Archive for the ‘Страдание’ Category

I reflect, instantly,



and overwhelmingly aware,

all too aware,

I shake my throbbing head

(it doesn’t help):

such pressure,

over such a shitty banality,

minutes and hours of life



day after day,

out of control,

rabbit hole,

frog spawn,

maggot salad,

horse meat,

human flesh,

wasps’ nest,

crumbling mess…

the garbage may

or may not

be collected.

Triviality sucks.





Yamal, 2009 (2)



it’s not as if you have the crushing weight

of Arctic pack ice on your shoulders.

So, exhale and relax.

Viva perspective,


So says the ass

who doesn’t know

or appreciate

what you’re going through:

The pain in your brain,

the panic which consumes every

cell of your body and being,

the total torment,

so far beyond what any

nuclear-powered icebreaker

could surmount.


I understand.




Time passes and context proves the undoing

of everything you hoped would be.

Like, this afternoon’s enlightening sentiment

buried by tonight’s depleted body

and spat-upon soul.

Still, the clock keeps ticking,

yes, the fucking clock,

the calendar,


and various rodents,




suck you dry.




Every day it seems I am giving up another piece of my soul

just to survive, tread water, in this world.

Tomorrow, again, there is less left of my self.

Repulsed, at what society has made me

(not my dream or aspiration!),

I avoid looking in the mirror,

it isn’t difficult,

tomorrow, I will disappear.




It rings so fucking hollow,

why would I choose to follow

your banal cacophony

into the abyss?

You don’t remember,

let alone mourn or miss,

the lost Jews of Salonika.

I, therefore, spit in your eye

and choose my own,

nobler way,

I try,

I strive,

I hope,





I still have feelings,

sometimes keen,

sometimes dulled.

Fitfully, I feel compelled to express my ardor…

imagining myself in Leningrad’s White Nights,

I try,

I write poetry

to forget the dark days

and express my longing

for you.

Now and then I will send a letter,

when circumstance allows,

O’ how I yearn to read

or hear your voice,

but your words are only a memory.

I sigh,

expectantly awaiting,

no reply.




The annoying irony of life

in this place and time.

Ironic expressions make you simper, grimace.

Manifestations slap you in the face.

(Inside, we cry,

outside, others laugh…)





Why would I give you flowers?”

the man-child said, tear in eye,

“Flowers die.”




“Life, what a fucking farce!”

The objects taunt,

stirring memories which haunt.

All those good intentions,

flushed a-fucking-way.

You really tried,

did your best,

really poured your heart and soul

into the endeavor

(cavernous hole!)…

The objects mock you,

epitome of life,

futile spin of the wheel.

Pain, endless pain.

No wonder you want to walk away.




She tells me about her friend

and her problems,

so many problems:

medical, emotional, financial,

personal, general, universal.

She’s been mistreated and hard-done-by,


And to top it off,

she’s just turned 30,

she’s depressed,

she suddenly feels old.

Poor baby.

My heart bleeds.

With all her problems,

I believe,

she’s lucky she’s feeling anything.