Anna Polibina-Polansky Poems

I love you, my dear. I look only for your original soul, no raw copies of your consciousness will ever do. I seek for your initial souls, your authorship for things, your layer of existance. I am in no need of frauds. I am accustomed to you and your mode of being. I came to know you, and I would choose noone else, no matter how similar or seemingly the same. I won't mix you up with anyone. I like everything about you and I can even guess how you behave. However, we ought to remain clean before each other. Remember of it. If you turn dirty, I won't stand from things, either. Jesus keeps us if we reveal deep consciousness. You turn me rippened and grownup and everything. I love you so much, my sweetie. Genuine pretty Anechka. Your existence is imprinted in mine. Reamain pure, and I'll tell you all the stories from my past. I won't hide away anything, make sure. I hold you that dear to myself. Jan,21; 2021. Moscow. Who can get compared to the lady of my heart? Only one among billions was born perfect. I don't make love with anyone else, I'm not even tempted. You are my only seduction for a lifetime. I meant to tell you, it is not what it seems. You need know more, from myself. I have things to tell you. I am not easy to be wrenched up, I don't loose my mind. I have to tell you of thing aside from our story. Actually ugly ppl coming neither tempt nor annoy me. I'm lead by my own things, you have to know all. I won't hide anything from you. Nothing too special, but these are traits fro my story. How can we talk? *** My dear one. Look it up plz,4now. tumblr.com/blog/view/orangeorchard
There are ladies comparatively beautiful, at my angle of viewing. Good and special at loox. But I crave to be only with one. I belong to one, and she touches my feelings. She can not bother of anything. I am dependable at her reactions and emotions of me. All day long, and then, anew. I love her so much that other ppl will envy how it goes. There is somthing innate and natural about what we feel. I can't give up the idea of her ever. She owns my inner world. I will do with simplistic wording and phrasing, when it comes to feeling, profound and one of grownups. I am not a kid under the wing of elder ones, I am by myself, and I daily repeat my choice. I know only one person who embody my taste and my fantasies. By Anna.
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My poetic reel of my chief teachers in cinema, Guerra, Razlogov and others. flic.kr/p/2np3Xy1
There also sound my Italian stanzas (at Sicilian accent) devoted to Pazzolini, Bertolucci and Visconti, my best screen narrators. By Anna Polibina-Polansky, a lyric filmmaker.
'My tonality involves a range of dimensions; verbality and screen are eternal rivals and co-workers at the battlefield of aesthetic genres. I can elaborate any plot at presence of my intonation, ever surpassed by the essence of the fluent, changing life. We spiritually exist under the terms of joy and pang, but their shades are multiplying with our growing sensitive memory. We belong to the metaphors of being, we obey them. Parallels and allegories may intrude into any factual dimension; hyperboles blissfully exceed our vision, no matter how crucial and edgy they are. The soul is potentially angelic and victimised to the crude environment. We are left to remain authors for our exciting narration. We are doomed for metaphors as repeating protagonists of the Italian cinema; our precise plots are of vapory, scarcely caught nuances that make the screen existence, detalized and somewhat worthy, replacing the tedious, abandoned, forsaken, secluded materia of the life. We are expelled from the very need to aesthetically conclude of the daily life; we are overfilled, tossed into abundance of devices, morally sufficed. Our spirit is held at celestial realms, tamed and embarrassed with the unworthy prior rows of senseless instants. Now we are authors for somewhat being. Tonalities are more invincible than mere phrasing'. By Anna Polibina-Polansky, Moscow; June,2022.
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That sparkling flamenco confessed by Machado. We stand 'hind the linden, the maples. We chatter. So lilac and cherry are yet at their blossom. 'Ma pure verdad', we encount our losses. My peers are jealous of me. Thoughts are scattered. Apotheosis for our love, is ahead yet. We miss our felicity, bliss, rare chances. We hardly exchange rigid sighs, weightless glances. Your kisses expand with this June. Sultry, rainy, The weather is haughty, one we are enframed at. You sip me when smacking. It is all the same, still. I am so, apprenticed and fed with the tamed will. My marvel, you teach me new shades of sensations. I bear you stigmas and hard accusations. I'm equal to your lurking fears of being. You are so sincere at your modes of seing. You wrap me at your shawl of layers of patterns. So few of events may yet linger and matter. I sip my long wine, from the neat things around. So I scarcely touch the impeccable ground. We share one umbrella, at passions elated. Such instants are stark and bizzare, long-awaited... Memorable partners, away, are all melting. We share a shower, a shed and a shelter. No envy, no rivalry, no offense meant. We've found our ultimate, crucial essence. Your skin is so moisty, of odors unusual. Mature is acrid, is my sharp illusion.2022, the Shabolovka Strand.
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In a village, at the bottom of a valley, Where maple trees and birches and elms Pray to acacia and red current and gooseberry, I sip your skin in gulps, I go exploring patterns and textures of it, Its ever amazing landscapes... My sobriety is successfully altered by devastating lust. I lift up my pupils to the tarnishing, quenching hues of the heaven. I reign at my nook of cobwebs and quibbles. Riddles keep me awed.2022.
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I watch the naivity of the sky well ajar. I am indulged to these occurrances beneath. I get enrooted into new habits. The tide of intricate shells and conches is equalized to wonders. The sea trades further abysses of the soul.
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All that marine biology, bottom astrology, is meant to console, to condole, to trade soulmates. The flashes of inner rhymes are like random hopes meant for nought. All Aquarius is obscured with the implorable vision of tedious details, of boring clausulas, knots of similar vowels... Sharp adoring, acrid smells, striving for compact unity, wholesome collisions of consonants mirroring one another. Mollusks are blankly copulating under the thickness of darkening, multi-layered, destructured ocean water. Adroit corals, chalky stones, underwater streams of up combed weeds. Ocean researchers are ever deceived, cheated with the system if altering colors and as if out feigned textures... The astonishing Aquarius at random, bleakly reigns. Minor details mean a world of flashing investigations, tiny openings. Things are inevitably revealed, unraveled, disconjured, with an unaffordable speed, and yet, diligently, with a soul wide ajar. The white verse of the sea presupposes long, uneasy, inricate, complicated, hardky amplified stanzas. Oceans are metaphors for passion, well- forgotten juvenile sensations tossed into the ver core of the soul. Love delicately squeezes the sacred depth of the heart. The toil of live is doomed beforehand; no redemption is foreseen by the brisk nature of fluent emotions, scarcely noticed but of utmost effeciency whenever overcome. The coalmines of attraction are of frugal, rigid, uneasy eternity, of everlasting scheming and plotting against of irrevocable load of outer impressions. We care for weird dimensions of gem keeping them under the pillow at a Venetian parlor. Uncertain simplicity keeps us of reveries. Reckless impressions of love take up the bewaring memory. I am a birdiefish soaring at the airy, spacy, vast Universe of banned, neglected, rejected, overseen, missed tunes. The wings are uneasy to bear, to tolerate, to wear, to steer, to cheer oneself with, to redeem it in spheres. I am indulged to that realm, with my feathers, tentacles, scales, cells, hairs.2022
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That reeking brook may mot irritate anyone. Voiceful tropic birdies are demistified by magnolian lanes but yet, precise at their bliss of foretelling marvels. It is a wedding ceremony for two joys of firm juncture. Africa is a half an hour away, at a motor boat that delivers us to corals and necklaces of nameless isles. The revery is yet prohibited by a chain of nunneries. We agree for less and less. The rows of date palms are disjuncturized by platanes. People signify to people so little if they are not kindred. Deities observe us from afar. Archibishops are at their ceaseless battle. Our established pair is yet hotly discussed. Copulations take away prohibitions, but it is just an obvious layer. There are less apparent such as punishment. Deities are incuisitive and inventive at their bitter transgression. Christian pairs unimplorably pay, especially when they are thirty five years away from each other. We prefer to think than to eat boons. Poetizing is sort of condemning will. But once we are awarded, we are doomed. The palm beach is lost from the sight in blossoming straws of grass. We abide in Africa, but most likely, at a mute Australian metropolia. The world starts from about here where toads and dragonflies are startled with soaking ebbs. I am likely to bury your name downside the edge of the bottomless, ceaseless local memory. We are just strokes for the sand's landscapes.2014-2022.
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Under the shadow, straws get indulged to blossom. Under your skin, the ocean sweeps. Under your lids, my body stirs. Under your palms, my Elisium reeks. Under your shoulders, my wings soar high. Under your music, my voice modulates. Under your pupils, my looks get enchanted. Under your mirth, my grief slowly dripples. Under patterns of your sensations, my skin blooms with aspirations. Under the lines of your waist, the childhood of my palms is renewed. Under the quilt of your cradle, stir my dreams. Under my adolescence, you teach me worthiness of the being. Under our existence, a whale floats. Under your hugs, I embody heavens of within. Under your embracing hands, I contemplate the adjacent realm. Under your brief allegories, I develop a vision of the world. Under your dimension, I fantacize. Under your everything, I am meant forevermore. Under your lingerie, I am of sepals of irises. Under your will, I am accustomed to yet more. Under your smile, I am of ceaseless pang. Under your search, I am easy to be found. Under your knee, I tickle you away into galaxies. Under your words, I am awed.2022
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Born deep at Siberian woods, Where pines are of tar and of sheen. My early years are lost and crude. Taiga is so tall and unseen. So little is left to be said Of exquisite years of heights. We are spoilt and naughty, instead. We are kept by angels, at sight. I wonder if there exists A neighboring galaxy dark. Remembrances are sweetly stark. I catch that unsaid, distant gist. It is yet of some other mirth, This long story can't be briefly cut. You cannot recall your own birth. Your cradle, initial hut. You trust in what you truly see. You cannot stay, of weird creed. You are left, the prior, to seek, If you are compelled to that need. I yearn for my villages deep, None seems to reply as I cry. The cliffs over bays are too steep, And seas are hot, chalky and dry. There is no path back to home. That world disappeared for years. We pray in vain, to empty domes. The deity, our voice, scarcely hears. 2022
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The Lord will come out of the Zion. Do not forget to be back to its luxurious, astounding plots. These amazing celestial spheres are kind enough to send us bewilderment and awe. God foresees each scheme, even beneath the earth, at the layers of the hell. God reveals himself at a cruel way. Even if we do not deserve the hell, we ought to fully bear it. The Empire of Jesus foresees subjects for the downside realm of the serpent. Poets bow to shadows, heavy sinners bow to the serpent that means mentioning of God's name, though in torments. The tempted will is a torturizing being. Do not foresee plits for similar humans; God exists for it, but not only for that, but also for offering the gratifying
orchards of the paradise. Little needs to be added to that. The simplistic morality is just the same. Revenge is of vice, but we can hardly do without it; so the Zion mercilessly works. That cruel machinery foresees also our weakness and pardons due to our helpless vulnerability.2022
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