Category: Summer 2011 Poetry
By Aleksey Porvin 4
Woods, too tired to walk into the white, did you not find a way to warm up to the blue amid the branches, wrapped round pines along a
By Aleksey Porvin 3
A storm cloud strikes a street with hail to mask despair (a passage to this earth with no choice in the air) ? The creation, liberty here,
By Aleksey Porvin 2
People roam the stalks searching for new life there, and each just talks and talks — as if all is prepared: among them all the chatter is
By Aleksey Porvin 1
It seems so far from whence it came, its two inscriptions barely made out by the eye at night — a vague sign on an avenue, hanging above the
By Andrei Sen-Senkov
00 – 00 In a black-walled museum a painting conceived. Its flowers grow with subtitles for those who don’t believe in Kandinsky’s botany.
Snow within
by Anzhelina Polonskaya But should they say that snow has fallen . . . Snow on the black battlements on the sidewalks that scream with the voices
Leaves
by Anzhelina Polonskaya Like lost children, the dry leaves on the mournful sidewalks wind around our legs. Could those fallen leaves ever find
Still Life with Potato Field
by Anzhelina Polonskaya Tell me, why is there war if not to leave buckles in lumps of clay ? The potato field sleeps. At night you can’t imagine
Alone in my room to Mother
by Anzhelina Polonskaya I’m in my room. Alone. Remnants of sleep stick to my eyelids, like flies. Window wells heave with cold snow — a
(in the middle of a conversation)
by Alexander Mironov . . . Hello, hello, I only hear you badly! — Goodness! I can’t see anything, though I’m glad to see and hear you. Change