Icebound Minstrel poems by Lara Biyuts PUBLISHED BY: Lara Biyuts Copyright 2010 by Lara Biyuts
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Icebound Minstrel The frozen rain produces crystals. The Icebound Minstrel produces poetry. winter… w-i-n-t-e-r The snow began to fall suddenly and as a snowfall. At least it seemed to be so for the first half an hour, because from the heaven, chasing each other to meet the earth, roofs and me, the large snowflakes rushed -- the pre-December’s white and cold kisses -and it was too late to call, imploring to put off the winter’s coming at least till tomorrow, for it had entered the town. Delightful. No fairytale like this sparking snow dust from a dreamlike featherbed, which somebody above plumps up now. The scraps of the coming winter powders my hair and eyelashes, lying down on my lips. Looking skywards for the last time, they melt, unable to accept another love but their own, crystalline and pale, being devoted to he who haughtily pours them in silence… I straighten my scarf and go slowly towards my house. It’s not time for falling in love. The street lamps nod and sigh, “One should keep patience…” keep patience… w-i-n-t-e-r winter…
The pompous town cafes are crowded. Moscow glam and loads of tundra, or rather Moscow glam which is loads of tundra. You are sitting vis-à-vis, and you are too young, indecently young for me. I admire your large forehead, your beautiful nose, your chiseled chin and the curves of your lips. The curves of your lips can rewrite history. You are looking at me, and I can’t take a guess of what you think of me. You are strange and wonderful. I am thankful to the fate for the encounter that took place a short while back. You have plenty of merits, and the main is that you know answers to questions that I asked myself for years and that nobody could help me to answer. But you’ve come and answered all my questions. The candle-flame wavers, and in the flickering light the night looks yet more festive and special. You are here, and all the rest is no matter, or rather all the rest is but scenery. The snowflakes whirl slowly outside the window, turning the night into a quiet holiday. winter…
yellow and orange meditations I. Wind whipped snow dust.
Translucent veil. II. Snow stamped footprints, what traveler has left you? Short memory. III. Frosty night I watch the stars. Other worlds. snowfall The blend of snow-flecks -snow as a tardy revenge to the obstreperous grass of summer. The whirl of snow-flecks -a dreamlike wing, the plural of white non-existence. The temper of the snow, the pain from the snow -to dissect oneself in the sky to be forever one on the earth. The time of snow -the cyclic fairy tale, snowy roads, weird mist, hardly comprehensible. The sadness of snow beginning from sources and learnt by heart. The call of snow -the winter’s touches falling from the dark to my craving hand. the sun and the frost The sun plays sparkling in the branchy antlers. The snow under the hoof. The fur is rich and sunshine-saturated. It’s frosty.
The steamy breath swirls skywards. The green fir-trees dance in a ring. The blue sky whirls above. new year The Mouse King has left me. What a pity. The pompous carnival, which we participate, performs another play, and it’s so witty, but it’s not one of things, which I anticipate. to Oscar Wilde Your rhymes destroy my common sense. I want to give my sighs to you. Why did they place us at the two glamorous times? If only but a great expanse were the abyss that parted our lives, and not the times, glamorously undying -the snow, the ground and the dreams were common, in this case, for you and me, and I had earthly way to you, my dear soul-mate. Alas, without you I’m one of many. No room were in your heart for me -no matter -- I could be but the second or the third -- my distant poet, why did they place us at two or three, or more glamorously undying times?
leaning over backward It’s time for fun. The crazy, prodding billiard. You pocket two white balls. A tune in the baroque. One’s merit is a wish to sell one’s snowy horror in twisted mind on high, bereft of last repose. No music, no repose, no god, no inspiration. A strange somebody’s imp falls through the Internet. The snowstorm-fallen trees show us the three-dimensional undying Masquerade, life-born imagery. In mirrored circle, time stands as dark and splendid and dreamlike Bal Masque. Bright masks of moments dance throughout times and lands. Reflecting in the mirrors. And disappear all. The Ball is endless though. New personages act the endless play of pleasure, dependent on a warmth, dependent on a love -if we have neither, we depend on other, darker, more dangerous, alas, and more destructive things. Red lips conceal the fangs. We all depend on others, and on the quirky twist of our own dreams. The slavery of dreams. O brother, darling, where… where on earth are you? Perchance in mirrors. No. portrait of the boy From a painting or icon you are looking at me, pale and nice. Someone said that you are in love with me. The black locks fall loosely on your shoulders. Underneath your blue beret with black plume, one cannot mix up your look, my boy, best in the world,
best of all times and names, in the picture, whose author is so enigmatic. His brush danced and snaked. If only someone told you how I am in love with you. Meanwhile -these snatches of my vague winter dreams. Time beats up cream for those who are ready for having dessert. Bowmen and infantry of moonlight go ahead through the night dark and drear‌ Let’s believe that we are in love.
from Northern Notes By Train Misty morning, hoary morning. So melancholy the snow-clad fields. Unwillingly remember former times and faces forgotten long ago. Remember the verbose, passionate talk, the eye you caught so avidly and gently. The first meeting -- the final meeting. The beloved sound of the quiet voice. Remember the parting and constrained smiles, remember much, your own, now so distant, listening to the unwearyng song of wheels, looking at the heavily clouded sky. Misty morning, hoary morning. So melancholy the snow-clad fields. Unwillingly remember former times and faces forgotten long ago.
from Northern Notes A Winter Picture of 19th Century The steam is curling in the winter sunlight -a steam-train rushing by the densest forests. Steam-clad, it looks bizarre; the steam is a white chaos. The snow is curling underneath the milky sky; all clouded with blue shades. The dark wall of the forest in the distance. The steam is like the snow; the snow is like the steam. from Northern Notes Through the Land of the Hyperborean At a distance, in the dale, someone plays Greeg. The tender saga of the fiords veils all around. The world wants peace. The world looks for a god. Oh the cold steel of the north! O effeminacy of the south! The snowstorm throws a bunch of thunderbolts. The snow-bound road merges with the white fields. Immortality of the moment: the footsteps of the mage Frost, the snow, the wind, and the music of Greeg. secret Snow. The town looking blind.
Light. No colours, only white. Town -- like a ship stuck fast in the ice. Souls -- lost in the universal vice. Wind grasping a will of your will. Stoned, you never thought it’s so real. Town… But I know a secret. Listen: the ice soon will thaw, and your sunlit town will sail at the height of springtide. My Song I go home! To the heart of the northernmost mountains. It’s so hard! It’s so hard to get to me now. To the heart of the northernmost mountains I go home.
Chat in Winter prose poem by Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-1898) Always slow and striking thirteen, among flowers and deities, the Saxon clock. Who previously owned it? Picture it being brought from Saxony by those old slow stagecoaches. (Weird shadows overhanging the old windowpanes.) Who did look at oneself in the Venetian mirror, deep like a cold spring, enclosed in the snaky framing with the faded gilding? Surely, more than one woman used to sink the sin of her beauty in the stream of this spring, and perhaps, if I stayed peering for a long while I could see a naked phantom.
“Naughty one, you can be so caustic…” (A spiderweb above the large intersections of the windowpanes.) Our wardrobe trunk is very old too. Look how the grim woodwork shows purple in this lighting. Time has touched the faded curtains, the embroidery of the chairs with the faded ruddy varnish, the yellowish etchings on the walls, all our old things. Don’t you think that even the Bengalee finches and blue bird are somewhat time-faded? (Don’t think of the spiderweb that trembles above the big crosses of the windows.) You love all this, that’s why I can live beside you. Didn’t you wish -- oh my sister whose eye turned to the Past -- the words “charm of all withering” to be in one of my poems? You detest new things. Like me, you are frightened by their meretricious harshness, and you feel like obliterating their counters and colours -- which is so difficult to those who are tired by every motion. Close the old German Almanach, which you read so attentively, though it is published more than a hundred years ago and the enumerated lords are no more. Lying on the ancient carpet with my head on the faded cloth that covers your lap, oh quiet child, I shall be talking long! No fields around; the streets have got empty; I shall talk about our furniture… What are you thinking about? (The spiderweb trembling long above the big crosses.)
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