Valery Kourinsky

02.14.99

DUMB RIDDLES

 

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.