February Or The Loneliness Of A Person Who Is Not Lonely Poem by Daria Lebedeva

February
Or the loneliness of a person who is not lonely

Thinking about jotting down what she is bound to,
keeping a piece of paper nearby or closer to
lose control about one tiny lost thought
with a sour look or mood for giving a lot

for thoughts, and now postponed dreams
(as empty envelops with no value it seems)
surround her, but anyway it is her vocation:
to squeeze the remnants of the imagination.

February, when she was born, in her view,
is the best time for writing: when darkness is in hue,
when nearly fallen snow reminds her that it is still cold
and frozen winter reigns, equally for the young and the old.

She is too capricious (one would say)as a child:
when there is an absence of inspiration: she is wild.
It would be better to go out, to blow some steam,
to hide herself away from "the situation in between, "

from the invisible handcuffs, the self-put yoke,
just to fall in oblivion, to forget it as a dull joke.
One day she awoke from a dream, unclear
and blur even for a woman who wants to be near

in understanding and keeping it all in order.
The dream was too short, but left only disorder,
bringing her back to the school days.
Suddenly she saw the sun's rays,

her single life, a routine work...
It passed with no traces to look.
No money can buy; no friend can borrow-
one personally suffered route to follow.

In her dream: a girl declares short rhymes
she was too proud to compose in lines.
And she understood: for bad or good
she needs writing in her womanhood.

And then she became too concerned
with the inner voice calling and prompt.
As a woman not badly shaped, she tends to low
her gaze in public places. Under floor

the intimate issues were left off...
Intimacy is a drink swallowed or tossed off.
After her 30's she joyfully understood
that sexual hunger left for good.

She heroically proclaimed a new aim
through lonely walks, to observe and gain.
Two haunting images now and then in her head
search for the words and mum's photo instead.

As if she speaks to her through paper cells (to be understood) :
‘' "All that you've done after your 20s isn't good" ‘'.
In her mother's eyes, there is a deep tiredness
and a reproach with an abandoned tenderness,

and a sharp disappointment that is in place
of her daughter, she would rather see anyone of better race:
an elegant, and self-confident lady, too busy
Clattering with spike heels, misusing all and all too easy

With inborn femininity seen in official or sloppy
dresses, in natural blushes (never a copy) .
In mature age, she faced the impasse of her sacrifice
of all the possibilities: family, kids, and noisy weekends for lies,

for self-disorientation: new words, new articles, new reader remarks,
new pedestals for the self-presentations around indifferent ranks.
Once she saw a dream with an unclear meaning as usual,
but the wakefulness was painful not casual.

Like being completely alone in the desert
of a dominant grey colour, the rest to reset,
she was too scared to cry or to consider
what is the place as not one's own mind-reader.

Just one thought haunted her: to get away,
to escape, to have something to say.
No thoughts, no actions, just pressing solitude,
the conditions of calmness, for bad or good?

She could not get in, but still the keen wind
hurting every bone or cell from deep within.
The dread made her try to move on and to leave
the scary place (no one would prefer as gift) .

Suddenly there was a light from above
as a child's ball pursuing own way as a rove.
Alas, this piece of saving light was lost in her jump,
also, for her saving as an additional trump.

Alas, the attempts were not triumphal:
neither external blame nor approval.
Only now in the age of retirement
with no attachment to any determinant.

She is extremely alone even when not alone in the flat with a set:
her aging mother, and tones of reasons to regret.
Again, she relied on her coming dream (next utopia) ,
the distant heights are not made out with spiritual myopia.

She dreamt of a little girl playing with her shadow,
reflecting on the house and green grass in the meadow.
The sunset went down hour by hour,
the shadow of legs stretched further and further.

The joyful laugh and nonchalance were there somewhere.
With her unanswered questions, she is in the middle of nowhere.
The years run away-now she sighs and concludes:
No glimmering light of the last dream that saves or deludes.

"Why do only religious people have an adamant rod
within? " she raises a request. "For them faith is a road
to a clearly set aim, to survive under unrest age,
but this keeps them through the blessed pilgrimage...''

She was storming herself, she was plying
between ambitions and denial of self-denying.
She almost has it all, but more than she lacks
whom to thank and where to direct her track