Gloomy Blooming Poem by Anna Polibina-Polansky

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