#limp
mind maggots
nesting in the farthest recess of your brain
a cranium turned cottage
at the hour of your sleep
where toyed emotions play you
leaving to run the hamsters' wheel
where helplessness overpowers you
to see your quickened pulse
in silvery starlight
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 12:11 AM UTC
My joints dance under my skin
Grating against each other
Until I am aching
The pain howls and clings to my legs
I can feel it swinging and diving along my nerves
Limping, I keep walking forward
And watch as my destination
Becomes farther and farther away
These years hang on me
And I carry the baggage upon my back
Soon, I know I will have to let go
Let every issue fall to the floor
Or they will dig me a grave
And I will slowly drown in the pain
Jul 8, 2020
Jul 8, 2020 at 11:42 PM UTC
English Translations of Russian Poems by Vera Pavlova
Shattered
I shattered your heart;
now I limp through the shards
barefoot.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Seasons
Winter―a beast.
Spring―a bud.
Summer―a bug.
Autumn―a bird.
Otherwise I'm a woman.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pygmalion
Immortalize me!
With your bare, warm palm
please sculpt and mold my malleable snow.
Polish me until I glow.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Scales
Scales:
on the one hand joy;
on the other sorrow.
Sorrow is weightier;
therefore joy
elevates.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Muse
A muse inspires when she arrives,
a wife when she departs,
a mistress when she’s absent.
Would you like me to manage all that simultaneously?
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Stone Wall
You, my dear, are my shielding stone:
to sing behind, or bash my head on.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Fluttering
Remember me as I am this instant: abrupt and absent,
my words fluttering like moths trapped in a curtain.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Flight
I have been dropped
and fell from such
immense heights
for so long that
perhaps I still
have enough
time to learn
how to
fly.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
God saw
it was good.
Adam saw
it was impressive.
Eve saw
it was improvable.
—Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Three versions of Vera Pavlova's "tightrope" poem:
I test the tightrope,
balancing a child
in each arm.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I walk a tightrope,
balanced by a child
in each arm.
—Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I test the tightrope,
balanced by a child
in each arm.
―Vera Pavlova, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Vera Pavlova is a Russian poet. Born in Moscow, she is a graduate of the Schnittke College of Music and the Gnessin Academy of Music, where she specialized in music history. She is the author of twenty collections of poetry, four opera librettos, and the lyrics to two cantatas. Her poetry has appeared in The New Yorker and other major literary publications. Keywords/Tags: Pavlova, Russian, translations, epigrams, woman, female, shards, seasons, scales, tightrope, child, arm, sorrow, joy, shattered, heart, broken, glass, limp, limping, barefoot, snow, sculpt, mold, polish
Mar 20, 2020
Mar 20, 2020 at 1:25 AM UTC
Some days I feel like getting up,
others,
I don't.
I lift my finger off my bed, and I say,
not today.
Sometimes I wonder if people notice the small things,
like my eye bags getting bigger,
or the slight limp in my walk.
Maybe they do and maybe they don't,
that's not up to me.
It's all up for grabs.
I like to think I'm in charge,
but I know I'm just drifting.
People around me are just carrying me along through life.
I'll never be the person they all look to.
The "Imma 2020 president candidate," tik tok that people actually support.
No love, no nothing.
Drifting. Drifting. Drifting.
Some days I do my homework,
some days I can't even open my laptop.
It's not up to me, it's all up for grabs.
Feb 29, 2020
Feb 29, 2020 at 1:14 AM UTC
The figure
Tall
Wearing black and white
Walking to the side
With a limp
Is he hurt?
Do I know him?
Does he know me?
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 10:28 PM UTC
Like a wilting plant he became a limp
But he fought
He fought the heavy burdens
Like a traveler
He lost his way to the heart
of the woman he love
He was blinded
He was crippled
But again he fought
Things were too complex to be solved
Things are too hard to understand
But the love will last
And the moments will embed in his heart
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
bodies for my shrapnel
lay limp on the street
like dogs in the summer time.
i will bring my storm to you.
have faith in my punch,
believe it.
but don’t you trust
a survivor.
they wouldnt know
how to leave a city in wake.
they wouldnt know not to
pull the knife out.
i am a hurricane with skin
and i will
rip your house in half
if i have time to catch a glimpse.
you can pack your bags
and flee but
i dont stay gone.
i live on forever,
i dont die easy.
the toll will raise.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 6:56 PM UTC
Limp effigies of childhood memories,
still holding so many secrets.
Woven within tattered tears,
now long since evaporated.
Now vacant, an amnesia of fallen promises
that are retained.
But uninhabited threads,
decompose beneath every dewdrop.
becoming undone.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 6:36 PM UTC
That carrot, what could be said a little girl gave her,
Well we wondered why an anatomically
Correct Miss Snow lady had such an amicable smile.
Her nose always seemed to descend to below,
She had a friend but his carrot was as
Limp as could be, it wasn’t his fault it’s the cold you see…
But never fear, where there is ingenuity there is away…
In their morning Miss Snow seemed to ice up below,
But she seemed to have a rather defrosted glow…
For when it was time for this artificial carrot to wind down,
She evaporated in pleasure but Mr Snowman was still there
***** but no place to go. Poor Mr Snowman,
we'll blame it on the cold…
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 4:03 PM UTC
Chemicals of the heart,
mixtures not quite precise..
Now reacting, corroding devotions
Ill emotions corrupting.
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 5:04 PM UTC
Today I got lost while staring up into the popcorn ceiling
Being surrounded by family wasn't enough to hold my attention
Instead I paid a few precious seconds to the ceiling
I can't find the words to help me describe the feeling
I felt whole
The emptiness inside disappeared
For a few seconds I felt what it was like to let go, to let my mind cleanse itself of any emotion
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 3:15 AM UTC
I came down to make brunch,
Early on
In the afternoon.
I cracked the eggs
And lit the stove,
My dog limped up beside me.
A three legged beast of
Enormous size
Humbled by
The lack of limbs.
I fried the bacon,
But threw no scraps,
Though I was her support.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 3:14 PM UTC
I)
They tell you that when you fall
it hurts less if you go limp before hitting the ground
release all that muscular tension
go spaghetti noodle loose
when you collide
no part of you will bear the full brunt of your error
I’m great at this
at risk of bragging, I would say I'm an expert
II)
You see, I liked to climb as a child. There was something cat – like inside of me that felt safe up high, safe where no one would follow. The solitude kept me oh so vertically inclined. But that wasn't my favorite feeling.
At age 10, I decided I would learn to skateboard. Despite my mother's pleas, I returned day after day to my concrete proving grounds, eager to catch something. At first it did not flee quickly, it wanted me hooked and oh my god, I was. The more I learned, the faster I had to move to catch it, the more the wind became my adversary and the simple act of pushing off the hard ground made me feel. The feeling itself was my coach, my carrot on a stick, and my reward all in one. But that wasn’t my favorite feeling.
In high school, I joined the gymnastics team. I found my peace in the moment of apex, the height of the swing, whole body poised, ready to go around one more time. The only time in my life I’ve ever felt so shaped by fear, pressure, and pride. That still was not my favorite feeling.
My favorite feeling was the moment the branch cracked underneath me. The moment those hard little rubber wheels skrtchd so loudly. When the floor didn’t pop quite right, or when the bar would wah-wah-wah-wah in protest as my grips pulled away. These warning shouts, alerting the subject that in a few moments, they would be in one of two states:
1a) folded like a pretzel, limbs aching, squirrel entertainment
1b) spread across the pavement, butter on toast
1c) a broken model, still clutching his 'control'
Alternatively:
2a) laying in the damp grass, with nature
2b) dizzy from rolling, exhilarated, mind on the 'next try'
2c) finding comfort in the thin mats, wondering about their sanitation
That moment is a prompt, a call to action. Most cant hear it, but the pop, the wah-wah, the crack and the skrtch all whisper beneath their warning the same message. “Go limp”, they coo, “let go, give it up. Release.” And that moment, where my control is imagined anyways, is where I find my favorite feeling. It is sinking slowly into warm, thick waters. It is flopping onto the sofa after a long day. It is being embraced by someone you love when you really just want to cry.
III)
At college I met this girl. I'll spare you the details, but I want you to consider something. Have you ever tried to carry someone who really, really did not want to be lifted? I fell that hard, I went that limp, no matter how I hit the ground, I knew into something beautiful I would bounce.
IV)
I've spent months in mourning, no, I've spent months in a thick morning fog, no, I've spent months feeling nothing but numb each morning. I've spent months letting all day be a morning in bed, I've spent months in morning.
I'm great at this, at the risk of bragging I would say I’m an expert.
It still feels like sinking, flopping, needing to cry, unadorned.
Here is to my last lasting hope, that something is made of the words that bubble to the surface.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
She soldiers on
with a limp
from an old gunshot wound
that put a stammer in her soul.
She hesitates upon standing,
and often winces at an over-hastened step.
Stairs are her nightmare, as is most anything up.
Like being trapped
in a cage made of rubber bands
she is limited, but can force her way
in some direction.
She wont tell you how she got it
nor even where it really is.
The thigh, the hip, the gut; as is anyone's guess.
My money's on somewhere else.
She is dissolved in some solution
made with three parts carbolic acid
two parts toothsome regret
one part
pure concentrated time.
If I could pick her up and carry her
I would
but she
would scream, and kick, and holler
I know. So I'll let her limp
It's her way.
I don't mean to be trigger happy.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
She said she wanted to
"Eat the meat"
Biting as she went down
By the time
She got down to the package
It went limp
As I had bled out.
Now I'm a stiff
Never have a
"Zombie lover" it never works out
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 4:53 AM UTC
The smoke does not bother me
any more than
the burning flesh
The scars will heal slowly
beneath my clothes
and I will turn my head
the other way
should anyone notice the ash on my skin
or the limp in my stride
because they are the only things you have left to control me
and I will heal
and I will move on
After all, like pain
you are only temporary
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC