Anna Polibina-Polansky

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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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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Rattling of the sand under the heels. Grace and pang and sweetness. Things go on this way, And the sultry westher feels tart. Visit my daydreams unless I am back to severe frosts, To the ulcer of the crude North. Things to learn from the daily experience Of being adored. December,2022; Sochi.
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I was the AbydOssian Bride
There in the land of wintry palm-trees. The dusk got drown in bulbs of light. I did belong to sultry countries. It was this way. My prose went,
Of rare plots, of sudden endings. It was unheard-of, to betray That high idea slightly bended. It was this way, each twilight there. I went my coral crown for hours. There was a glance to warmly spare To others, for myself, entowered. It went so at the bleached beach, Of pebbles, and of chalk, of sand just. Each sunset brought khurmA and peach. I keep those stains and spots and patches. So my emotion got renewed In faces, to be memorized, yet. So envied, was the borrowed tune. Hosanna. Shine, and so, arise then. I wisper your simplistic name. The air is full of tropic birdies. The Xmas here is not the same: I do recall its misty wording. Things wear your enlightened name, My qween, in masts of distant vessels. I prmised to enroll in fame, Your faithfulness, my principessa. I am sufficed, I don't look back. I'm saturated with reflections. There's none that can be thought as lack Of the unearthly, tart perfection. The words od gratitude are high. So do consider my devotion. I watch that flawless, lofty sky Of our tropical emotions. December,2022; the Black Sea.
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I face outward wrong feelings, scarce emotions, huge pain and whatever not. I live quite another life here. I doubt and I need you with all this luggage. I thought love is immense pleasure for both freeing us. I thought live started with looks. I have done nothing wrong or painful for these three years, I have caused no pain to common people, I have brought them mounts of live, interest, joyous intrigue. What is wrong with your earthly experience? I am a homely girl, pretty for my dark breed. You live a life of problems, many warm congrats. I don't. That is all I feel for now. My moralty is simplistic as existence itself. I can't follow your complicated vectors. I do not combine feelings and problems. I lack metaphors, sorries. Have your own tedious, revolting tropheys for the way you are. What can I add? I run across smth bewildering. I am from another sack, perhaps.
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I thought up it all in order to comprehend you somehow. Your principles shock me, but I will mean that there exist folks like you. Enjoy your own life. You would have never tolerated my primitive stereotypes in love. I faced it, so that I will mean it for the future, if I ever meet anyone like you. Your realm must be of insects recognizing themselves somehow. You must have achieved all the best for your realm. Okay, I will go; I won't explain why, here or elsewhere. So strange...
Who will prove how correct you are? The opposite is hostile, I do not toy with crocodiles. Nothing at all in common except for looks to my liking, and mine to yours perhaps. How do you fancy our dating? In toilets? Or where, then? We breathe in heavily varying regiments. I sonetimes teach aged ladies, simplicity; but not up to this measure, of course. Bye my sweetness.
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