Valery Kourinsky

03.23.1999

AN ATTORNEY OF SNOW-FLAKE FLOCKS

What does this trial mean,
my tender swallow?..
And who is here defendant, who is judge?
It clearly seems that both are the same,
that both are one and namely -- life itself.
We have proclivity to blame it lustily,
to rail against with vile and "wound up" despair
which like a watch is able show needy moments
pinpointing them with bony venomous hands,
now small now big, now short now long.

Grifters are those who do not appreciate the verity,
who therefore cynically negates poetry between
the middle life crisis and life end.
And usual absence of experienced little lines,
both written and only imagined,
transform into gray feastlessness,
where one is suffocated by alien atmosphere
not containing oxygen of all-senses-beauty,
air for human cores,
air trembling from delight to be a matter
that is to give us again and again contingency of such a
wonder-breathing
with lungs of fantasy.

What are we without that?
Oh no! You must answer me,
what are we when poem of our life happens to be
beneath the rest of this reality?
And are we actually being then in general?

There is the unique and single
noble kind of eavesdropping --
it is to overhear the symphonic news
of freshborn deathlessness,
of a genuine greatness of humans,
of nevertheless continuing idea of ideals.
Let us be such eavesdropper, my darling!
Let us go under the thatch of tomorrow's dawn
to take some highest sounds and colors and words
just from the twiggy rays,
just out of shell of heaven.

Oh how you are irresponsible
when forget about
dependency of health on Poetry!
How careless you are
ommiting your latent undeveloped music
in times of heart troubles!

It is a topic for an attorney of snowflake-flocks
and willow-leaves pending over pond of plains,
of nightlong laugh-party
that is not without fail a joke-party.,
because still there is somewhere happiness
as origin of laugh...