Springtime Resurrection

Александр СТОЯНОВ | Поэзия


Springtime Resurrection

And snows were thawing,
And old ice was shedding tears,
Bright heavens looked down smiling and untroubled,
The heart’s moan filled the space between the ribs
The world of cage grids like a rock face crumbled.

And snows were thawing,
And white snows were thawing,
Dissolving sorrows, brooks transparent flowed,
And we had solemn faith that, beyond the years unfolding,
We’ve found the light divine of love.

And sadness is no more,
All tears have fled to cellars,
The fences sang like nightingales,
It’s breath as light as a mimosa flowers seller’s,
Exhausted wind along the wheel tracks trails.

Out on the riverbank
Light bushes out in the grey-lined maples,
Grass rises upwards from pine forest’s floor,
In hollow robes, Spring’s ringing all it’s chime bells,
So people’s lust for life will live forever more.

A Secret Meeting

I’ve splashed the peaks of fairytale mountains
With swirls of yellow-patterned chants
And from the well of chaotic happenings
I’ve scooped ten thousand bright-faced masks.
I’ve dressed the lonely-looking city
In verses of well-measured gestures,
Set up an empire of objections
And tied the noose of sighs and pity.
Behind a hardened iron parting
A shepherd gave some smiles a whipping,
While fish peered out of the swampland, blinking,
And seconds fled to burrows winding.
I’ve donned a cloak of lilies’ dances,
Pulled at my grinding organ’s lever
And heaven’s sages spilled the stanzas
Of roadways from a murky tumbler.
Upon the humps of sleeping camel
I’ve piled my bags with ballads laden,
And, on the head of Eastern maiden
I saw a shiny golden platter.
From my wide sleeves I’ll take out candles,
I’ll send my dragons up into the air,
I’ll sing to dawn of our well-hid encounters,
I’ll call you beautiful beyond compare,
This celebration has no bounds,
The scrolls still break the crashing waves,
Your quiet sigh so tender sounds,
And our years still haven’t ran away.


A rhythm gets born — a rhythm dies,
A moment swings on — a moment flies,
A fir tree, covered in frost white,
A church brings joy with it’s name bright.
Everlasting’s force within flaming doors,
Torches dark wishes of ungodly hordes.
Rhythms of gardens green, rhythms of flowering,
Winds of fire sing, darkness scattering.
Rhythms of waterways, rhythms of starry swarms,
Thrown off by the sun, crumpled by thunderstorms,
Rhythms of despair, rhythms of salvation,
Dreams of rainbow-hued Spring sensations.
In the rare droplets of tender happiness,
Neighboring kingdom’s music’s rhythms nest.
Into bright vibrations rhythm braids
As an algorithm of eternal grace.

Moonlight On Water

When glass-cheeked natives’ drums will quicken,
We’ll fluff the night’s bed and the sky’ll stop weeping.
Drunk on mare’s milk, the endless steppes will tire of races,
And people’ll shed their skin again, and stop their faces.
The four-handed witches will unlock eternal darkness’ doors,
And in brass vessels Time will pour the sands of chores.
The moon’s smile teases like an orange in gorilla’s paw,
Embroidering the sea, on fairies’ path sheds glow.
The wind will fall asleep amid the waves, lulled by a tooth-jawed fish’s jibes,
And night will fill with stars and the assurance that we’re still alive.


Out in the kitchen, knives and forks’ll strike 1 a.m.
An elephant’ll perform a dance in empty halls,
The bedroom blankets still want us to rumple ’em,
My eyes remind at nighttime of shale coals.

A dragonfly leaves the wall but doesn’t go high,
It neither reaches the curtains, nor the chandeliers,
While angels beg for just one gulp of light,
And seawards head conquistadors of dreams.

Car headlights dance reflected on the ceiling,
Out on the sill, platoons of doubt are standing still,
And, U-boat steel-like on the curtains glistening,
Are remnants grey of empires that time undid.

Here’s the Rialto Bridge — a flower wrought in stone,
Silk-knit palazzos woven in the heart of tapestry,
The strands of chores all gathered in a roll
And sea’s voice is so daring and so surf-streaked.

The bed is like a bridge between two sprawling worlds
The future and the past connected by pure genius.
On carpets graze invisible cow herds
A flock of dreams below the ceiling lingers.

My sleepless eye on mariners rests,
On heaven’s angels, to my scruples entreating,
I witness battle oxen, going to their deaths
And see a novel, still to be completed.

About the author:

Alexander Stoyanov is a poet, a member of the Russian Union of Writers and of the International Union of Writers. He was born in 1967 in the city of Krasnodar and graduated from Stavropol State Agricultural Academy as an engineer and mechanic. He is an author of four poetry books “The Roaring Silence,” 2012, “The Theatre of the Rainbow,” 2014, “The Sail in the Moonlit River,” 2015, “Melodies of the space oceans,” 2015. His poems have been translated into Italian, Japanese and Bulgarian languages and published in the anthologies of the International Union of Writers.

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