Bare trees and evening.
A bronze bell not chiming
spreads distance as mystery.
The flickering of early stars
could be flametips of candles
over this gathering of souls
in an old house of poems.
The door opens a tragic smile.
My baggage of memory and worry
left outside the winter threshold.
What country have I fallen into?
A dark cat on the wooden floor
considers the shape of my aura.
Sofiya and others greet me warmly,
gesturing as if through time, speaking
a tongue I don't know but understand.
I drink something that tastes of forever,
then sit on a love seat sighing its fabric.
Sofiya stands, opens her new book,
her dark hair hiding consciousness.
Ghosts gather round -- Akhmatova,
Mandelstam, Tsvetayeva, Brodsky.
They quaver between her open lines,
breathing out uneasy atmospheres.
Ah, listening as a way of vision!
So much held back, so much thus given.
Lines declaimed, some words whispered.
I hear of love that is far and burning
or waits where shadows hold starlight
and meaures of some lost music.
I hear of a god looking for knowledge
of seasons, mirrors, and gravestones.
Midnight comes, the walls are melting.
Faces like wax from candles are falling.
Sofiya tells me to come to my senses.
I'm not really here, it's past time I go.
She hands me a candle of Blue Light burning.
|Blue Light: Selected Poems, by Sofiya Yuzefpolskaya-Tsilosani|