easy
to sip up through a straw.
So we've cleared out the sky!
On the blue easel is an orange eye
And I want to be barefoot and wild
And the ocean - right here and right now!

BAHAMAS

The crabs are battling. What crazy drama!
Bahama mama! Bahama mama!
And we're just sand grains - part of the panorama
Bahama mama! Bahama mama!
Imagine: from sandy beaches to God's dioramas -
Bahama mama! Bahama mama!
Spread out by the beach. Who is that mamma?
Bahama mama! Bahama mama!
I'll become sea - waves causing trauma
I'll wash you over, Bahama mama!
The sand and waves - they love the drama.
Bahama mama! Bahama mama!

UNITED KINGDOM

Raven, raven, o'er the poems
o'er and o'er the frozen fields
and over the Tower circles.
Does it thrash in ancient tales
or have the corpses escaped
from within abandoned wells?

You won't find these pre-stone tales
anywhere within the Web:
meddling has gone to oblivion.
But remember: you can hurry,
but you won't out-trick the raven
with its color, pitch-black, ashen...

Why do you sit trapped in webs?
Join, beneath the mistletoe,
the ancient fairy tales' round dance.
Suddenly, in the late sky
Shakespeare himself will scatter stars:
Raven cannot peck them all!

FRANCE

In Paris, on the timeworn steps,
with a clochard, so full of pride
I had a chat with Renoir -
accordion? No, a guitar!
Nevertheless: je t'aime, je t'aime!
As if we had no other themes.

There are no pierced ones, and none are burnt,
the crosses, crowns, have all been buried
in hammered citadels and castles.
Over the Loire? No, o'er the Rhone!
Nevertheless: je t'aime, je t'aime!
As if there are no other themes!

Time, and this we know for certain,
has a brisk pace and a short stride
But Renoir waves from the rowboat
With him, a dame of light? No, a cocotte!
Nevertheless: je t'aime, je t'aime!
Je t'aime toujours - no other themes!

NORWAY

The traveler troll: at the southernmost point of South.
The artist troll: there on the border of the circle.
Musician troll: at the crossing of notes and fjords.
Troll-dramaturge: the tear of dreams and pride.
Oh, there are trolls from all the realms of culture:
the polar explorer, the mathematician, the sculptor...
But with these four alone, I'll set a table
Gulp down the devilishly potent aquavit.
Reflected in their restlessness,
like blizzarded, ski-covered winter,
Norway will soar over the earth
and through their eyes, will show itself to the world.

DENMARK

Oh Anderson, what's the occasion, tell me?
Was it not you who invented this very country?
Both Odense and the big Copenhagen
Were they not created by your very own hand?
Not only your characters are forever eternal:
Mermaid, Ugly Duckling, Lukoje
It's not just yourself, in these two monuments
but also all that that you have ever penned.
Over the floral Tivoli, over the white Thorvaldsen,
and over the Round Tower, over spirits and souls,
are these not your own fairy tales, of sorrows and of joys?
And only in Helsingor, shivering with tears
among the more ancient and darkest of shades-
they saddle the horses of unfairylike tales.

JAMAICA

The pasty has a filling
the cigarette as well.
In the web is thrashing,
a crab with a red face.
If you try to punch it,
if you try to slap it -
all your problems - bonkers
all your problems scatter.
Just the vivid pictures
of the silent ocean.
Just the rastafarians
in their tiny webs
pulling from your pockets
pasties with a filling.

COSTA RICA

One day a toucan said, "I see
beyond the forest, there's a sea!
Because I fly so very high
And it will never touch my mind
what those below me do at all:
whether they walk or swim or crawl."

The monarch butterfly's retort:
“The bright blue color of my wings -
is like bluebells on flowering grounds,
the sky, sea, mountains from afar!
Who cares if it may not be high,
so light and easy is my flight!"

The sloth, pausing a lengthy munch,
muttered: "You're fluttering too much.
You fly and swim and rush your life,
won't even notice it pass by!
I live here, peaceful in my tree
I chew and sleep like royalty!"

"How shallow you all are!" - thought the puma with a sigh.
Then added with a thought, "Yet each of you is right!"

NICARAGUA

Like a lake bird, perhaps a crane,
I stand at the lake water's edge.
The tourists in the boats, they scream: "A crane!" -
in the same boats, the tourists float away.
The volcano next door, he stands and he smokes
The volcano next door, he’s observing it all.

He is lonely and bored, my volcano friend is
I sympathize with him, but just imagine what if
that philosopher decided
to have some fun and let out a guffaw!

AUSTRIA

While sipping his beer, a skier contemplated the Alps:
"I never conquered the mountains, instead, to them I talked.
And each descent to me, was like a dearest friend for life,
Who gave his back to lean on, who taught me to survive ".
I'll take a stroll at night - maybe I will be loved as well -
stroll down the streets of Vienna, come down from age to age...
Mozart will give a wink, Shubert will bow his head
and with a nervous arm, Stefan Zweig will give a wave.

HUNGARY

The musician lifts crystal glasses
and taps out beautiful waltzes
Emmerich Kalman, caravans,
Black tuxedos, slender fingers...
The Tokaji wine gives hues
of the over-ripened grapevines.
On the Danube, on the Danube
a leaf, half-wilted, floats in line
with black tuxedos, slender fingers...
By the theater, the sleigh arrives,
just in time for the operetta.

CZECH REPUBLIC

All that we take home from here:
great literature,
great Cerny's sculptures,
Velkopopovscky Kozel,
the great St. Vitus Cathedral -
ironicka absurdita.

And, in upmost irony,
I lapped the Kozel in the "Kozlovna" inn
And then I stumbled in the raindrops -
slightly swaying like a house.

But there's no menace in quirky calamities
Much scarier - the irony of gravity.

SLOVAKIA

I once read, that in Slovakian villages
there's a tradition: on red Mondays
(the following morning after Easter)
chlapci approach devcatc in blithe
and drench them in buckets of water with ice
or throw them straight into the frigid creeks,
or even take out a fresh Easter whip
(its bristles are just the willow's twigs)
across the gentle girlish backs.
The girls, they squeal and screech and giggle
and what is more, if there's a man
who fails to visit - the grudge is held for years!

This is a poem in laud of feminism
or of spring blooming in the Tatras,
or of the rebirth of a woman's spirit
No matter what, let everyone be pleased!

GEORGIA

The road curves and spins - and the horizon
Contorts itself into a spiral.

Along the road, there is a building:
a streetside pub or just a vision?
Inside the pub, the tables squirming
Holding poets and musicians
and an actor, hair white like earth,
he's more babua than King Lear.
And then there's one more katso
with an indiscriminate face.
We will sit with them in the basement,
not with kvareli, not with khinkali-
but with a long song and some poems.
Ah, katso, say, why are you sighing?

Are we sleeping or riding? Chasing the horizon
we depart, with a spiral, a spiral...

ARMENIA

The Armenian lavash is so thin:
observe the world through it if you squint.
A raven strolls around
in circles, like a guard.
In the markets, there is no chekanka:
all the masters have died out.
The labukh, like a cigarette,
fiddles with his duduk till dawn.

It's all good! Like a carefree creek
I will run, chasing the slopes.
And, next to a mountain goddess,
I will lounge back on the shores.
We will hush. We'll seldom find
a common tongue that we both know.
But she might lightly touch my hand,
just a brush, and dissolve into foam.
Like a song melts in a memory.
Like a mirage melts in the eyes.
Is it a star or a small cross
That shines straight through the lavash?

BELIZE

At first you will float a long time down the river
and then, just as long, you will walk through the forest
but suddenly, finally, your small eyes will widen:
there - the Jaguar's temple and the temple of the Mask.
The stones of the Maya, native fairy tales!
They gave sacrifices to suns by the dozens,
the conquistadors took them down by the hundreds.
They, with primal natures, could not dream of reaching
our novel and modern, advanced civilizations.
We take them, forgotten canons of the Gods,
and sacrifice our millions to evil God-men.
... Here, one wants to heed to ancient rituals
And, donning a mask, to become a jaguar.

CHILE

"Amo el amor", senor Neruda!
Amo el amor de mujer desnuda.
Amor en la cena y el desayuno.
Bajo el sol y bajo la luna.
Amor de los pajaros y las flores.
Amor en mayores y menores.
Amor de las olas cerca de tu casa,
de un condor y un avion que pasa.
Amor de el cactus cerca del rio.
Amor de la gente y Dios.
"Amo el amor" , senor Neruda!
Amor crea toda la musica del mundo.

"I love love", Mr. Neruda!
I love the love of an undraped woman
I love at dinner at breakfast
Under suns and under moons
Love to birds and flowers
Love in majors and minors
Love to waves by your home,
Of condors and airplanes flying above.
Love to the cactus by the river.
Love to God and to the people
"I love love", Mr. Neruda!
Love creates all music on Earth.

PANAMA

Past cliffs and past the land covered in ice
large ships traveled into the ancient times.
They traveled, overcoming calm and storms
And curving round the ominous Cape Horn.
They entered oceans of anew, these ships
not falling from their wounds.
From many, there emerged but only one
and ghosts crowded upon the ocean floor.

But they were saved by Panama
where a canal was placed.
The ships, they're passing straight through now
with a courageous face.

I am not one to search for tempests:
for that is not within my nature!
I sit, composing this poem,
hailing the glory of the easier path!
... They stand, in a viscous succession,
crushed to the walls among the water.
The crowds above, they gaze and bow -
and point their cameras below.
Only the ghosts (they do not bother!)
never come close to the canal.
They live and revel, unknown to us,
entrusting the reefs and the waves.

SWEDEN

Oo-oo-oo! Such a long, long blizzard!
Oo-oo-oo! Such a warm cozy bed!
Oo-oo-oo! The emptiness is nude and dark.
Oo-oo-oo! It howls and pounds upon the glass.

And only in your dreams, baby
The Karlssons take off from the roof
Moomins and white-white geese from books
with fairy tales will clear the woes.
Mama, papa, grandma, grandpa
And many sweets within the sock.

BELGIUM

I want to play a Flemish still life on my saxophone.
Let all the game take life, soaring with the tablecloth.
The Atomium soars, spinning above the children,
Like a park carousel, beneath the gauze of the skyline.

Canals and ferries, sculptures and bad weather -
All slowly floating now and squirting from the pleasure.
And I? Stand in the corner in the background.
I play the still life on my saxophone.

NETHERLANDS

There, where the street lights glow
red,
love, or maybe just waxwork -
passionate.
And in the gallery of ancient
masters
softly at night they're strolling by,
spell-casters.
But was the genius-sorcerer,
tell me,
a stranger to the red streetlights'
pleasures?
Here, in the portrait, is a sire,
prideful,
But was he in matters of love
mindful?
Oh ladies of the red streetlights!
For them,
we should write not our vulgar songs -
but hymns.
All other jobs, they're ivy-weeds -
jaws.
But here, for an hour or two, I can buy
love.
And even though it's a fleeting haven -
the body,
I'll light a streetlamp over you -
white.

LUXEMBOURG

The country is small and the city is small.
Between the old walls, there stalls a canal.
And I myself stall above canal waters
I'm all full of soul, my mind full of thoughts
My eyes staring blankly at the ancient shaft.
The country is small and the city is small.
All unlike my poem...but oh! Fin! That's all!

ICELAND

The seagull's bawling - it cannot sing.
From here, it should really spread its wings.

And fly away from silence, interrupted by a waterfall
and from the evil wave, pierced savagely by a rock
and from the white and blinding nights
To leave the over-salted shoulders of its plight.

So why, through the puddles,
should souls limp aimlessly with no halt,
if hot volcano hearts
are striving to burst out?

The puffin's squeaking - it cannot sing.
A question: to spread or not to spread its wings?
From the black beach
like transparent breeze -
not even towards the sun
but straight towards the light.

PORTUGAL

In almost all poems,
I hear the knocking of cliches,
Templates of different lands.
So I await the arrival of
Fada-singing Magellan.

In Fatima, a cathedral. The Creator in an icon.
But say, how can one draw one that has no model?
He’s not anthropomorphic, He is not in the skies,
but look outside the window, and you will see the light.
It's time, it's time to find, my own window of comfort,
and stand by it, and listen, looking out onto the ocean:
Amalia is singing, angelic, godly fada
And after her, in bass, with effort, croons Magellan.

SPAIN

Oh disobedient brain
you once were a french horn
lately - a copper basin.
A flicker in response...
echoes of castanets...
Y otra vez atras.
Bailar, mi Carmen, mas!

ANDORRA

A moment of land, fantasy of Dali
in the mountains.
But take the cable car Up to the mountain top. And exclaim!
Such a vast space,
Such a range!
So when, on ground, you feel trapped in By the ring of urban mountains,
Climb up towards the top.
Climb up and look around.

GREECE

Coming out of the blue - in the horizon, a city
As if suddenly swept by the waves of the sea
Taverns here, harbors there, vast with mansions and caves.
You and I - just new ears for its thousands of tales.

Long ago, here, the sun splattered out into islands
Giving hearth to the sailors, philosophers, artists.
Want to follow the steps of the ancient stern gods
But they’ve been stomped upon by all the tourist crowds.

But step into the sea - and become just a bit like Odysseus.
But climb onto the hill - and become just a bit an Olympian.
Offer fire to your heart - and become just a bit like Prometheus.
Touch your lips to it all - and drink up its wine and its feelings.

SWITZERLAND

Here, rivers speak in different languages.
Here, people speak in different languages.
The villages cling to mountains or lakes.
A lovely view peeks through all of the gaps.
Je t'aime, schönheit! Helvecia, buongiorno!
To yodeling sounds, and to a shepherd’s horn
Amidst the ribs of bustling countries
She dreams of the unknown and wandering sea.

GERMANY

I bid you welcome to the Platz, Platz, Platz.
Here there are souvenirs in kiosks, Fräulein.
Here, there are restaurants and boutiques, Fräu.
Here there are multicolored peoples, Herr.
I bid you welcome to the Platz, Platz, Platz...

The bus arrives in Ravensbrük, brük, brük.
A raven settles on a church’s cross.
Into the church walk in the fräuleins, fräu, and herrs
And the pedestrians, ones of a thousand races.
The bus arrives in Ravensbrük, brük, brük.

So let us sample some bratwurst, wurst, wurst.
It’s juicier than summer meadows in the Alps
Than colors of the northern graying shores.
A phallic meaty train with no windows.
So let us sample some bratwurst, wurst, wurst.

Ah yes, tomorrow we’ll go home.
Dissolve in air, just like the smoke.

Seems that it's not a sculpture but a painting
String in his hand, a cello, and a face.
He's sculpted with a snowy melancholy.
Does life for him exist in music only?

He easily embraced hard-working Houston
with gracefulness of throbbing holidays
both that, which strives towards the highest culture,
and that, which far from culture strays away.

The chords of freshness fountains here and there.
Even the bank here is a staircase scale.
He brings some irony to highway ramps,
to the museum hearses, tombs, and graves.

And with a noise, inaudible and light,
Away, up towards the cellist I will fly.