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Icebound Minstrel

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Copyright © 2010 by Lara Biyuts

yellow and orange meditations

 

 I.

 

Wind whipped

snow dust.

Translucent veil.

 

II.

 

Snow stamped footprints,

what traveler has left you?

Short memory.

 

III.

 

Frosty night

I watch the stars.

Other worlds.

 

 

snowfall

 The blend of snow-flecks--

 

snow as a tardy revenge to the obstreperous grass of summer.

The whirl of snow-flecks--

a dreamlike wing, the plural of white non-existence.

The temper of the snow, the pain from the snow--

to dissect oneself in the sky to be forever one on the earth.

The time of snow--

the cyclic fairy tale, snowy roads, weird mist, hardly comprehensible.

The sadness of snow

beginning from sources and learnt by heart.

The call of snow--

the winter’s soft touches falling from the dark to my craving hand. 

 

the sun and the frost

 

The sun plays sparkling

in the branchy antlers,

The snow under the hoof.

The fur is sunshine-saturated.

It’s frosty.

The steamy breath curls skywards.

The green fir-trees dance in a ring;

the blue skys whirl above.

 

 

new year

 

The Mouse King has left me.

What a pity.

The pompous carnival,

which we participate,

performs another play,

and it’s so witty,

but it’s not one of things,

which I anticipate.

 

 

to Oscar Wilde

 

Your rhymes destroy my common sense.

I want to give my sighs to you.

Why did they place us at the two

glamorous times?

If only but a great expanse

were the abyss that parted our lives,

and not the times, glamorously undying--

the snow, the ground and the dreams

were common, in this case,

for you and me, and I had earthly way

to you, my dear soul-mate. Alas,

without you I’m one of many.

No room were in your heart for me--

no matter--I could be but the second

or the third--my distant poet, why did they

place us at two or three, or more

glamorously undying times?

 

 

leaning over backward

 

It’s time for fun. The crazy, prodding billiard.

You pocket two white balls. A tune in the baroque.

One’s merit is a wish to sell one’s snowy horror

in twisted mind on high, bereft of last repose.

No music, no repose, no god, no inspiration.

A strange somebody’s imp falls through the Internet.

The snowstorm-fallen trees show us the three-dimensional

undying Masquerade, life-born imagery.

In mirrored circle, time stands as dark and splendid

and dreamlike Bal Masque. Bright masks of moments dance

throughout times and lands. Reflecting in the mirrors.

And disappear all. The Ball is endless though.

New personages act the endless play of pleasure,

dependent on a warmth, dependent on a love--

if we have neither, we depend on other, darker,

more dangerous, alas, and more destructive things.

Red lips conceal the fangs. We all depend on others,

and on the quirky twist of our own dreams.

The slavery of dreams. O brother, darling, where…

where on earth are you?

Perchance in mirrors. No.

 

 

portrait of the boy

 

In a painting or icon you are looking at me, pale and nice.

Someone said that you are in love with me.

The black locks fall loosely on your shoulders.

Your blue beret with black plume. 

One cannot mix up you, my boy,

best in the world,

best of all times and names. 

The author of your portrait is enigmatic;

his brush danced and snaked. 

If only someone told you

how I am in love with you.

Now, I send the snatches of my vague winter dreams.

Time beats up cream for those who are ready to have dessert.

Bowmen and infantry of the moon!

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