Зимородок - стр. 7
It does its best to be unobtrusive.
The edge of the crystal vase
Glitters hard in the corner.
Being confined to a sick-room,
Enduring the dusty monotony
Of pathetic fake flowers —
This is not what it’s made for!
The curtains hold back the darkness,
Soften the mid-day light.
Catching the slightest motion of the air,
They stir like wings,
Like the white sails of a ship,
Sensing the wind, the space
Of a great invisible world.
Orbit
The Earth falls towards the Sun.
There are no elephants, no turtles,
No hand of Providence
For the world to rest on.
What keeps the planet in orbit
Is its unwavering observance
Of “the laws of nature”.
But what is inside those words?
Dead force?
A command backed by fear?
A solemn promise given long ago?
Or a bitter-sweet journey
On a freely chosen path?
Creation stories
To Orna Greenberg
In the story
Of the first creation
The Divine power
Lifts the supple clay,
To mold His image,
To imprint Her likeness.
The Divine breath
Enters the human shape,
Calls it to life.
The potter’s hands
Explore a lump of clay,
Stroke, press in
The hollow of the vessel,
Form the plump lip,
Extend the graceful neck.
The artist dips the brush
Now into paint, now into water.
An image blossoms:
Ocher and sienna blend;
The colors thicken —
Shadows outline the round rim,
The colors thin —
Light curves down the glazed flank.
You
Lift the clay jar,
Gaze at the painting,
Read these lines,
You
Have the power
To breathe into a creation
Awareness, thought, meaning,
Life.
Creation
It is possible to escape,
To hide from the darkness:
Squeeze your eyes shut,
Press hard on the eyelids.
Circles of phantom fire
Will blaze in front of your staring pupils.
Let us trade: I would barter
My past, my memory,
For a handful of stars,
For the dimmest of constellations…
But you drive a hard bargain
By simply refusing to exist.
In a blind rage
I splinter my heart into kindling,
Pour gasoline,
Set the whole mess aflame,
Watch as it burns to ashes.
But it keeps on beating,
It keeps on beating in the darkness.
There is nothing to do but sit.
Stare into the void.
Read the blanks on the empty page,
Over and over,
Till they form a pattern,
Till the repetition yields a meaning:
“Let there be darkness, for there is.”
There is darkness.
There is darkness.
There is darkness.
All there is, is darkness.
Until slowly, slowly
Contours form,
A faint outline emerges:
“Let there also be light.”
Realities
we create a thin veneer of simplicity and predictability
over terrifyingly unmanageable chaos
and call it reality.
Anastasya Shepherd
We call it reality
And consider the matter settled,
So we can turn our attention to