poems by Anna Idelevich



Not with you, and never together,

suburb of madness.

The train of consciousness is unimportant

and the constellations’ move is dishonest.

The world is big and, it seems, multi-placed,

here is the aurora over the cathedral.

I’m over forty, I’m in a classroom,

the world is crazy and, of course,

I surrender to your love without arguing,

very soon, very soon.




Frost of Nirvana


A flock of sardines floats away into the fog, and in the water,

fairer than the beasts outside the window,

from which teeth shake, idle snowflakes,

your drowned reflection appears,

it’s also a self-assembled tablecloth,

and your favorite foreigner.

And shows a slightly pouty lip,

you are a dental emergency room.

Touch your fingers, there is no front here,

no hypochondriacs complaining about age,

here is only your love and its outline.

Selfish, self-interested,

but correcting you in the form of patches and medicines.

Your health is in poor condition, say you are wrong.

Winter is long gone,

small lilies of the valley and forget-me-nots, still damp from the snow,

petals spread across the water.

Sardines are blind and their eyes are completely white,

and my eyes are blue, and your tear is shaking in each one.

The sardines got lost and lost their way,

and I’ll sit with you a little longer.

A supply of Russian cigarettes spreads across the water

and the skinhead nun, not me, another one, collects them

from circles on the other side of the globe.

Take a drag of the vodka and bite your swollen lip,

inflated, your outline and winter is long gone, dropped.

And I will sit here still, my lord,

and watch the frost recede.

Your girl is foreign, medicated.











poems by Anna Idelevich

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