Á Deux

Epilogue. Crown of Sonnets

To Janna Vladimirskaya

(Жанне Владимирской)

I

Joie de la vie is over. I am still the same.

But her whose name was Life, she is no more.

How would I name this gape that renders one insane?

Home lights went off and no light outside the door.

From other days here come well-wishing shadows,

A silent crowd, they form a circling dance –

A lifeless, stripped of all significance tornado,

Medley of my friends, your own confidants.

And just as last remaining spark of vision,

A line shimmers in imperious tone:

“You were assigned new stretch of time and mission.

The final one. This painful road will not be long.”

Be as you wish, ferocious guide of all,

All small agates’ God and all black holes’.

II

All small agates’ God and all black holes’,

He usually expresses no intentions.

Meanwhile, in our needs and often with no goals

We’re racking world of his miraculous creations.

Over and over again, our heads in haze,

We see a broad day light through glass darkly.

We have so screwed our minds wandering in a maze,

So shrunk our precious souls in ostentatious prattling,

That pure air of pines, its balmy zest

We took for acrid smoldering fog of a battle.

New messenger will not be coming. East and West,

And overheated South, and Northern ice, being rattled,

are silent. Omnipresent Domine Dei

Negated Nadir, took Zenith off game.

III

Negated Nadir, took Zenith off game

Dean of the Universe, our fortune’s author.

And then he has also gently pulled away

His favorite offspring from their impetuous ardor –

urge to create and evocate in others

the same creative fervor – pure and sane.

It never crossed their fascinated minds to bother

submitting grievances to us or raising Cain.

But we in our arrogant lack of diligence

put some of them in a jail without hope;

and leaving others in distress and in indigence

pushed them to death by bullet, drug or rope;

or to exile… And near Erzurum’s walls

no-fancy carriage, hauling body, crawls. 1

IV

No-fancy carriage, hauling body, crawls.

A passer-by has quickly made it out,

and, stunned that nation does not care at all,

asserted that we are incurious, lazy crowd.

Must have been wrong. Look what we have achieved:

Our carts negotiate the sky with no error.

As soon as we clear quanta with our sieves,

we will embark on building homes in cosmic desert.

Our curiosity is still at hand,

and just enough of sloth to have no trouble

in keeping our skills to murder fellow men,

demolish nature and take no care for rubbles.

As for the rest… Until they shed its frill

azaleas look awesome and tranquil.

V

Azaleas look awesome and tranquil.

We pick a thief as our next President.

True, certain traits of his set awful precedents,

but bored with life as usual, we forced our way at will.

“Hi is a thief, he is picking our pockets!”

“He is dumb – he is gang-ho for starting wars!”

“He’s dumping laws, his barefaced, shameless lies skyrocket!”

“What a sleazeball! He is debauching our girls!”

Why are you yelling, with no sense and order?

You have your own opinion? Get in line.

We’ll hear you out in time, our patience have no borders.

Every opinion counts; and everyone is fine.

Surplus of views might give our walls a tear.

Volcano roars, but falls on a deaf ear.

VI

Volcano roars, but falls on a deaf ear.

We’ve lost our sense of colors, words, and sounds.

The Universal Good took falls in prior years,

but there were always gracious helping hands around

of Lords of our souls, masters of harmony,

who taught us hear the song of Universe;

transform our pain and fear into epiphany.

Alas, we chose to take a different teaching course.

We turned the best ones into slaves of vanity;

tempted with fame, and then deprived of fame.

But those who treated us to triviality,

we made our guides for minds and moral frame.

Pinned down by a silver ax to keep it still,

lies in the snow enchanting magic quill.

VII

Lies in the snow enchanting magic quill.

Just hint of voices could be heard on air.

Amidst breaking news they’re fading to a still;

in a short time their trace will disappear forever.

Ad interim, while flipping through some books,

we’ll make one more attempt at Renaissance –

build, using tools and scrap from recent flukes,

a club under that name where we can drink and dance.

Fateful encounters have left us with

frazzles of feelings, tatters of sensations.

While holding on to stuff that needs to be released,

we mindlessly destroy what begs for its salvation.

We’d sacrifice beauty fare and square.

Altar accepts and gives a vacant stare.

VIII

Altar accepts and gives a vacant stare.

Clueless about what we’ve parted with

we must concede that spark divine is nowhere;

we can’t return it either tenfold or as is.

Bewailing those who have paid their tolls;

who to the very end, to the exhaustion –

‘always one out of all, for all, against them all’ 2

pushed us to do our best, put forth all our exertion;

and having seen that they are not at fault,

that we do not appreciate their rapture,

the Lord takes them from us – soul after soul,

reluctant to fill in chain’s gaping fractures.

Landscape thins out. As prisons didn’t work ,

due time to for Beggar’s bawl give us a torque.

IX

Due time for Beggar’s bawl give us a torque;

from Woe begin a backward trip to Wit.

But after clearing mess, you’ll hear a late night bark:

“No, Rodion Romanitch; it wasn’t Nikolka’s hit…” 3

We’re not yet human, coming to the world –

we are buds, shapes, a look-alike of human.

And there is chance to walk the road as a crippled sod,

bypassing feast of God and leaving life in ruins.

Partaking bitter cup of ills and losses,

we shun sweet harmony’s unsettling scent;

although it could have helped unveil unknown sources,

these troubling origins of our discontent.

Throughout daily chores our tears are dripping;

insane would be unreasonable weeping.

X

Insane would be unreasonable weeping.

Instead, let’s beauty fall out of fashion;

and those who, seeing themselves as our welfare’s keepers,

still wish to save us all from repercussion,

eliminate by way of simple sleight:

render them mute before it is too late

or buy us off of them with laurels and flatter,

but speedily without dipping into matter.

Tormenting requiem, challenging choir

throw open gates of the eternal morrow;

poetic rhymes and rhythms push darkness to retire;

drama grows Garden of Eden out of sorrow…

But from this ship we’ve long been disembarked.

Murk goes daily double-speed darker.

XI

Murk goes daily double-speed darker.

But we were granted month till total void.

While half of light is there, it shouldn’t trip our radar –

the term ahead would be no shorter, dear boy! 4

We will light up the world from and to end,

by raising purchasing and selling numbers…

But only single day remains in empty hands;

last, precious, fleeting, prosperous day of ours.

A proud one on numbers built his house.

But looking at his soul and grace askance,

the boisterous king of math steps into mud of malice,

sawing inanity, decay and arrogance.

Poems, paintings, symphonies are just for skimming.

Insouciance in charge. We know swimming. 5

XII

Insouciance in charge. We know swimming.

We know honesty, we also know love.

It’s so comforting, this toxic stuff of knowing

that lets us seem alive without being alive.

World is hostile to those who trades on cheating –

neither eternal nor superb, nor just.

Its tacit manual for captives sounds mistreating

with short instructions: not to fear, or beg, or trust. 6

But if you open up immortals’ parcel,

you couldn’t fit all presents in a row;

but you can put aside uncorked a Champagne bottle

and savor once again 'Le marriage de Figaro.' 7

Don’t wait for someone else – from time unknown

resourceful one unbars door on one’s own.

XIII

Resourceful one unbars door on one’s own,

while, for the moment, leaving us to linger.

At the nick of time, neither too fast nor slow

he is tapping out the song of an unearthly singer.

And when the pitch adjusted to be even,

abreast with rhythm and meter of the verse,

he sings along, and then he outsings the Diva,

and brings to us the melody of Universe.

They are our bread and salt, and our strength;

our love and conscience, mercy upon the fallen. 8

A beauty, when received out of their artful hands

calls into being our souls from wasteful toiling.

And everyone inspired, as you and I

sight reads effortlessly the Score of life.

XIV

Sight reads effortlessly the Score of life;

does not cut off his ties to the Creator;

and sour wisdom of uncounted earthly strives,

unknown to Him, hands over to Originator.

We’d love to teach our omnipotent friend,

along with Him transforming our globe.

Isn’t that the core of the beginning and the end?

And is it not what poets warn us not to blow?

They leave behind a noticeable trace.

Their absence though will hardly be replenished.

And if – as at the moment, and for many years –

man fails throwing door open for many,

path to Castalian spring 9 will overgrow –

key to all-time creative power flow.

XV

Key to all- time creative power flow,

Castalian spring is still in place, it seems.

They wait for us with utter patience, no moans

about past offence that never were redeemed.

Don’s shy away, try anyone to see

if suddenly your wounds start aching:

at Prager Diele with Marina have a tea,

ask Joseph, Anna, see how would Osip take it.

Of those of you, who can’t get help elsewhere,

who search for answers, and receive baloney,

a certain Melpomene’s votress will take care –

her name I have entwined within the Crown of Sonnets.

Amidst the tedious days of routine life

Atman will be your soul, with skies to fly.

XVI

Atman will be your soul, with skies to fly

up to the height where seeds of being grow;

where two by two is four, however hard you try,

will live without numbers, eyes, or ink, or throws.

Blazed with delight, chaos is always brewing.

Just think of it: if flesh of earthly stock

is only outcome of hardening and cooling –

try to imagine heat of foundry at work.

Speech recognized by none soars out there;

and if you wish to hear departed few,

the only way is helping poet persevere,

who says anticipating our rendezvous:

How to do it you have no doubt.

You’d better ask me, how it comes out. 11

XVII

You’d better

Ask me, how it comes out.

It comes out, swiftly turning into stones

inferior ones who rather frequent petty bouts,

and favor loud noise, and disavow moans.

The last import of burning line, disguised,

was not revealed to me, but fighting fear,

out of abyss I am searching for the rise.

Who knows – one day you maybe too, my dear,

will wander from the road in valley’s moods,

and find yourself within foreboding woods.12

A Crown of sonnets wouldn’t eliminate all woes,

but perhaps it will at least relieve from some of those.

Of when and where the fate will jump the gun?

In a midday heat,

In the glen of Daghestan. 13

THE CROWN

Joie de la vie is over. I am still the same.

As small agates’ God and all black holes’

Negated Nadir, took Zenith off game.

No-fancy carriage, hauling body, crawls.

Azaleas look awesome and tranquil.

Volcano roars, but falls on a deaf ear.

Lies in the snow enchanting magic quill.

Altar accepts and gives a vacant stare.

Due time for Beggar’s bawl give us spark.

Insane would be unreasonable weeping.

Murk daily goes double-speed darker.

Insouciance in charge. We know swimming.

Resourceful one unbar door on one’s own;

Sight reads effortlessly the Score of life.

Key to all-time creative power flow,

Atman will be your soul, with skies to fly

You’d better

Ask me, how it comes out.