Valery Kourinsky

03.23.1999

TO SNUGGLE UP

Wrought-up world is not capable our souls to calm,
so that they would able to work
cleaning ocean of feelings.
Therefore I am trying to build something world-like
to snuggle up to him,
to preserve me from perishing
in the strangeness of the hurrying-away.
And the ampleness to fill with
contents of life of my friends
that are the friends of all the rest.
What a cosmos of research
stands open for us at the very nonce,
permitting touch to the concrete part of eternity!
We then can forget the imprisonment
in four seasons,
in formula of earthly existence,
in schemes of traditional behavior,
in uniqueness of a so far single possibility to live here...

Dying boredom evaporates
in form of feather-clouds
soaring innocently to the ceiling of that Rus month March,
like the smoke of bonfire somewhere in mountain-wise past,
overfilled with surprise-bringing at-every-step-met worlds
under leaves,
inside pinetree
every needle of which embroiders a smelling halfuncovered
mystery (oh, how wetly dwells idea of fairy-tales!).

Tongue, thinking by means of licking,
touches with its tip the chocolate news,
saved else in childhood's nooks,
where lasts the better of ourselves.
Still life of agitation,
stillness of the most movable,
busts of the unsculpted,
the buskin style of a common things play,
importance of trifle,
separateness of individuals in a bulked mob
of live occasionalities (oh, how we long for opportunities, how
infinitely long!),
'what" instead of "who",
"it" instead of "soul",
minds disparaged by taking them for some-bodies...

There are bricks, incorrectly put bricks
in this building of our specific being,
my friend.
There are hands
acutely wishing to take care of order
that must be spoiled and revived
in a new wise,
with barely re-comprehension
of necessities to live through the Beauty.