How light is produced, a poet knows
How light is produced,
a poet knows –
From the aromas of coniferous trees
More, more,
From a drop of donated blood
From the disaster in Pskov
From the Cross of Calvary
From the experience of the Holocaust overnight
Six million Jews in a civilized ghetto,
From an unanswered email
From the music of the Kingdom frozen on the forehead of a suicidal
Girl, forgotten by the world.
From the usual everyday passionate,
Someone struck a match, yawned sleepily,
And on the other side of the world, a mystery was played out –
And the tulips bloomed luxuriantly on Sunday.
Lust is not a pawn moth
Keep clean at 2: 30 and at 3 –
Absolutely keep it.
Lust is not a pawn moth,
You can’t stick it in, like in the neighborhood of gol
Street, you can’t get it out with powder,
You can’t replace it with a phosphorous advertising god.
For a bride, nothing is better than virginity,
Clean water is better than sewer water.
Don’t read other people’s minds in your sleep,
Do not dig into the drunk brains of others,
Don’t vampirize empty programs.
Pulled into the city swamp
And you and someone else,
From the ramming caterpillar of the cataclysm
A cowardly domestic cannot be saved by a conformist.
They hid in the city’s battened-down burrows
The townsfolk are starving each other out
They feed on computer nonsense,
The poisoned city.
Do not tremble, grandmother, like an aspen leaf,
Do not conjure kerosene over the lamp,
But become better at night bows,
Better together, but you can take turns.
Get better, cleaner, and higher
Is it possible, while remaining a poet,
to accept melioramentum
To improve in sorrows and sunny distances,
like Dante, reading in the heavenly tablets.
To influence some creature with a blurred face,
while remaining a wanderer and a cosmopolitan,
without touching anything, afraid of being defiled with the tip of your fingers,
not looking for long – term guests on earth,
moving in other beyond spaces,
daily countering fears and troubles –
to make your own small melioramentum.
Become better, purer and higher
and at least one iota closer to the Almighty.
To the sound of car horns
The usual inert order
is banished, its hourly consolamentum
is performed – the Sacrament of becoming a little more than itself.
Do not sit out until the general resurrection,
prostrate yourself in the rays of the unclouded sun,
forbid yourself to worship the cosmo-freaks
And, scratching like a white mouse under skillful tweezers,
sing your mouse melioramentum.
I became a little more sorrowful, a little purer,
although I still had a thousand thoughts.
Well, it does not matter, the Mother of God will purify,
Fr. John will delight the mountain in prayers,
and the abuse of the anointed one will become common.
I wasn’t born to be nonprofit, not for barbed wire
Don’t look at me half-mad,
the mask of a sinner is accidentally hung.
I am different, no matter what the program is burdensome
and no matter how much the evil one chases after me.
I wasn’t born to be nonprofit, to be barbed wire,
to be an outcast on the third reserved seat shelf.
I have other call signs in the night
and my neighbors are forever unearthly.
They run somewhere, like the delusions of hell’s
illuminated films, scrolling frames.
And just something stuck under the roof of the ice –
and nothing more about the celebrity of the former is not heard.
Induced symptoms, illnesses, fears,
someone’s silly fables,
plucked like eucalyptus
leaves, the beautiful dreams of a seraph.
I will reveal to you an unprecedented
reality at half past nine, better than that of Anna Akhmatova.
I will reveal to you the reality of another Joseph –
not Stalin and not Brodsky,
and the world is higher than that of N. Zabolotsky.
Blot me out, midnight, like ink on a blotter,
and go to sleep quietly, snoring and coughing.
There are celebrities bigger than Marina Tsvetaeva.
They yearn for them without knowing
who they are and how to reach them.
There are songs worthy of more than a standing ovation.
Does the guitar have reserved strings
that are inaccessible to demand and market conditions,
there is a range that is incomparable to any subculture.
There is a string that sings in the nightingale’s midnight –
touch it, musician Grigory Ionich.
In the meantime, with an inscrutable apostolic mission,
the eight-stringed God O Paisii comforts me.