Dmitry Gorensky


Eclogue I: Ulyss To Laertes - Poem by Dmitry Gorensky

Eclogue I: Ulyss to Laertes
To Artheme Luuthkean

I

On window sill as sole a boot lying a smoothing-iron
as sunken Argo
How much has happened a while ago, sand king?
Jason sit at piedmont cavern, remember scoundrels
leave one to one’s fate
Medea waits sheepskin, more than husband and his band
Without any thought what all lost and over
She was trying on a shoulders curtain

II

Map of the world, as scheme of meat-cutting
To Hellenic everywhere so cramped
He’s not cut out to be among regulars
He never could resist before sea or climb
on a deck
thirsty wanderings, does not imply
returns back

Slav didn’t know, what mean a farewell
He couldn't without a motherland
that's why to him everywhere bitter
everywhere where Slav warfare theater, innit?
And if melancholy befell him, as it tends to on
tears stand on the table, as bottles
over fists prepared to battles
And tongue weaves himself
as road

III

Along the bank of the Hope, strolled Talos
that pursues vessels, sirens gasping wheezed blues
not secern in this landscape, what become a barren
mens sure sign, from light tower

Sirens darn sail to dresses, prepared for sale
because eve as, drowned hardhead-mercer
Agree to everything happiness

IV

Forgive me Medea
but women different from men
that they have age
And that might be revenge
for rib, for apple, for voice
Let the drop zipper of Zeus
but between us, ably
folded wings, not love
but Hetaira in taxi
And did you hope for my honor
but life
frightened at dot, and comes out to long
to comma
V
This bastard speaking in me, who ain't seen life
Not to see further than somebody else's nose
as Phoebus would say: - Its just cause, however
spent a great deal of time thinking about Dafne
cursing a laurels

A waves laying at one another
as pages of the book with wrong past
and seeing nothing, even moistened finger
only, broken eyes, and breakage soul
It's strange, what life goes on
and no one else was left who would
sew a horizon
as wound, which cannot without
salt

VI
Oh Wanderer!
Herein are bones of one of the fallen hero
But with the blood
of its heroic, as wine flowed oblivion
no one don't sing their praises
even brood
Wind rose gathered from his tibial
wind darted to and fro
leaping into the various parties
in west and out north
All in all, move toward a silence
and reminded you of my existence
id est what call we rare
and in those days, that do not exist in calendar

VII
The moon blooms, as abandoned wife
wolfish tenor was surrounded woods
whose shadows in tail coat
Pan couldnt keep in its hands a stick
Whats more might a goat?
Orchestra of hurt, was unwatched Gods
who were too busy own goods
or gazed in keyhole



And in the end, it all came to nothing.
Remus or Romulus won't hear you.
She-wolf not waiting, not over or under
wagging its tail in front eyes hunter

IIX

And true, life an whole.
But this means, what death the fractional.
and first of all
Passed away from battlefield
after from photos, on four sides
And usually wholes towns
On heeled or barefoot
pronto
without rut
vanished as bottle wine
hiding in the scrub




IX

Turn spyglass
And diminish harvest of Poseidon
Pour away rum
Grow what sown at home
without you get along
not sea
not pier

X

Look Priam
Isn't that your?
Hecate brought it skirt
native gore
looked on body
from distance
you understand
what him with soul
depends upon ethos
parting arrow
Zeno, Eros
or Philoctetes
XI

Ajax's
You didn't become me Brutus
I bow down to you what it was
I did not insult you, my own trues
not bothered by advice
with first try to remember
not asked twice
but let us forget each other
as keys from home
I do not wish keep to you
not harm
not word

XII

Erato, don't disturb
Clio put a patch
because from Baltic states
emanating odour of decay
what a predates, what hate
awakes, and didn't matter
who took out a gauntlet
important whose face

Melpomene
I sure that you would come
as whisper of grief
but come
later
After us
as deluge

when i forget woman i loved
as face of dad
only when
wrote on piece
of paper
He is Dead
and before bring face in gypsum
He’d was me dear

Thalia
don't laugh
at old-fashioned
swimming love through a words
was drowning in actions

Urania
don't hide from telescope
and needlessly
not scattered stars
because
a hopes much long
im not afraid
but
them long a fade

Euterpe
don't blinded
near at colonnade
I don't love
you
be honest
and tell
-Adieu

and return a sensation of hours
how sorry, wither flowers
as old photo
shutting the album
poured out the water

Calliope
Spoken language for me
as Cape Feare
my voice as
ripped strips of paper
i left half of my heart
at them
so as to the finished them
waiter

You think that's pity
as bad news
But, remember, my dear
living only those, who
simply than us

Terpsichore
i'm not addressee of your rhythm
You have forgiven? Me
a waltz or bossa nova
tango or pas de deux
not sensitive
but me like
as in paso doble
woman twisted in hands
as neckerchief

Polyhymnia
not need a freedom
only, flag dont changed into
rag under the pig's legs
Circe may sing what he pleases
and remember a wrecks
We’ll be ready
for anything
our destiny
in life and back
we dont look
at own shadows
our way
ahead


Irida
faded feelings is spoken
on language silence
because our clouds
locked up in thorax

Thought about you
as bobbin a movie projector
where my old age of soul
not finding shelter
in eyes your youth
This truth get in my head
as grey hair, as night
when from the heart
as from toilet
muffled voice behind the door
saying - occupied

I throw vocabulary in the pyre
but me didn't said fire
where me run to
in noise a burnt gramophone record
I heard, - I love...
but probably, black sun
ensue
as in army сounting-out game
stopped at the number
Two

I was running to you
posthaste
onto all fours, onto all sides
always to cough

XIII

-What's that song?
-So look. This is yours ruins
You born to burn himself
-But where illusions?
-They'd be firewood, to become a soot
they'd be fuels
-What can I do? In this compressed essay air
-Raise head to stare
And looking to the other way
return to north
-And?
-So forth

XIV

Scrape of feather!
Sing a soul!
I shaking pillow
where feathers - years
until my pulse
not horizon
but hills

Form: Dramatic Monologue


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Poem Submitted: Friday, March 20, 2015



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