"hyperborean" poems
There she awaits-
In her jewelled palace far from faded-eyes
A lily sheltered from the blanket of white;
the air perfume-light from the blossoms,
and a yearning heart -
Lo!
The silver songs of Robins; the heralds of Winters
twirl free.
Lo!
A Hyperborean wind is roused from slumber
and spreads its wings. Leaves drift down are
kissed by frost; lakes, the woodlands placed
under your trance. And your vision came to
be - a polished world on a fair day.
And at a pleasant hour-
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
translation from russian by rolanda
E.К
I write you from ex-colonia
grounded twenty centuries ago
by romans-sounds like a symphony
for hyperborean ear, hundred time
increased distance till addressee.
Looks like Agrippa knew what she did
the sister, worth by her madness of her brother.
Further cinematograph-nude body
bent and etc..accordingly screenplay
maid lapping in marble bathtube
horns leads triumphal aria
with a long sound. On the backstage
usual complaining on the fate,
tangent glance to the east,
muscle of cease walk
the female wolf her concrete ******
snapping, moving back to the building of arsenale
lost fatten twins.
I recollect what you didnt finish to say me
closing second door on the bolt,
on same spot there is a snow, cover up Prachechnij bridge
panorama of river, filled up by ice,
something with tear through two thousand miles
or old age with saged belly.
In our age, verticals are
soaring unreachable, slipping to result
of life, just right to dress on sandals
but hardly happens to slip into toga.
Invariable law of falling drops
down, no matter- fontain, rain, ******
Harbour of postscript...rats storm the ship.
Funeral office offers moire
from spring collection for upholstery of
coffins, grief on the faces of personals,
just in time served coffee with cream
soften disaster of final account.
I write you, for what? - after victory
of foreign football team
from the closeness of prosperous summer,
connected Alps and Andes
by wave of psychose from tv,
inflicted by joy of superiority
above..(not clear what of), and their poses
of victors is sign of ugliness
from point of view of observer-
old neurasthenic and misantrope.
Contemplating fly of pterodactyl
by eye of stamped cyclop,
gilded **** on short spike of chirch
scream by voice of Luter:
"Be blessed folks cars!",
and morning flow down by sunrise on wood
by Dmitrij Poparev
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Going through the motions of life without the ability to feel.
I will not allow myself to be altruistic, to have love.
I am mechanical.
I am a fine tuned machine.
Made in your image.
Going through the motions of life.
Watch me be perfect.
Your definition of real.
I'm cold. I'm gone.
Save me from loneliness.
Save me from the hyperborean dungeon of my mind.
Save. Me.
My heart has turned to pistons and steel.
Bloodless and without flexibility.
Pumping anguish and self-hate with every inspiration I take through my veins, my newly welded pipes.
Lacerate myself to see if I still bleed.
It feels better than the truth.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 3:45 AM UTC
We could have been great,
Oh you and I.
The carpenters of fate,
Carving lines in halcyon skies.
Scar tissue blue
Vapour clouding the eyes.
Bound
To the flight of hyperborean tides,
Mythical winds of the north.
Yet their chill is real
Wrapped in the cloth
Of pride and zeal.
Confide,
While calm in the shaded riverside.
Forever chasing rainbows
Over moors and mountainside.
No cauldrons of gold
Just archaic rocks and stones
Buried by the weight
Of fallen bones.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
Of no time and place...
save for due Truest North
of no time and place...a kindled
air as such...never a Draconian
night layeth upon...O Hyperborea.
Muse of Muse...whose tacit glory
begot lip and lyre...illumined
wholes that sayeth verily unto
illumined wholes.
Unbroken gaiety...where the only
obscuration's the recesses of
witnesses in full bearing...Beauty's
Knowing...Knowable Beauty.
O Hyperborea...as light, lighteth...
yet lit be not--high heaped upon
high, celebrants of whir and fire...
fire and whir...whir and fire!
Thou danceth a sun's one-upmanship,
to emblazon the dreams of Thracian
peoples.
That the world may know, and know
well...the north wind...of no time
and place--due Truest North of no
time and place...be kindled by
Apollonian graces.
As an urn contains what's trialed by
fire, as fire...Beauty unbridled...poureth
forth under the Hyperborean sun...
never to casteth a shadow.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
of its white calamity,
its devine mercy,
wind kissed cheek,
my hyperborean dream,
aggregations of ice,
cold sprectrums of light,
my snow angel
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
Man, wraps his thin coat tighter, squinting at fine newsprint, smoking a cigarette. Lust thick she says: "Yes, please **** me."
Without grace he paces ***** streets, avoiding eye contact planning what next vice will fill his belly. Without tradition he sits before his television eating. "I am in the mood I think to drink until I become an ape." Without shape he storms about always with a shout. Fueled by rage, jaw clenched, he sniffs at every ***** fists clenched war bent.
He sleeps. He is lowered down into the belly of stone into a world of his own creation. He dreams of loading the magazine of his pistol and craves the hook of his finger on the trigger. His dreams are gray, barely lit through the smog. He reels through the pornographic cinema of his heart until a passing train wakes him. ****
Man, wrestles with his son, laughing at the end of a hard day. Beneath his nails, black soil, wanting not but for her.
She loves him because he could be no better. He treats his dog like his brother, no man above or below him. Peaceful, green hills and cloud in a shroud of birdsong. Leaning on the sickle like a mountainside he smiles, straight-backed, sun tanned. He watches a silver-chest buck forrage at the tree line the fawn nearby still sniffing at the doe. The man's kiss is like a flower and his voice like a lyre,
Forearms of stone and legs that rarely tire. At night they lie around the fire. He acts, he sings, and tells them again the stories of their ancestors, unforgotten. He says "There are heroes still if you look for them."
He dreams and sunlight fills his core. He stands upon a hill watching clouds roll. She kisses his brow, and the small warm arms of the boy wrap around his thigh.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 4:32 PM UTC
With tired legs I began to reach it,
A peak who's view I haven't seen
For more than a little while.
I reach it's zenith and there I see
With the gaze of possibility, it's vision far extends the safety of the city and the wilderness in all it's hostility.
I'm jarred with what I see there on the side in which the sun peaks and sets. I see the plains and bountiful woodlands, roads that pull me into the great north with but a finger beckoning hither. It's a simple pull, but it pulls on strings bound to the very soul of a wayward son.
-
Behind me crested on an ocean of light so quickly fading now into a winters twilight. There lies a field of tar and swamp that I have climbed through and risen from. I still bear the putrid marks and shed the dying limbs of the marshland that held and swallowed my legs with ease.
A memory though but a moment earlier in relevance now seems so distant. For I am not bound anymore, I stand upon the peak where I can see the now golden valleys and bounty laid before me like a buffet cast apon a hungry traveller. And the light follows me down into this hyperborean utopia
NH
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC
I Spy with my Little FBI
I spy with my little bright FBI
A government wet and hung out to dry
On clotheslines that might (or might not) be tapped
Through circuitry that the Soviets mapped
And passed the plans on to bad Vladimir
(Who wrestles tigers sans shirt and sans fear)
But, sure, that mighty hyperborean
Had better watch for the North Korean
And keep him closer than a dodgy brother
because
All we Yanks do is snoop on each other
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 4:01 PM UTC
two pairs six works
input, beginning
output, ends of things
subject: to the seventh
the beginnings again
concept of the egregores
hundreds of thousands
emerging independently
united but seperately
casting jungian archetypes
the most beautiful pottery
a Hyperborean hero
the Lord of Darkness
immortalizing himself
again but with the face
of absolute Man and Woman
gone away already
Together with Another
who was waiting
at the edge of time
the minds of gestalt
wonders above,
“Truly, how can you, oh thoughtful reader, look at the shadows on the wall and see anything other than the script of a movie unfolding before your eyes?”
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 7:03 AM UTC
Many years I have wandered these woods,
Many years I have cast my eyes to the soil.
Many years I was content with this consuming darkness,
Many years I was content with these hyperborean nights.
I felt a warmth once such bitter evening,
I staggered and swayed until I rose upright,
I thought the moon was again out deceiving,
Gifting me again with only false hope this night.
I howled and screamed into the soulless night sky,
Thoughts turned knives into my heart and soul,
Mind cut and gashed now bleeding into my eyes,
I wildly lurched to and fro over this frozen knoll.
Again the light in the northern sky sounded,
I cast my crimson eyes upon it eagerly,
The golden glow left me aghast and astounded,
But I continued to move towards it greedily.
My footsteps left behind a trail of blood,
My footfalls sounded the songs of death,
Those crimson remains now awash with mud,
I fled that dark scene with haggard breath.
Frieden endlich gefunden.
Uneven steps reached the radiant light at last,
Outstretched arms finally experiencing warmth,
Feet gently swept off the frost laden ground,
I was spirited away to the castle of the evening.
Such a marvelous castle, bright and brilliant it was,
I wandered deeper and deeper through it's majesty,
Until I found myself in a room as pure as crystal,
A room inhabited by a single, quiet soul.
I recognized it as myself, but I was mistaken,
I recognized it as solitude, but I was mistaken,
I recognized it as pain, but I was mistaken,
I recognized it as a friend, and I was correct.
Soul approaching, I too traversed towards it,
Standing together, it reached out with a faint smile,
I tenderly held it near,
Until it began to shimmer and glow.
Stars it became before me, each all aflame,
Motionless I stood as it filled with the room with light,
Motionless I stood as it entered my body,
Transforming and transfiguring as it went.
All shades of black and grey could not escape,
Every dark corner was hunted and found guilty,
No unholy sanctuary was safe from this vengeful justice,
Until I rose to a new height, a new plateau.
I took myself into my arms and returned the weight to my shoulders,
I took myself into my legs and skated across the skyline,
I took my myself into my heart and swam through the river,
I took my soul into myself and stood guardian for all eternity.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 7:15 AM UTC
The gorgons were hideous with the gaze of stone
The sister medusa was the only mortal
The grey women with one eye and one tooth
Now one eye less
Told him the way to the hyperborean land
Therein lay the soon to be headless beast
Who could then no longer share her horrible stare
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
⸎⟆⥉⦕⫯⟴ Ode to the Count De St. Germaine ⸎⟆
Dearest Count,
I know you watch and listen.
It is through you I set sail upon this ship of thoughts
To you, to whom, I christen.
These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane,
but seldom in vain.
In antediluvian silence drawn,
manifests in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir in autochthonous rebirth.
Their, hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in vertiginous tide
the fractal that doth assuredly bide.
A palimpsest of null embrace
where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns,
and time itself forgets to turn.
Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...
The pericombobulatory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!
(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)
For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.
Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within paracryptic paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.
Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.
A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.
Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.
The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.
Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this : our time of greatest need.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 4:23 PM UTC
Nothing horrible has happened to me
Nothing dramatic or terrible
Just heartbreak and heartache
The residual stabs of love leftover in my heart – the best worst pain I know
I’m stranded in an interminable frigid winter
No naked flame to warm my frozen hands
No asylum from the slicing pangs of breath taking wind
Finally the cold becomes unbearably welcome
And I succumb to the miserable icy sting
I used to hate the cold
It was bitter and lonely
It cut deep into my being
But now I embrace the cold
Because it is the only thing I feel
Each expelled breath is a minute nebula of hyperborean vapor
A release of masked sorrow
My heart is like the cold
Innocent and clean in appearance
Like a fresh coat of snow painting the earth in ethereal powder
But beautiful appearances are the most deceptive
Just as a winter storm produces the darkest nights
And barren forests stripped of their once fructiferous leaves
So is the weary state of this freezing heart
But there is strange beauty in this cold
A nostalgic kind of loneliness that is worth embracing
The cold grades the jagged curvature of my life
It settles deep into my white bones
It inspires thought
It makes me appreciate what is mine
It makes me appreciate the warmth
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC