Time and love. The novel in verse. George Pospelow
from death,
itself suddenly got it —
a second on the road
made the fatal mistake:
no poking of the cold nose
no grasping of the order.
3. A second of stray dogs’ life
In Goa, stray dogs
are countless, indeed.
No hunger – plenty of waste,
no cold – ninety degrees
give out warmth all season,
all clean – the sea is nearby,
shade? – trees are in thousands,
plus a breeze from the sea.
It’s like a stray paradise,
kind of Grand Hotel
only for homeless dogs.
No, a Grand Panel.
People are smart at swear,
good at beating a dog.
The low pass their layer
of distress on the more down.
Dogs protest: they
get together in troops,
and scare people at night
with a howl, filch-pinch.
An act of revenge to cyclists,
I’m one of them,
dogs eat up a trouser leg,
devour heart and soul.
4. A second in the mountains near Chittagong
Dismay. In the mountains near
Chittagong, I met a dog,
it looked so like a wolf,
gripped by fear, though.
A pack of dogs is evil,
separately, not, forgetting
the hatred, hurrying over
the petting, visibly showing
the need for a human caress.
Not fleeing. Itself made up
its mind to take a step
toward a covert weasel,
coping barely with fear,
allowing the back to stroke.
Sparkling hair sheen.
I hadn’t seen it at saloons.
So beautiful the comb was,
the gloss smelled like liberty.
Dog’s drama had aroused
and immediately resolved
the freedom and the feelings clash.
Four seasons of haiku
a. Spring in Каilás30
swelter spring Kailas
verses’ God is out of reach
no permit to go
b. Born again
summer after storm
freshness bliss of silence
I was born again
c. A crisis minute
autumn of vigor
I can’t move the shadow
it is moving me
d. Pegasus is impervious to winter
January chill
the poem and Pegasus’
side heat me up
An accidental key to the Eternity
On the bus, in front,
a girl is sitting half-turned,
talking with a girlfriend.
I watch without stopping.
A heavenly intention, a face
bigger than my fist,
the face of an Indian goddess,
of thousands of them – one.
It has never happened:
forgetting the rules, I stare
on the flawless statue
of the Diva of the Divas,
the blithely fast youth,
the Globe’s stealthy tuning fork,
the barely opened bud
of an exquisite orchid.
The Goddess easily helped
to reveal a secret sealing wax —
she opened the Eternity by gifting
me Its tiny key.
A sieve of time
Modernism and its post-
lay the new bridge
between academicism
and future fine arts.
As before, all artists
are experimenting,
creating, thanks to the talent,
completely newest forms.
In reality, many live
in variegated nowhere,
that’s who imitators,
swindlers, grabbers are.
Decorative, ornamental style —
not the High Art —
the breakup of forms, eclecticism
are tricks of cheap effects.
Time will let pass them
through the sieve, certainly
keeping “masterpieces” of decay.
Fake bravado will pass by.
Pseudo sculptors, artists,
and poets fool generations
by pseudo ideas, they say,
not to heed to no aesthetes.
Words and forms, music
are identical to themselves, light,
myth, cosmology, color.
The connection is a new relay.
Discovering things in things,
a genius creates Art,
not a blemish for show
defect of pseudo intelligence.
Love on a stone
Lizards are dating on a stone.
Love soars in the clouds.
A wonderful moment is born —
an increase in the fauna ranks.
It’s time to argue with Fortune
Committing