My mom didn't like to listen to poems,
to read them she never asked.
The dwelling of silence was my home,
And poems were never pronounced.
So they belong to my sphere - mine!
And read them to you? - I WILL NOT!
because the spheres of others are
the spheres that outsides flow.
***
моя мать не любила слушать стихи,
и читать их она не просила.
Дом был обителью тишины,
я их не произносила.
Поэтому в сфере они - моей,
и читать я вам их - НЕ БУДУ!
потому что сферы других людей
все равно проплывут снаружи.
Very sad, when we want someone close to our heart to read they often don't but never get dishearten and keep writing one day she will recognise your talent and will aprreciate it....Nice poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Many words describe this kind of poem; for example, honest, painful, unfortunate, but the word that strikes me as most descriptive is - necessary. You h-a-d to write this poem and now that you have, you are f-r-e-e of that task. So the poem doesn't just look backward into the past, but also forward into the future. The important thing is that when you fully enter that future, you are free - free of regrets, free of disappointment, free of hope; free to do what you want to do with your poetic practice. // The second stanza makes it clear you have made an almost sacred space for your poetry. But this space fits Hemingway's definition of PARIS: It's a moveable feast you take with you.You can always be there, and invite in ONLY those you want to see. And if they don't want to listen to your poems, kick 'em out, or not. It's your choice. It's spring so open the window and let the breeze blow through. Put that breeze in your next poem. // Just a suggestion.