If one rainy night you find yourself
leaving a phone booth, and you meet a man
with a lavender umbrella, resist
your desire to follow him, to seek
shelter from the night in his solace.
Later, don’t fall victim to the Hypnotist’s
narcotic of clarity, which proves
a curare for the heart; her salve
is merely a bandage, under which memories
pulse. Resist the taste for something still
alive for your first meal; resist the craving
for the touch of a hand from your past.
We live some memories,
and some memories are planted. There’s
only so much space for the truth
and the fabrications to spread out
in one’s mind. When there’s no more
space, we grow desperate. You’ll ask
if practicing love for years in your mind,
prepares you for the moment,
if practicing to defend one’s life
is the same as living? You’ll
hole up, captive, in a hotel room
for fifteen years and learn to find
a man within you, which will prove
a painful introduction to the trance
into which you were born. Better
to stay under the spell of your guilt,
than to forget; you’ve already released
your pain onto the world; don’t believe
there’s some joy in forgetting.
There’s no joy in the struggle to forget.
And what appears as an endless verdant field,
only spreads across a building’s rooftop;
your peaceful sleep could be a fetal position,
which secures you in a suitcase in this field.
A bell rings, and you fall out of this luggage
like clothes you no longer fit. Now what to do?
You remember when you were the man
who fit those clothes, but you’ve forgotten this
world. Even forgotten scenes from your life,
leave shadows of the memory,
haunting your spirit
until, within a moment’s glance,
strangers passing you on the street,
observe history in your eyes. Experience
lingers through acts of forgetting,
small acts of love or trauma
falling from the same place. Whether
memory comes in the form of a stone
or a grain of sand, they both sink in water.
A tongue—even if it were, say, sworn
to secrecy; or if it were cut from one’s mouth;
yes, even without a mouth to envelop
its truth—the tongue continues to confess.
A few random poems:
- Awakening by mike yuan
- Doubts by Rupert Brooke
- Владимир Британишский – Баня Быстрицкого
- Pan’s Lament by Rose Mary Boehm
- Always Unsuitable by Marge Piercy
- November by Thomas Hood
- Come Into The Garden, Maud poem – Lord Alfred Tennyson poems
- Шекспир – Проснись, любовь – Сонет 56
- Василий Лебедев-Кумач – Спортивный марш
- Алексей Толстой – Василий Шибанов
- Владимир Бенедиктов – Могила
- The Complaint Of Prometheus
- You Ask Why Sometimes I Say Stop by Marge Piercy
- Buddies by Richard Schiffman
- Оливер Голдсмит – Пыл упований людям дан
External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Владимир Маяковский – Только организация урожай умножит… (Главполитпросвет №33)
- Владимир Маяковский – Точеные слоны
- Владимир Маяковский – Типографы книги делают… (РОСТА №241)
- Владимир Маяковский – Тигр и киса
- Владимир Маяковский – Теоретики
- Владимир Маяковский – Тексты “окон”, переработанные для сборника “Грозный смех”
- Владимир Маяковский – Тексты для издательства “Сегодняшний лубок” (Плакаты)
- Владимир Маяковский – Тебе тепло?.. (РОСТА №599)
- Владимир Маяковский – Театры
- Владимир Маяковский – Тамара и демон
- Владимир Маяковский – Схема смеха
- Владимир Маяковский – Свидетельствую
- Владимир Маяковский – Студенту пролетарию
- Владимир Маяковский – Строители коммуны (РОСТА)
- Владимир Маяковский – Странно… но верно
- Владимир Маяковский – Столп
- Владимир Маяковский – Стой, товарищ! Стонет Поволжье, о помощи моля (Главполитпросвет №344)
- Владимир Маяковский – Стой!.. (РОСТА №416)
- Маяковский – Стоит баба с жопой метр на метр: стих, текст стихотворения Владимира Маяковского – Poetry Monster
- Владимир Маяковский – Стихотворение о проданной телятине
More external links (open in a new tab):
Doska or the Board – write anything
Search engines:
Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)
Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.
Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees
Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.
Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works
A. Van Jordan, born 1965 in Akron, Ohio, USA, is a contemporary American poet and the author of four important collections: Rise, which won the PEN/Oakland Josephine Miles Award (Tia Chucha Press, 2001); M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A, (2005), which was listed as one the Best Books of 2005 by the London Times; Quantum Lyrics, (W.W. Norton, 2007); and The Cineaste (W.W. Norton,, 2013). Jordan has been awarded a Whiting Writers Award, an Anisfield-Wolf Book Award, and a Pushcart Prize.