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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By Anna Polibina-Polansky
Shades of Novelty *** New faces halting my pace.
New puns and quibbles in haze. New light-hued daisie, in lace. New deities appraised. New cheers to keep. New reveries deep. Watch better when leap. New fences to peep. New music to join. New sources of joy. New senses to toy. New wordings adroit. New missions to bear. New contacts unfair. New reasons to dare. New windows to stare. New luggage of words. New height for sweet birds. New phrases that hurt. New lambs for the herds. New tempers to rule. New mates, yet, untrue. New vast, spacy room. New sweeping, soft brooms. New basis for pain. New canvas to paint. New jokes, though plain. New folks, to blame. May,2022.
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By Anna Polibina-Polansky *** The serenity of my city is unique and healing. Valleys and lanes of cypresses and pyramidal elm-trees are at guard of stillness. I walk mossy, ivy quarters, steps of lifty ladders lead me up to the bay. Panoramas of ancient districts end up at rows of rosy and yellow grapes of dense, heavy, sweet tar. I face the haze of mourn and the sea breeze... I walk along chalky walls and brucky aquedukes. I evaluate the intensive forth of the amolifying wind. I embrace the embankment with my unweighty pace. I am skinny this summery season, slim like a fluffy black feather of a local swan. I feed trouts at the nearby fountain that pretends to be a stony mermaid. I estimate theses yards of chestnut and acacia, of magnolias and tropical birches. I am found here after the most crucial resurrection, at the age of my marriage and further church wedding. I am under the vastest dome of the largest temple over the entire coast. I am back to my recent remembeances, cozy and welcoming and nodding.2022.
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By Anna Polibina-Polansky. I will be reread and recalled as a half of Cocteau and the other half, of Verlaine. As a broche over a Proustian lady and a pin at the lock of Dickinson herself. Auden and Frost will pave my best path along a lake shore. Rimbaud and Baudlaire and Eloire will comprise a mosaical vitrage over my patio where I was in habit of feeding trouts and peacocks with rye and rice crumbs. These were slice of toasts from the delicate cuisine none would have boasted with. The only announcement ornated a forsaken coffehouse that faced the immaculately even water diligently reflecting the dusk of marblish strokes. I caught the refined, accurate tan of twilight as I compounded new morphology and syntax for habitual, trite, plain, colorless phrasings. It was back at an outskirt of Geneve or Bern, probably in voiceful Solothurn of roaming, lonesome fiddles. Violins trade silence, infinity trades serenity, no puns are the best fun. Figurative talking is worthy of walking. The gloomy nook is of bloom, yet. Romand and French beggars pray out spots of foamy coffee with toasts. Foreseen, is best fee; change is kept for a rare tea.2022
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By Anna Polibina-Polansky. An Ode to Plain Wisdom *** Deities rarely prohibit the devil Which coils up by your feet pretending to be smooth and domestic. Deities have other things to do, to gently occupy themselves with. Suffering is left for humans recalling of their cross each time They face intolerable moments. The arena for battles is suspicious of things. Wise people prevent own tortures, And here is the ultimate wisdom. Until very death, people are fearful of intolerable tortures, if they are sagacious enough. Anodynes occurcquite seldom. Adolescence doing with suffering is doomed for a better final point. Others will prefer the same lot of wise folks, though perhaps much later, but obligatorily. I prefer sound lyrics. The initial point is so clearly remembered by its trite forth, by its plain, healthy registers of trivial being. The aeschatology of suffering is too deep to be comprehended; perhaps it does with the core of hell. I have little to do with auspicious spheres, but I am in fear of repeating blunders, And suffering chooses other aims. The bliss is blankly, blindly sought, but is, yet, irrevocable and accidental. Rare occasions are the most thought of. Tediousness is never too sharp, overwon with suffering.2022
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You must be jealous of my collection of fresh remembrances. But the summery dusk is on, and I keep the best catering of choices here. They daily foster me, and I have little to add. My invincible ardently black breed and snowy porcelaine skin make their ultimate, crucial wonders. Sensations cime up, convenient words fail me. A plain morning coffee with the most recent episode. It is mean to call links, episodes, but it is firmly justified by circumstances. The episodes are so articulately bright and unforgettable that I consider the entire spell to be happiness at its peak. Do not loose the time; I wish youvthe same acuteness.
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The city of Antony Gaudi. Archirectonic hives and waves and leaves, Intricate giggling rays around devastated smiles.
Characters of Dali blankly facing the celestial layers.
Barcelona of croved balconies ans assimetricals doors. Towers accurately foreseen by Lorca and his half a shadow, Machado. Parks of refined details, labyrinths of whims.
The fantasy of profound summits and elated abysses. Houses dancing slow flamenco under the serenada of dusk.
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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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