Юрий МАКСУДОВ | Поэзия



The cold of dusk stifles dreary daylight
Streams of liquid crowd my window pane
Descending darkness hides the rays of sunlight
And pulls them downwards, falling with the rain
I hope my SOS a miracle will render
But to the term, «bad weather», I find no fitting rhyme
My cries are washed away with disregard, relentless
It seems I’ve failed to match the weather’s tune or time
This shower will never soak me to the bone now
Forsaking cover, I’ll march these dreary streets
I’ll conquer puddles, underfoot below me
I’ll shake the branch above and set these droplets free
I’ll call out loudly, to the ones upstairs
Listen up, you rulers of the weather!
Are you bored, in heaven, way up there?
Turn off the tap and save yourselves the water!

Family Line

(a mother’s tale)

I cannot tell, fairytale or true,
There is no sure way to know
The line began through a bachelor so
It’s complicated, nothing simple
We all were scared to speak of it,
We talked only in secret,
Our lives we owe to him, who is
The great and mighty poet.
Careless and romantic
Relationships he flourished
With the highest of society
He ruined many daughters.
I won’t run off on rabbit trails
Or bore your mind with words
Our line direct from Pushkin lies
And k*** forbidden flesh
And so the legend grew ever on
And at death’s door, the mother
Remembered it all on her own
And wisely told her grandsons:
«Your great-great-grandpa was a player,
A lion he was called.
And no one had the foggiest
Who’s line we still continue.
He was thrown to the bachelors
On a chilly winter night
Frozen half to death in winter clothes
But this is not the point…
The bachelors got rich indeed,
This child brought them fortune,
They had no expectations see
But money kept multiplying…
So one day at the gate he stood
As from a cab a lady approached
She knocked loudly on doors of wood
So in turn, the lad approached.
The boy stood there with darkened curls,
And olive colored skin,
She said: «Oh, good God!
You are your father’s kin!
Forgive me now, oh child of mine!
A demon then deceived us,
Naught but a toy was I back then,
But from this moment onwards
I will not leave you for a day,
I’ll cleanse my sins with tears!»
Then he, caressing his mustache,
He answered the woman:
I have a mother and a father,
I honor and I love them,
Without even straining my mind,
I’m sure, I do not know you.
I’ll take your burden of sin from you,
Compose yourself dear woman,
May the good Lord save and keep you now
But you are not my mother!»
She stoop in shock, without a word
The verdict was not easy
It seems she had a heavy burden
Even to the casket.
But who could say, as of now?
All witnesses forgotten.
I wish sincerely to thank you,
The player is was not embroidered.
I’m grateful now, my ancestor
I tip my hat in honor
You always knew what your house was for,
Your line will be unending!
So maybe I won’t see the day,
But in the legend I believe!
Descendants take a lofty place
On that forgotten tree!

Trade War

When progress and enlightenment
Have had sufficient time to act
(And philosophic sentiment
Now estimates we need, in fact,
A mere five hundred years) our roads
Will be improved to take such loads:
Russia will be one great highway,
Unifying every by-way….
And godly folk will institute,
Fine inns too, all along the route.

Alexandr Pushkin, Eugene Onegin

See the advertising; fliers, slogans, media-posts,
The silhouettes sketched out on thickest layers of culture hosts.
How refined the style of poets who lived and wrote before,
Of dueling with pistol pellets, which from curved designed barrels tore.
Another bloody ellipsis leaves honor’s fight unfinished
Meticulously honed through time, the sentence has not diminished.
While over countless price-lists, upward sleeves are rolled,
The plot, it ever thickens, with bills all paid in full
From the sutlers’ endless salvos, let the coffers now be filled
For to the sound of old clock’s chiming, proceeds a war for trade!
The crystal clear store window is a fox hole that never fails
From the shelves inside shots are fired, the foe pinned down by sales!
Fast as a bullet to the Black River, Monsieur Dyushes flies
With loudest of speech wetting the poet’s appetite
The borders are broadened for the great winged Pegasus,
The written pages prove that life is truly precious!
The roads and cities flaunt processions,
As bikers strive for years of happiness.
The coming years will clearly not be child’s play,
Hope oncoming headlights don’t blind us from the way.
But along the way, gas stops are yet required
Where invariably, the petrol pistol backfires
And here, again, good luck do we encounter.
When in a station, redecorate the counter.
Exhausted efforts don’t darken the PR,
Here saleswomen are cute and goods nicely line the walls.
For people to evaluate the payment and the service
like it, buy it and go about their business!.

Autumn Sale

Autumn values exact knowledge, juicy and fully ripe fruit pods,
With the outlined view of buildings and lush trees by the pond.
A leaflet drifts from its branch, slow, languid, calmly falls,
Gracing every new logo, rustling gold awards.
Wind sweeps the summer clouds like a peasant woman’s broom
In its turn, a halo shines, rays warming the the bell dome.
Feelings bearing clarity of thought, before the manger of mystery to the magi,
Pine branches, heavy with meaning — softwood carries words of wisdom
The lines on pages of ancient books, collecting dust in layers,
The growing files of past years yet contain traces of goose feathers.
The phoenix dreams of rebirth as an eagle
Having reached the capital, visiting envoy
He sees the VIP birds, in line with the politeness of the snake,
He talks up psycho-types, with eloquence of page.
In the sale of the century for the body, a line of frosty tones,
Sinking in foamy gel, the price of naked truth.
From the baggage of the lady in the blouse, a dish served to the table
The blouse was torn to shreds, the beast’s teeth at the ball.
In the moonlit night the aphid, colors stolen by the dark,
Was divorced to earth and hidden coldly in the dirt.
The clouds conceal a load of liquid, convicted of their follies,
Poured their tears out, streaming downward, washing over the meaning of verses.
Brightest crimson landscape colors will be washed from canvas face
The rain and the false mouse-joystick tail…


A man will rarely allow a tear to breach his eyelid fortress,
A man will rarely cleanss his soul with salt to heal it
A man’s word is a meticulous planned encryption,
A man’s word is firmly based on his actions,
A man’s feelings hide in a prison, under lock and secret key
Clock hands keep watch over them, vigilantly circling.
He strides with steps that echo, marching briskly along the wall
The air is stormy for his venture, with undone scarf, an untimely walk
The harsh wind drives the scarf like blades of a propeller in the sky,
God forbid he might fall downward and ruin his overcoat side
Hour after hour sinks into oblivion, the distance of lost time.
Memories in a haze won’t prolong the list of family names.
A stream of bright starlight opens above.
Soothing the soul like a healing balsam!

To The Poets

Those who aspire and search for meaning are resigned to a truly hard fate,
But still, through the storm of monotonous pain, the Magellanic Clouds form a gate
On the distant troubled crossroads, where lack of purpose leads only to dusk
Suddenly, a darkness brings on chaos, carrying away loads of dung.
Clinging to the mast by the yardarm, he tries to take the helm.
In the dim whirlwind, fetid winds blow beneath the colors above him.
From the poorly rhymed scribbled lines, incriminating words could fill up volumes
Into the shallow reef he’ll crash and sink, losing sanity in doom
A pirate is no friend to a poet — let them be driven to the dark bottom of the pole,
Scraping through burnt coals with a firebrand until Judgment Day finally comes.
Endless time reflects the blue sky off of the ocean,
Where a great line of poets produces vivid words again!

Conversation On Poetry With An Oil Rig

«Poetry is but a trip into the unknown. Yes, poetry is ore being mined. An ounce of profit — a year of work. Producing a single word For a thousand tons of verbal ore…»

Vladimir Mayakovskii, «Conversation on poetry, with a financial inspector»

Poetry is the work of an oil rig,
The earth taking steps into motion.
Years of work, for moments of rejoicing
In the fountain of its birth!
The drilling machine is the lot of the fortunate,
Measured by the length of oaks laying forested.
With bears in the region, a stranger at watch
Can be trusted for warmth then to search.
The rhythm of the trade is no spray of Champaign,
Facets of verses sparkling,
The spirit of ancestors comes through the sound of a Shaman horse
Let the oil found run its course!
In harmony aligned, the lines rhyme perfectly
The earth in its glory is round shaped eternally.
Bursting at the seems, a cesarean it would seem,
The rock is drilled through, straight through to the deep.
Integrity strengthens words like concrete
Relationships are tight meshes of fishnet.
Pillars of the pedestal foundation
Witness a change of guard on station.
Rough hands extend to award
The crown to your brow, so fully deserved.
Valve pressured steel pipes,
Awaken the bustling life
Here sons of muses on the stage of the universe
Find the records of long lost verses
And the voice of the earth, to each star in its cluster
Speaks out in the name of love to inspire!


The planet cloaked in a calm, still silence, the cup of midnight crystal clear
Words unspoken now are whispered, gentle to the listening ear…
The airless touch on fresh-plowed star-fields
Romances comets trajectory paths,
Showing octave signs and clefs through the instrument’s brass pipes
Admissions secretly are uttered through the kiss of sweetest lips.
A thread through heaven weaves its way, showing intimacy in life,
From the fields, a great reflection, of the grain below, growing ripe.

Poets Are But Children

«Night, square, apothecary, lantern…»

Alexander Blok

In the darkness over the planet until dawn
Enlightened Aztecs and savages still run.
At the entrance of the pharmacy, lamps swayed to and fro,
Poets are but children, but more so rebel souls
In the silence of the library, a garden of paradise,
The rivers cast written water, off the edge of cliffs that rise
Words weave into nets, creating dictionaries,
Which blow on wind, through sky with heaven’s soaring birds
With fireworks ignited, confetti freely flies,
From mountaintops with grandeur, one simply can’t pass by!
Maybe the distance will send you home again,
Or doctor Bormental will sell you some bromine.
Again you discover centuries, clinging to the void,
Measure the water level, too deep even to wade.
Across the world go carry, the torch to every end,
Poets are but children, but more so, wiser men!

About the author:

Yuri Maksudov was born in 1955 in Moscow. He graduated from the Russian State University of Oil and Gas I.М. Gubkin. He has over 40 years of work experience in his field. 

His works were published in the Literaturnaya Gazeta (literary journal), Russkii Kolokol (Russian bell), Literaturnaya Respublika (literary republic), as well as in other publications. Author of verses and poems such as We Will Show You Kuzma’s Mother!, Vremya — Khren (Time Is Crap).

He was awarded the I.A. Ilin medal «For the development of Russian thought» a commemorative medal in honor of the 70th anniversary of the Victory in the Great Patriotic War (World War II), the UNESCO Adam Mickiewicz medal.

He is a member of the International Union of Writers and Translators of Russia.

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