Poems

The poem always was for me the form of expression of feelings. In two-three stanzas finds room much – the overflowing emotions asking on will of thought, impetuous passion. Not having possibility to give vent to this all on a paper, for a long time would descend suma from an overabundance of feelings. And so – anything, it was possible to consult. Improbably it would be desirable, not spending, certainly, not deserved analogies to repeat thereupon Sergey Yesenin's words: «as to other autobiographical data, - they in my verses».

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The woman

Gate iron were again closed,
Again – waste ground and dank darkness.
The woman – you a being useless,
You in loneliness as if winter.

Has slapped a door – you a drawn game, you – inutile,
You rush about again in ozhidane a call.
Kitchen, window and plate smoked,
The chair from bessilja a kick falls.

The lock has clicked, you have moved back to a mirror
You look as shine dies away in your pupils.
Finger you erase lipstick faded.
The woman – groan and a despair splash.

1995

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