Transitions №7
Author: Ilya Ash
•••
there is no sense
nor courage
time is frozen still and the person
isn't breathing: looking at you and
doesn't dare
and the murky mirror
doesn't dare
the anxious inane snow of april
the clueless people swirling down
then fall asleep
not giving away
they're waiting for something to happen
(2018)
•••
in the rips separating the words
rain is falling
like the credits
of an old motion picture
there where the memory won't let you
say a word —
black dashes of birds
feel these goosebumps
flicker beneath the fingertips
general
rehearsal of pilgrimage
anxious silence
of an attempt
(2018)
•••
degrees of control
masha's slumber
in a wicker box
reckless winter
of them who fell asleep
on the side of the road
in one shoe
(2021)
•••
the spot of light
if you open wide
your eyes without a preparation
bedazzle
so the tenderness does with an anxious
(2021)
•••
it is impossible to comprehend
what the palm tries to convey
is it I know you
or I don't recognize you
come closer
is it a big road inside you
unfolding as a scroll of your making
or is it just ~ wander around hugging around
seeking up and down the rural lanes
and it is always, you know, so embarrassing
so disconcerting
for the cold infantry of your
words that guiding the blind
twilight is just a continuation of sorrow
— twilight meant something to us
— what?
— twilight meant — something
the key to that little door
from the teeth of these lost who'd been loved
we were always foreseeing
some vague possibilities
some wyrd cryptics
to the noise
you can reach out your hand
but it is important not to turn around
at the shout that calls you
(2021)
•••
1.
what goes around
what clings close
observes in silence
barely perceptible
imperatively
present
2.
throbbing
at the fingertips
of outstretched hand
sparks
a fait accompli
at the distance of a voice
3.
not quite grasping
can't pick the right card
the orphanhood
wandering aimlessly
tracing the quarantine street
as a finger down the spine
(2021)
•••
mame oh mame
may I walk about with a gun shooting peeps
quack-quack-quack
mame oh mame
where are we going why is hell whispering into our ears
quack-quack-quack
mame oh mame
we are very soon gonna die
quack-quack-quack
mame oh mame
we'll be over the golden peaks, gardens of green and beyond the sky
quack-quack-quack
mame oh mame
we'll shrink to the size of a fig, pocketed tight
quack-quack-quack
mame oh mame
we'll be meek and slumbering with all our might
quack-quack-quack
oh mame-mame we'll be there mournful
full of grieve in hindsight
quack-quack-quack
but if we mame
won't die easily by tremendous chance
quack-quack-quack
no sweat
we'll find our misery even there without a fuss
quack-quack-quack
(2015)
•••
"the words are a crystal tomb
that squash into the womb of a tongue
like into fire"
one's knocking the ashes into a half-empty shot glass
the elongated human bodies
flicker spark ascend to the ceiling
then drift and fade away
"the tongue was given us to contort the pain
to charm the silence
and also to give names —
but it escapes instead into a kiss"
(2015)
•••
1.
like being woven out of thin air
but actually more subtle
was absent absent
spoke and spoke again
but did not say the most important thing:
was absent
2.
and at this point we walk out of the room
asking what's going on
but there is just breathing in and out
nothing more
3.
the giant is crowded by his chaffy stuff (he stands alone)
the girl in turn cares scar under her breast
exempli gratia just once forget yourself and wake up as vasily borodin, the poet
or wake up in the year two thousand and thirteen
4.
there's nothing here and nothing happens there
the glass ball holds another ball of glass
the alphabet has myriad of feathers
5.
these funny words
are couching twisted up
portraying words
(2015)
•••
speaking of disappearance
the search for words spins
in the fog of experience
of tender memory
cut in pieces and reassembled
left behind and (un)waited
(un)willing to be
on a rough thread of a touch
(2021)