Thursday, October 13, 2011

Sonnet XI, original

Рисуй меня, художница,
Без этих глазах.
Они влюбились в тебе,
Но они не тебя любят.

Рисуй меня, художница,
Без этих губ.
Они никогда не поцеловали тебя
На прощание.

Рисуй меня, художница,
Без этого тела.
Оно вспомнит тебя тепло,
Но оно хочет забыть.

Ничего! Рисуй себя,
Художница, без меня.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Sonnet XXXI

I am become energy,
Directionless energy,
In trying to go every way,
Stays still.

I am become hate,
Like thunder and lightning,
Flashing and tearing at the world,

I am become sadness,
For I have lost something,
Something which cannot be recovered,
Which can never be found.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Sonnet XXX

And in the peace that follows;
During that empty silence,
Can you believe in thunder?
Or in the hollow darkness,
Can you imagine lightning?
Are they becoming more real
In the spaces that come after?

Or are they merely phantoms,
Empty instants of power
That live for only a flash
Or for one echoing roar?
Do they - all but for a blink -
Mean nothing, or cease to be?
How pitiful their shows are, then.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Sonnet XXIX

These seven numbers spell your name
And I remember every letter,
Etched into my mind like flame;
But every kiss was written better.

Every touch of lips on mine
And every breath of that shared air,
Every time I lost my mind
For you, is written in stone there.

And every time I saw that date,
Full knowing it was going to end -
That, I remember in cold hate
And this madness time can't mend.

And thinking back on the above,
I know I've no right to your love.

Monday, January 25, 2010


There, like clockwork it betrays its secrets,
Ever-whispering quietly in a language you don't know.

A scratching softly from the other room,
As a quill on paper bleeds secrets.

But from outside the house is impenetrable;
You look through all the walls and windows for a room...

Likewise the human heart is filled of quiet thoughts,
But for all our trying to hear them, it is impenetrable.

So when we sit in the quiet ticking,
We can but try to listen to our silent thoughts.

But ever the ticking grows, a rhythm for your heart to beat,
A heart that's ticking, tocking, ticking...

Despite all the secrets that you know,
It's those you don't that make your soul beat.

Sonnet XXVII

There like a ghost it stands,
Pale and quiet in the silvery moonlight,
Like a specter only one can see -
Except we all see it, standing there.

In among the branches and the mist,
It plays love on invisible keys,
Like a forgotten pianist without a bench,
Or a tune that needs no hands to play it.

And we can do little but pursue it,
Always through the forests and the mist,
A phantom carrot on the end of a stick,
Always followed, never caught...

What good is pursuing an unreachable end,
Except that you can't help but do it?

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Sonnet XXVI

Why must the year start so cold?
There are so many warmer months.

We could have set it to begin in March,
Or in April, trees and flowers bright,
And a soft wind reminding us of life.

We could have started it anew in May,
Or perhaps in June, late though it is,
In warmth and bright sunlight,
Good tidings for a better year.

But instead we watch our breath as it fogs,
And the fireworks burn cold in the sky,
And our teeth chatter like sparklers.

Bright shows of light in the darkness,
Start the new year off, and snow.