Valery Kourinsky

 

Oh, my darling does not like violin

Oh, my darling does not like violin.
And violin is still a part of me,
and violin is a part unloved
by my darling in this life...

Oh, my darling is scarred by Bruch,
when I switch a little eternity
pressing a button of my heart
by my passion to live as music --

with fullness of cosmos in my mind,
what is surely made
in the workshop of Stradivarius,
which knew how sounds our depth.

And strings instead of the nerves
for thoughts of mine are produced
by the better among the twigs of feelings,
blossom of which is colophon dust

from the bow that's created by comet
of hope of being where love Bach-like tangs,
where it is so violinly and stringly
and vibrant reality is more real.

But is discarded everything previously played
by all that which has form
of Mendelsohn's and Chaikovsky's concerts
for my soul with full orchestra

of co-sensings, co-despairings, co-recoverings
and the whole bulk of "co"-s,
needed for this non-playing,
that is to be ever a play.

And yet, I remember, I'm not able to lose
the awful finding of a common day:
my darling does not love violin
and violin 's dying from that.

Kiev