Poems
Do you like the smell of the earth after a rain?
Do you share secrets with strangers on a train?
How often do you repeat your favorite playlist?
Which guilty pleasure can you (not) resist?
What is the book you read the whole night?
Do you believe the truth is worth the fight?
Do you have (m)any hidden scars?
Are you excited to observe the stars?
Do you read the poems that I share?
Am I somebody to whom you dare?
I want to get to know you.
Do you want to let me in?
In-between realities You feel the specularity: Being weird is Now your speciality.
Small talk doesn’t work:
It’s nice to meet you, Are you on vacation?
Yes, evacuation.
In-between realities It’s called solidarity: We have no food, But take a spoon. You are nor here, Neither there. Your home is Middle of nowhere.
The only safe space In these fragile days Is under my blanket Is under my skin.
Under my blanket
I have sweet dreams
About the future
Made from “this”.
As claimed in the old song All sweet dreams Are made of “this”So who am I to disagree?
I just wish to discover What does “this” mean I want to know secrets
Of atoms of dreams.
I wish I could share My blanket to you My skin to you My dreams to you.
I wish I could share My blanket to all Who doesn’t feel safe In this crazy world.
Do you feel the tension
Of the invisible connection?
Do you feel a variety
Of heartbeat anxiety?
Do you feel instability Of our shared vulnerability? Do you feel the same Or is it my mind game?
I wish to write poems
But I write obituaries.
Death poetry is corny
If you are not religious.
Maybe, be honest,
The death is diffusive.
Isn’t filling a vacuum
With memories confusive?
The death is inclusive: It accepts good and sin. It doesn’t discriminate On gender, beliefs, or skin.
Maybe, the only place
Without wars is death.
That’s why we always say Rest In Peace, dear friend.
Underneath my skin
There are underwords, The landscapes of dreams, The dreamscapes of words.
The words are the gates
Of my body’s tectonic plates. The words are the waves
On my ocean’s surface.
I surf chaotic words, I try to catch a rhyme.
I give up underwaters, I am trying to write a line.
I send letters in the bottles From the underwaters, Will somebody ever read My fragile underwords?
If you find fragile letters
Please, write me back I wrote the return address
On the bottleneck.
If you witness my words, You could unfreeze the past. Or memories just disappear As rain traces on the glass.
Broken intimacy
Never fills the emptiness, Absence of presence, ‘Inclosing reserve’.
You want to be loved, You want to be touched, You want to be heard, You want to be seen.
But there is no heart, But there is no hand, But there is no ear, But there is no eye.
Broken intimacy Gifts with loneliness In the middle of a crowd, In the middle of hugs.
Shout out your shadow, Follow your madness. Open your cellars, Cry out your sadness.
Own all your wildness, Sharpen your angles.
Bite the unfairness, Roar your anger.
Grasp real danger, Show up your power.
Name inner stranger, Date inner lover.
Joy is so playful, It tickles your skin.
You laugh like a kid,
Oh, you laugh like a kid.
Joy warms your hands, Warm hands could hug.
You open your heart, Oh, you open your heart. You share your hug, You share your smile.
Oh, joy is a delight Of inner sunlight.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Let your mind connect the dots,
Find the narratives’ blind spots.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Your memories exist
In your body’s archives.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Your atoms are changing,
Your memories are estranging.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Open the window, close the door,
Stay barefoot on the wooden floor.
Breathe in, breathe out.
The house of love doesn’t have walls,
Neither windows nor doors.
Breathe in, breathe out.
The house of love becomes the house of loss
With closed windows and steel doors.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Feel the sensations on the skin,
This is the only reality you live in.
Breathe in, breathe out.
The only time is your ‘now’,
The only home is your body.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Love your home but don’t get attached
To ever-changing body too much.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Where does your soul live?
In memories, atoms, love, and grief?
klysakova.anastasiia@gmail.com
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