Birdish

So the milk has run awry
But not too far, do not cry
’Tis the prequel, just you wait
Further comes the fairy tale.
We will see remarkable countries,
Write our strophes from the strangers’ grins.
On the branches, quetzals and toucans
Will swoop down to drink from treasured creeks.
We will sing of the flow of desires,
Of the songs of the eyes and the breath of the rocks
Of how forests entwine shade and light
Of how artists will depict it all.
And to the one who sings of battles
I will tell him - and I won’t be the first -
In a war, there are simply no heroes.
In a war, there are only victims.
So the milk has run awry
But not too far, do not cry
It has run beyond the seas
Towards the closest enemy…

The guitar breaks and crumbles,
like the blind rain An elderly couple walks a dog down the lane
The water drips off of a petal - splish!
The dog tugs off of its leash.

Light has a long body
Darkness has tiny legs
A tiny green crocodile -
A June day on the path.

The bugs drifted on boats of white lilies
The tongues of lovers wove their nests
Two of the bugs looked on and bustled -
How rough is life without a tongue!
The chill of beer at summer's end
Will put a veto on any veto.
The alley splashes, like a river
The dog is tugging towards the clouds.

Light has a long body
Darkness has tiny legs
A tiny green crocodile -
A June day on the path.

In the midst of the sunniest of holidays
in a solemn corner, I keep on sensing:
he morning of a rainy Monday
with a half-blind tapping drizzle
it washes me apart, drop by drop

But this is hardly a reason to be alarmed;
here is simply a recession of brilliant wasps!

Even though these free rhythms are older than old,
Some guy came and called me a rapper,
So it is time to wash off into syllabic verse
ust like something essential washes away
with a half-blind tapping drizzle.

So many beings now flutter about,
but still, a recession of brilliant wasps.

But the ancient songs, slaughters, and prayers
know that the winner, of course, is the sun.
The puddles dry out in my solemn corner,
the free rhythm, a wasp pounds its wings on a flower.
Pounding, but not shining.

We had thought: it's not serious, no harm
In this recession of brilliant wasps!

So this is how the autumn starts:
A sudden thought has been cut off
As if the wind, while in a rush,
Crashed with a desert and withered out.

Tiny birds cover the sky in specks
A yellow autumn replaced by a gray
Soon, down a snow-covered winter path,
The chimeras of my mind will drift and pass.

When suddenly, one will glisten like a needle,
Spin with the sharpness of a top,
Will scatter sparks of new ideas,
Of paintings, poems, symphonies, thoughts.

Before it freezes, come and collect
The harvest.

Above us, a plane, it hangs on a string:
a bit, and it'll rip.
Behind us, a continent with a raucous crowd:
that fights, that laughs
Ahead, the waves play, but this ocean has
the soul of a well.
Below, the pulse of sands, of fields, of trails,
beats as a butterfly.

A plane, you say?
Or maybe something within, like a heart,
rips apart into silence?
A continent, you say?
A spoon of sugar and pepper into coffee,
it's all somewhere inside!
By an ocean you're lured?
You are born with its depth, only you have been drained
with a rattling empty pail.
It's so easy to catch the pulse of the earth barefoot
but don't attempt it in shoes,
trampling butterflies with your heels!

Draining out all the oceans, the pail throws back its handle.
Chopping through continents, finally, good has won.
It's all right; it's just age, but here's what brings pain:
balancing on its wings (oh, but it can't be saved!),
like a frail butterfly, dies within me a plane.

He’s passed the age of ninety. His wife - in distant worlds.
He broods, and then he sleeps. He sleuths within his mind.
The days all blend to one - a bland and tepid broth.
A walk out in the yard. With no wife by his side.
Alone, familiar walls. His only guests - a nurse,
Daughter for half an hour, and once a week, the maid.
What used to be a nest has now become a burrow
The fog engulfs in waves, grows denser when it rains.
Forgot where he was going - his eyes, they flap amok
like Eduard Munch, he’s frozen between the desk and clock.

What's the point of voicing what's eternal?
They all cool, both Montmartre and Arbat
Only our little hearts keep on squeaking
Within three or four tenths of a byte.

Here's a modern Parisian taxi driver
"Please sir, to Moulen de la Galette"
He replies to me, "Where is that?"
And angles his eyes to the GPS.
"Toulouse-Lautrec, do you sleep well?"
"I don't sleep at all. Paris, farewell."

And here's a Moscow girl. Business manager of something.
Living according to her laptop typings.
There: the year and the place where she'll snag her husband
At the very moment that her image needs boosting.
"So, Pushkin, for her, what words will you find?"
"No words, I am silent. Moscow, goodbye."

Here's a computer-surgeon, here's a pilot
Orbit shrinking into a microscheme.
A computer-violinist, a gunner
A Dog Bone computer is here
Even for those who understand it all,
It infiltrates the circulatory net.
It lures in with its pure ubiquity.
It is armed with convenience.

Even so, I'll risk mentioning the eternal.
Microschemes have a short life to live.
Suddenly, your heart will flutter
And they'll walk out, one after another.
Pushkin. Or maybe Toulouse-Lautrec.

Driving. The road. The road. The road.
A water tower. The road. The road.
Gas station on right. I added some more.
Grabbed a cold beer from coolers at the store.
Driving. The fields. ‘Neath the tires a cadaver
of a squirrel. On the roadside - a very small town.
Church. Football field. For some reason, no humans.
Here’s a cafe. A cheeseburger and Pepsi.
Waiter cracks a smile. The road. The road.
Mountains. Curved twists. Accident to the left.
Traffic. Lights flash. An evacuation.
Rest area. Overcast. Drizzling drops.
Over the urinal - a brown recluse spider.
Driving again through rains. But beyond mountain passes -
river on right and the sun in my face.
In the horizon - a city more dense.
Road getting wider. High-rises. Hotels.
Past the hotels right away there’s a - stop!
Past the hotels there is no longer road.
Past the hotels, seagulls soar overhead
also the pelicans, the waves, the winds.
Past the hotels there is ocean and ocean.
There are no lanes. Swim wherever you want.

Once, at a symphonic concert,
like a letter in a lost envelope,
a random chord began to fade.
It wavered slightly on a wave
within the music or myself
and then vanished into the air.

Forgive me for this shallow tune:
I craved the girl who played the flute.
Yes, that brunette there, birdish eyes,
When suddenly, behind the walls,
Someone disturbed this divine call
by pressing hard upon the gas.

That hall, its breathing had one source:
The music's breath had it immersed.
But the short path came to an end.
Outside the music, I intrude
I empty out, just like a room
in which someone was declared dead.

The hall was airless, it was blind.
And on the road beyond the walls was I.
An empty mind.

It snows.
The road is slippery and dark.
And so
I steer down it in my steel compartment.
I hurry
to leave from this ambivalent life,
My soul
escapes from me to the equator.
And so it flew on heavy
winds:
and drifted down as silent snow
in the mountains.

To be silent,
omitting light and heat and presence.
Throughout the night
to catch the smallest luminescence.
An odd one,
was turned to ice by this blizzard,
In spring
I'll trickle off the wheel and seat, a puddle.
Oh how vulnerable is this melted
water!
But I was with you, as always,
throughout the winter.

(I joked.)
Dissected to snowflakes by the blizzard.
(Divulged.)
Became a shield to mountain peaks.
The creeks.
Try to find me in a spring flood.
Don't speak.
Grass will not grow through the thick snow.
From year to year, from year to year
this cycle is alive.
Till summer something, once again,
will not survive.

Imagine you are a cup of coffee -
Cool off.
The camels and cactuses are
Desert pros.
The desert, their podium, scalds
Just you see.
They stroll and they bloom all around
Peacefully.
So, if you are ready to lurch and
to bend.
And in your heart, instead of blood,
there is sand,
Imagine (and like coffee foam)
stall a while.
The camels and cactuses
In the desert's profile.

And just the night - the owl eye of the moon.
Like little mice, dreams scurry through her doom.
She catches them and tears them into shreds.
At dawn, glasses have fallen from the desk.
But night will come - the owls and lions swear.
But night will come - the stitches - gilded flares.
But night will come - spirits and robbers swear.
But night will come - clutter of hollows, dens.
And only in the village, the day escapes from fright
Into the window's light.

Fortune teller, tell my fortune, speak of money for money.
Reach in and retrieve a miraculous object made by man.
The flames in the fireplace change your predictions,
But your gaze clouds with snow and your answers are vague.

So feel free to burn cards or the foam in the cup,
I will not find the answers in human-made fire.
I walk out of your hut, and the sun tells my fortune.
And it promises light.
Always promises light.

Go and hug your enemy now.
Don’t you know, someone loves him too
Go and hug your enemy now.
Share a shot with him, he with you.
It’s possible you two have met in the past
Through screen names, somewhere on the borderless Web
Let’s take tourism and substitute it for war
Drop cannons, and come visit me in my home!
I’ll show you the sunrises of our country
And we will both become awestruck by the scene
Let’s take tourism and substitute it for fights
I drop my gun and come visit you at your site.
You’ll show me all the songs that herald your land.
Together we will sing them, the best that we can.
The one who called us enemies,
Let his name become disallowed.
Mix your maps, lose track of your feet.
Go and hug your enemy now.

It’s not possible to write a transparent poem, like the wind
and for that wind to carry the scents of the sea.
One cannot find the words, for each word is too thick.
Only music can write this type of poetry.

Or just become a sail.

We wanted them to pay us millions
Pay us millions, just like that.
We prayed endlessly to gods
But the gods, they didn't care.

Then we wanted them to praise us
and to love us, just like that.
We prayed endlessly to gods
But the gods, they didn't care.

Over water, over lilies
gracious cranes began their glide.
We, embraced, watched them together,
swaying in tact to their flight.
But for this, no gods were prodded.
This was given just like that.

We are shown, told, and sung so many things:
an informational noose, an invigorating wisp.
What enrages is not that you won't be understood,
but that nobody will hear you.
You hurry, you pace, you stand as a pole on the road.
And only light summer skis
know how to guide you back home.
Listen to Brahms, eat pizza, or play basketball,
just to lower the stress and the cholesterol.
Coordinate your style of life, your diet and home,
but nothing will care about you,
if rock and roll is transformed into a mountain stream
by the light summer skis.
They all say that, to trek on your skis, you need snow.
And you shriek, as a mallard, whose babes a kestrel stole,
putting on tricot and a t-shirt, you sprint to the fields
and, trying to catch the red-haired harlequin
you run for half a moment, while on your feet
are the light summer skis.
Tripping over an ant that you crushed,
you lie among flowers, among the glazed grass
by a fountain in Chicago, by a theatre in a Moscow,
by a Tokyo bar, no less noticeable than a bum!
A city lawn, the smothered light
Above, people pass by, slivers lie to your side.
They are the light summer skis.
Do you see? No, I don't see a thing.

From visiting grandchildren to visiting doctors -
Thoughts are damp, every step carries weight
Howling softly in tune to the infinite nights
The old people, they live out their age.
Heart begins taking flight and soars towards memory
Through the snow mounds, the rivers, down alleys
Is it actually them in that black-white movie?
Little jewelry box holds button handfuls.
As the city gets drenched, in suns’ rays, then in rains
Time for dinner. A stove range. A teapot.
Heart, returning from flight, starts to suddenly ache.
Cake is sweet and the jewelry box - vacant.
But the hearts are like actors in a vintage movie
Even though they’re long passed and abandoned.
You just point a small light towards them, and you’ll see
They will once again love and will sing…

Don't go after the definite, go after the subtle
the subtle will become the most definite.
Do not wait for faithfulness but for trust:
the trusted will become the most faithful.

But the subtle can rip with such ease!
(Better, then, when there's nothing to rip?)
But the trust is so simple to deceive!
(Better, then when there's no one to trust?)

For us, everything is fine only while it's fine.
Anything more serious- we reach for the ones we love.
Or else, become mentally stratified,
as each layer we try to console.

Wearily, we will flow down the roads in a craze parade
(by the way, is it true that gays are not born from their dads?)
We do not need any rights or aid.
Just do not soil our brains with your fads.

The certain loses its exquisiteness.
Loyalty is too restricting for love.
And love is simply a trained wolf cub:
it obliges, but towards the forest it gawks.

For the subtle is cramped in the definite.
Trust is but a salted sea,
Faithfulness is too, only bland.
A sea on the monitor screen.

Watch the bumblebee, he bustles
Humming something to himself
His rigmarole is tantalized
By the hypnosis of the flower.
Biologist seeks to explain
This flight in scientific light
But suddenly, loses his train.
The sound is all that now remains,
Of a bumblebee who bustles
Humming something to himself
Whose rigmarole is tantalized
By the hypnosis of the flower.
Bee tires a bit, and he flies off.
Biologist begins to squawk.
But no, I beg you, let me rest
In indescribable silence!

Now my soul’s become weak
But it used to be big.
Once again nature, it changes its hue.
Furniture from outdoor terrace removed.
Rains have depleted the summer’s warm glow.
The conversations grow shallow and long.
Together with me, vivid fallen leaves dry.
The chirping birds, they, in silence, fly by.
Parking in the park is faceless and grim.
It’s just too late to host the last picnic.
Maybe the words have gone and turned insane.
Maybe the winter’s arrived at our gate.
Or, in the distance, a flute’s murmur halts
Or all the ships bitterly sound their horns.
Now my soul’s become weak
But it used to be big.

Some young oracle, strongly lured by the poppies,
while floating around the perimeter of Lake Titicaca, muttered:
There will be tragedy in the most iniquitous den,
if the world is taken over by Peruvian rap!
At dawn in the morning and sunset at night,
at home by the fireplace and under the rain in the yards
there is a sound that blinded all but the deaf:
the visceral, ageless Peruvian rap!
With an Inca spirit, admiring mountains in Machu Picchu,
we conversed in the language of birds.
He chirped:
We sacrificed others, but could have used rocks to harvest bread,
if we had only discovered Peruvian rap!
A knife-grinder on a narrow street in Cuzco
suddenly addressed me in brilliant Russian:
Come over for a quiet family dinner
to our cozy family crypt.
There, even the most feverish chap,
will wheeze in a hoarse voice the Peruvian rap.
Suddenly, all was illuminated by unnatural light,
and everyone heard within his own head
castanets, bagpipes, tom-toms, accordions,
saxophones and violins, organs and clarinets.
The Persian shah, the pope, and Amenhotep
sang in unison with the Gods the Peruvian rap.
And when all was silent, there was a need to go there,
where they strip off their clothing, to love without labor.
No need for silk or velvet, but also no need for crepe.
Nakedness before and after, the Peruvian rap!

There’s a flight from Windhoek to Paris.
One day you must take it, I insist.
From the dangerous seas and the bright orange dunes
To Degas dancing girls and the trembling strings.
From women of cacao to women of Chablis
Beyond earth, beyond seas.
The whole world, it will fit itself into this flight
Everything but the airplane in it will take part
And they’ll stay, until wrinkles, until hairs of white
Breaths of women and the revelations of art.
Only when you’re alone, when Rodin’s arms let go
You can take the flight back from Paris to Windhoek.

The storm has cleared the internet out of my home.
And so, outside I go.
To take a look at spring,
To try to catch the lines of its melding into summer.

Pawns want to become queens, soldiers - generals.
I want to be a bumblebee; he doesn't long to be an eagle.
He'll buzz above a flower, a little fuzzy saxophone,
And make sound out of strips of darkness and sun.

Silence. Emptiness in the saxophone's throat.
Only sounds survive, waiting for lips.
On a far off river, like a fragile rowboat
The splashing of returned birds, the joyful tubas glint.

I would love to splash on the waters, a barefooted chord
But there is only night towards artificial light I rush.
Fireflies will flash by, like passwords and codes.
Seems the internet is available now.

Movement on roads and through hallways.
Relaxation at parties, by screens
Sometimes a glimpse of the sea, a flirt, a temple.
From these flickering ripples, my eyes form a dark gleam.
Good to see you! Gotta run! Foolish words.
As if hassle will save the world.

With stumps of words, with carved art
We converse virtually -
Ritually, concealing our names.
Chat rooms, forums, tribes

Anti-aging pills: let's become immortal!
Cataclysms: let's fall into graves!
Gigas, nanos, a thousand dimensions
Enough!

When you finish this poem- stop.
Go out on the street, look around.
What if there, waiting for the warmth of your palms,
Is a winter wind or a summer bug?

When you finish, I beg you: stop.
Stand in the midst of the room, look around.
Your second half hangs over a novel.
Your child has glued its eyes to a screen.
Drop all that, find the Ancient Forest
Where pythons hang from the skies.
They'll suffocate the speed, squeezing it in their muscles.
They'll convert the bytes into live colors and sounds.
Then you'll warm up to the wind, the bug, and yourself.
And maybe you'll stop and read this stupid verse.

What, you don't like trips on foot
Or the thickets of forests and souls?
Like raisins in a bun, you are mixed into this rhythm? Then hurry.
Morning coffee -
And to the office.

The palms do not freeze, to warmth they stretch.
Autumn grasses out the window glass.

You can't see the river. Just a ray flickers by.
Autumn grasses with thorns and with spikes.

You can't hear the wind, just a rumble, a tremor.
Autumn grasses are becoming rancid.

Of odors - just infertile pheromones
Autumn grasses are frigid and cold.

The tasteless rains still hold an aftertaste.
Autumn grasses are utterly beardless.

Silent under footsteps,
As rains, as snows,
the fields and the oaks,
the ditches and meadows
settled grasses,
autumn grasses.

Humans - just teardrops on the face of the Earth
Humans - just smiles on the face of the Earth
Crying with us and laughing with us,
Planet Earth circles in its cosmic waltz.

And with a light gesture, not breaking its rotation,
It brushes teardrops off its face,
It brushes smiles right off its face...