Time and love. The novel in verse. George Pospelow
as echo,
either early or late.
It drags a Habit, really,
it will tether, apart from
everyday rhythm, harmony,
from your second nature.
A Vice appears soon.
It’s tricky to change
encountered problems,
get them fully solved.
Your further Destiny —
more and more patches.
Correct. You still can.
I bet you can, indeed.
A sporty life, ha-ha
I value only individual
kinds of sports,
only mental approach
to get strength.
The adrenaline is tatami, court,
swimming, skiing,
springboard, skating, boat,
forest paths.
No alpinism – I fell,
not a pro.
My thinking accustoms
a poet’s will.
Better to write poems,
apathy for training —
a computer-based desk
is my gym.
The South Indian favorite
If Ganesh31 is in, wisdom
hovers freely there.
If Ganesh is in, well-being
reigns always there.
Ganesh in the house brings
happiness to spite the enemies.
On the Earth, not in the Universe,
the eldest knows the trade.
Coconut water drops,
the light of lamps and flowers
will sweeten him, reward
you hundredfold, opportunely.
For ten days in September,
folks in Bombay, in South
India praise him to the skies,
dance, sing – do not be shy —
then lift tens of thousands
elegant sculptures and throw them
with laughter into the sea —
Ganesh, come back in a year!
Augur32 Singapore
Chinese Indian Singapore —
businessman-joker,
electronic Cupid-broker —
smiles cunningly in the sun.
An augur for Asia has begun
to drill oil and gas bore
nearby, offshore. A mischief
has too much for relief:
a tropical fume offers
to take the bait at any rate —
a tempting skewer of fun
in style the most up to date.
Laziness will last our time
An Oriental city beckons
with miracle seconds,
but the laziest focus
on hotels’ tempting sofas.
A midsummer in Bengal
Roots of a broad and sturdy
banyan overhang in the air.
A mango grove refills
with coolness inside.
Familiar geese wing
wedge wise by force of habit,
of course, call sadly
to the world’s very end.
The wind whispered grandly:
“Don’t aspire to fly.”
And again, hot, humid,
heat, tranquil heat…
Having broken the stillness,
an eagle feasts on a prey.
Buzzards bide their time —
a ceremony strictly observed.
A newly married couple —
no jokes, serious and languid —
is carried in a palanquin
to the husband’s village.
The future house hides
amidst the bamboo thicket,
beetling over the river —
will dive if slightly pushed.
A weaver potter’s row
takes its ordinary course.
A smith is dripping with sweat.
A Brahmin walks to the temple.
At a paddy-field —
rice is everything here —
a peasant woman covers
her breast with a transparent sari.
Two herds of buffaloes
are wading across the river —
a joyous moment for all:
coolness, and ahead again.
Waist-deep in the water,
shapely Bengalis launder,
discuss, local mermaids,
how, and where, and what.
Gaiety and jokes… Always
simplicity, shining eyes.
Ashore is a rocking-horse.
An ordinary beauty. Non-exotic.
Calcutta sounds of the end
of the XX century
The former Indian capital
has no splendor.
Shabby walls of the palaces —
a long-time misery —
mumble about the past greatness.
The ulcer of utter poverty
gnaws, bothers the city
who moans and groans
nightly not to allow
wounds and problems
to destroy its heart.
On the shoulders
is a load
of millions
of people,
and beggars
who continue to get in
escaping
from
Augur – foreteller in ancient Rome