Valery Kourinsky

02.20.99

SONG OF CONFLUENCE

 

Direct lines are not acceptable for our ways,
they have a geometry of bent spaces,
the theory of which is known after they are done
and never before...
Where to turn the pencil feels the silent
researcher in mind,
underneath of its boiling part,
and even can't whisper
Only drawings by gestures we have,
only drawings in air,
or in airless thoughts.
Only sketches disappearing at once
as they are made in imagination
that wants to save tracks of soul movements.
Our idee fix is to return to old places,
continuing to move further and further,
not understanding the impossibility of realizing
such madness in our poor earthlyness.
The Silence Minister of mental government
again is scared by my gulping of sobs,
because they are meaningful by means of sounds
prohibited by law, by ukaz
edited by Tsar of intimacy imprisoned in society.

Lost Gesture is wanted. That of a soul
which performed its solo, or, better, souls,
underlining the bass counterpoint of outlawed complaint.
A prohibited deed of crying.
The educated restrainability,
the coached masculinity of feminine essence of poetry.
She must to bear.
To give birth to future guys of action,
calling them to ostracize the coldness
and to destruct the shameful fridges
installed by devil in some hearts.

Lines flow further scratching with their sharp angles
the most sensible parts of our Selves.
Lines conflow and that is inevitable
and that is the solution of their conflicts.
Are we able to be confluent, my dear?
Are the life-lines on our palms able to be confluent?

I love very much the branch water
of together-being with you.
I would like not to be a dry arroyo
adjacent to you
before I become a former feature of being,
a microscopic dot of imaginative line of past.

***
Who is here absolutely not-abandoned
for all his long or short living?
Who is not grinding a street organ
of pre-complaint at a down of understanding?
Whom is not unknown unnamed liquid littleness,
pour into the nothing of passer-by's views,
into carnival of constant deceptions,
into optical and audio- and all-receptors-illusions?..

Steady ground is also a seeming stuff,
though you are yet standing before my eyes
like Pygmalion sculpting me,
in hope that he will at last get
a person he would be talking to
about the splendors of the entity.

I have found somewhere a lovely bird
which .sang me riddles, sang me rattles
transformed into silent landscapes,
whistled me something deprived of existence.

Outsiders of life happen to be insiders of love,
and therefore happen to be.
And therefore hear the best birds,
which fly to hibernate to Sirius

While I am alive I will run into thresholds
scattered around without space behind them,
multipied by despair raised to prohibited degree
and incompatible with life as existence of albuminous bodies
and amino acids.

Too simple math for a ever young soul --
unsufferably more thresholds than doors.
Too simple a task to be solved.
That is because it is not included in any problem book
under aureate cover of promiss.

The hell is not scorcher of the fire.
It is procreation of coldness between ourselves,
the abominable icicles of acedia,
intellectual temperament that is actually nothing but
glorified snowy Antarctica of anti-thought frigidity,
a spoiled smart demeanor of brain cells.

The hell is abnegation of contingence filled with honesty
and supported by beauty from highness
(ooooooh, that firmamently based talks in seminight,
where life becomes live up to the ridges
of this vessel named unelaborately Your Personality).

And yet... yet everything is saved so far,
after all --
I have found somewhere a lovely bird
which is singing me my dumb riddles.COUNTRY-SOUL
Where is opinions root,
where stem of our saying?..
Oh, there is underground
in our soul-country,
there is conspirators
to be uncover,
and doubts to be transformed,
to be re-educated.

Politics of inner worlds.
Mass-media of suppressed feelings.
TV of bewildered imaginations.
Cyberspace of ever young hopes.
Strikes of simple sensations,
demanding genuine truth
from the Body of Assessments.
And Kurds cries around the Greece Embassies
of occasions, of coincidences, of hazards.
Weather forecasting of culture beginning with "wether".
Radio jamming of consciousness.
Meeting after meeting one after the other
on the Trafalgar square self-coronations.

And diplomacy of search for support
of Self,
for latent abutment
underneath the being-in-love.

What is it, that transformation of strength into weakness?
Of the sought into the found?..
Is this greatly praised love?
Or a simple ruse of devil?
Or an obvious argument for impossibility of ideal things
within the vessel of the humanity?

I used to see a dream
where I have
let the jinn out of our corked up world,
but jinn turned out to be
a day-to-day cheapie of vanity and pain.