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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
| Fiasco I'm drunk and tender, like a watercolor in my hands, creating portraits. I'm wearing almost a soldier's overcoat, and I'm handing out candy to the young ladies. Today I'm an unimaginable dandy, trampling all the frost with my tarpaulin boots. And I'm almost no longer in love with you, flirting today with other ladies. Today I'm like a watercolor, washed out across the city's captivating distance, and forever forgotten from now on, comfort with languid sadness within me. I'm wearing almost a soldier's overcoat, and I'm handing out candy to the young ladies, I no longer regret it, with which I used to paint portraits. Now my life flows like paint from a damp canvas into golden autumn, and it seems that at sunset I'm carried around the world like a yellow leaf. And in the evening, sitting in other people's houses , filled to the brim with random rabble, I will regret the cities, where someone paints you in bad weather. I have already drawn everything I could, Having wasted paints on empty squares... I once also invited you to paint a portrait, but I suffered a fiasco. Andrey Viktorovich Kuznetsov https://stihi.ru/avtor/kuznecovandrej ——————————————————————- Response (In Part — for starters) Chasms Of Humanity So much beauty in the world to discover… but missed — it’s too late. Only now introduced, know I could never meet you. Your beautiful letters lay open on the table, illuminate, as if the entire world. Humanity grieves what’s stolen, from a maw open, swallowing sadness, process for a dry leaf fading, as my head, in these seasons. Your hermitage fills me now. If not eyes, I die. I want the suffering of death to heal within all good souls: beautiful hearts bleeding good words, their appraised images constructed, re-envisioned and translated. Never let this paint crack, a canvas yellow, in dust to settle — forgotten in attics of yore. Let a flame kindle at the breakfast nook — hopeful morning, early light announcing ‘It is a good day’. Choose air for your lungs to shout in chasms of humanity, “you’re not dead!” Just ran into a painting w/ a poem, read the poet’s 2016 invitation at his webpage… He died at 46 in 2022. I lost him in whirlwind serendipitous discovery, and my heart began fracturing…again. So, I died some more today and decided…fight. Fight anything blocking access to humanity. Fall disturbs the trees because it’s what it does. I can’t just sit and watch the unnecessary devices to marginalize everything that could live. Another windmill fight, I guess. |
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Great poem, Brian.
Dreams feel good though. Thanks for posting this one, Brian 
