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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To the Knight of the Rueful Countenance

On the Earth even shouts are dim,
On the Earth only dreams full.
You have told, that I live sadly,
But what for to me to be ridiculous?

I sadly meet you,
I do not throw the arms round a neck, liking.
You consider – I not live,
Or I did not wait for you?

All not so: to me ridiculously happens,
I remove a bolt from soul.
But only the grief and melancholy will thaw –
I do not like, I do not write verses.

1993

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