My quill is, simply put, – a magic tool:
It plays on winds and rhymes, on evening-mornings,
On sonnets and sonatas, never boringly;
The summer-winters, sunny moons fulfill its orders,
This verse – a pass to stars and heavens, too…

A pass to feel the spirit of adventure;
Into the theatre of storms and passions, dreams –
Where you’re the playwright and the actor, you’re free
To breathe the air of rhymes and beauty, reel
And hear a voice so young, enthralling, ancient…

My quill knows no choice, except to win –
It’s blessed by Shakespeare, Puskhin, many others;
And long ago, in ancient Greece, or maybe farther –
Apollo told me: “We are destined yet to father
A magic tome of futures, so whimsical…

And so we cooked the nectar: chords of lyre,
And Aphrodite’s smiling, thrilling eyes,
Some truthful flattery and magic in disguise –
It had no equal – healthy! – no lies.
The stars fell down for luck, the drink – so clear.

Each master and each maestro came to see –
From all the centuries and lands, and all the nations.
The wizard Merlin worked his fanciful equations,
And Cicero would speak – to melt the glaciers.
Became my palette – Earth, and skies, and seas…

Each poet, philosopher, composer, pretty muse
All nymphs and heroes, and grandmasters who came,
Inspired the drink with their talents, skills and aims,
So rose art to heights of starry fame,
And Mr. Orpheus and Lennon sang their music.

My quill has no choice, except to win:
It holds the kiss and smile of every beauty,
It lives those dreams of other artists – futile
And never made to be by their music;
To carry forth and make them true was their will.

What is this nectar? – All the legends, all the whims
And genius of masters through the ages.
We dipped my soul and quill – I dare wager
That after drinking such a mead, there’s no danger:
My pages will withstand the harshest winds.

And so they kissed the poet and the quill
To bid me luck through all the future ventures –
These charming dames of all the legends, ages;
My heart was calm but quick; serene, but raging
Before creating Universes-quilts…

My quill, it shines with festive lights and stars,
It writes and rhymes with spirit – joyful, ringing.
So what if someone angers, spouts, cringes?
So? – Winter rages when the spring is springing.
I am afraid we’re in the future – speed of flight.

So, drink the rhymes and verses, breathe the scent.
The planet spins anew, without the mires;
The violets will bloom, to be admired,
And tales are true – of mermaids, love and fire.
So go on and read, my message sent!

Now Earth will spin a little quicker, calmer,
Our world will turn a legend, true and rhyming,
Where bombs will hardly soar – only gryphons,
Where marriages and fruit will ever ripen
And never rot, where dreams are bound to come.

My quill has no choice, except to win.
It’s young and old, instant and eternal,
It’s flippant, ethical, and magical, and ornery.
Remember? – Blessed by every artist’s orders.
It’s meant to father worlds, and so will…

the sky was lilac and
blurred with the
pale obfuscations of
clouds;

opaque and formless, you sharpened
the horizon
and i thought of remembering.

I write,

not with a keyboard or
even an old-fashioned typewriter;
but with a quill
dipped in my blood.

What a lovely shade crimson is,
against rice-white paper.