'To Paint The Greyness Darker' By Anna Polibina-Polansky Poem by Anna Polibina-Polansky

My philosophy is crewd. My itinerary is sophisticated. My genre is plain. My emotions are latent. A breeze hums its tune over a magnolian grove. I discern twelve shades of the blossom. I guess what constellation is about to drop its luminary as a sacrifice to the world below. I roam about grottos. I seek my own tune which is hard to discover through trite days. I am not a teenager to strive for novelty. My capacity is to reveal the genuine. I wonder when the day of my wedding will find me vigile and wondering. Phantoms of reveries lurk in my accidental dreams. I gradually consume the appearing metaphors and substite them with scarce allegories of the being. Aeschatological categories hardly bother my mind. Half-forgotten faces stubbornly resurrect when it comes to walking through bogs and puddles. Modernistic spasms of Appaulinaire prevail when it comes to estimating the tonality. Surrealistic attempts are now fully and beforehand, condemned. We are also doomed in stages. Firstly, we crave to recover and to find more of proper scales, scopes, ranges. Later, we are dropped, dissolved, abandonned. We are of toil of true creation. We master the elated style, we are overlooked at our daily practice of upper survivals. We are left chances for convalescence from metaphors. We are generalized, collected, picked out. Poetry is angelic, even if out feigned or imitated. Epygones make things worthy. Poets are overlooked and may not win. Poetry is up built at lost sense, erased hues, brisk shades. Stitches never lie. Strokes are innerly preferred. We are up crowned by emptiness, to go on as humans, to metaphoricly remain. Darkness is stricter, worthier. Minor intonations rudely reign. There is something wrong about articulating the taste. After the verbal Auschwitz we are left to intricately alter the shades of grey and to surpass their tedious nature. And that involves additional, adjacent dimensions. The bleakness is eagerly consumed, digested, employed... We combine unmatchable genres knowing little of their nature and traits. We out feign a critical essay at the soil of more or less sheer nothingness. We trade lurking opinions comprehending little beforehand. April,2022.