The mad-eyed bloom of the
Fiery Russian poet
Incinerated by eternity’s fist
And fed to toy-sized sharks in the
Oversized aquarium
Of the studio apartment
Where the old-style yellow
Phone sits voiceless,
Without fingerprints for
Evidence—
Yet, by shivering moonlight and
Vodka on the lonely lips
On some 21st century kid
In the pale-horse light
And singular footsteps of
The hallway,
A reborn poet can test the
Depths, a bee-sized phoenix
Coming reformed for a few
Minutes,
Inches of hand-signals from the
Clock,
To be published in the middle of the
Sea
In the calm eye of an
Apoplectic hurricane
Which fortunately dies before
The drunken scientists can think up a name.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I really enjoyed this poem and its imagery. It rings true as tribute to the elder Tarkovsky. The telephone, voiceless, and without fingerprints for evidence, and the penultimate and final lines- beautiful. I'll be sure to read more of your poetry. All the best.