"nabokov" poems
the down keeps me up
needing to crash but thoughts beckon
i know i must pay tomorrow
full moon tonight
what’s your excuse?
if you’re a woman don’t misconstrue
i’m not a misogynist
true misogyny neccitates great admiration
full moon tonight
what’s your excuse?
i don’t care tonight
gonna stay awake till collapse
i dreamed Apple traded
$99.00 monday morning and i bought it
i’m not your type
not your type not your type
i read Flaubert, Zola, Nabokov
i know it’s hard to see
i imagine angels
what do you like in your cup of tea?
while taking care of neighbor’s cat Oskar
decided to replace porch standard white with green light bulb
i hope they like it
they’re burners
they’ll be gone for two weeks
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
It’s never easy
starting midstream,
when your joints squeak like old vinyl.
Worse to end just as you begin,
editing hope into bullet points,
buffing your portfolio like a coffin lid.
You kneel to metadata while the holy algorithm decides
if you're human enough to be blessed.
Better to read old Nabokov,
nap in your robe
(the good one with pockets),
wait for the mail like it’s 1998
when catalogs still mattered.
Let purpose dissolve, like the vitamin
you dropped in the sink.
You failed to fail,
which sounds noble
but feels more like
accidentally surviving.
So drift toward the grocery by the newsstand,
nod to the pretty barista with the knife-edge bangs,
pretend the papayas mean something.
You’re the median of middle-aged.
Your knees, both traitors.
Your dreams, reruns.
These lines limp
like your fifth attempt
to rebrand the layoff as a sabbatical.
"Don’t derail, just project
your better self on a screen."
Crop the hair, dim the lighting,
hide the existential dread
behind a well-placed emoji.
Let rhyme stutter
like a pull-string toy,
half-broken,
slightly too cheerful.
Feet unsure, eyes fogged
(by pollen, by memory, by news).
There’s no noir here,
no brooding detective,
no dame worth lighting a cigarette for.
Just this:
the echo of effort,
forms half-filled,
where even your name looks uncertain.
So let’s call it.
Let’s bury the draft,
archive the ambition,
delete the app.
End
where we never really
began.
Jul 28, 2025
Jul 28, 2025 at 10:03 PM UTC
Everything is such fun in the beginning,
when it’s new and undiscovered.
i’ll try almost anything.
What is meant by almost?
All these stupid sick **** roles we play,
all this pretending, why?
i want to believe there’s something
behind the curtain
besides a windowless stone wall
Something inexplicable
his/her majesty of everything/
living/dead/never existed.
William Blake said, “Either be a poet or a painter.
Being both muddies audiences, and discredits one or the other.”
Actually, Blake didn’t say that. i am lost.
is it possible to love after what has happened?
the rage, hurt, disappointment of betrayal.
my ex still stalks
as recently as two mornings ago,
all her exaggerations, over-reactions, fury.
Why so desperate to return to crime scene?
An admission of her own guilt?
Excessive compulsive wound licking (psychogenic alopecia)?
Another excuse for getting drunk?
When we waited for the elevator going down
You said, “Let’s just get this over with.”
i understood completely.
i, who worships my own death.
i, who ****** on my own grave.
i, who gets bored faster than speed of light.
i, who suspects killing around every corner.
i, who sleeps restless.
i, who worries.
i, who loves women.
i, who does not understand women.
i, who is a woman.
i, who bangs the dude in L.A. to advance my career.
i, who is a nobody.
i, a man with no place to stand.
i, who belongs to a family of
blustering flirts, flatterers,
kidders, thieves.
We sit at the table,
monkey-wrenching hand over fist lives.
Forget about the eyes.
Watch the fingers.
Don’t listen to the speeches.
Words are intentional distractions.
Where’s your wallet?
Gypsies? No, we’re not gypsies,
more upper-crusty, yes, very well-connected secrets.
Do the names Dante, or Cervantes, or Nabokov mean anything to you?
No, none of them are our kin,
but we know people who know people,
infidelities in very high places.
All i’m saying is,
once you reach a certain level,
we’re all family.
i will make success happen,
with or without you.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
tight silk ******* with the lilac bra to match,
cream coloured knee high socks.
a collection of classic rock on vinyl and a compliments jar covered in news articles.
too many celebrity perfumes, but a versace collection that makes her think of the beach;
peach smelling deoderant.
chapter books on the floor accompanied by hair ribbons of baby blue and cotton candy pink,
****** by Vladimir Nabokov laying near the juvinile pale legs of beautiful sixteen,
as she paints each toe nail red, pink, white.
almost naked body, remember her tight, fresh lace set
hair perfectly auburn, lips perfectly light coral
mouth slightly open
Led Zepplin playing.
hairspray and rose powder,
unlit vanilla candles and twilight scented creams
she smells faintly of Modern by Banana Repulic and her daddy's cigarettes.
silently waving, a flag of patriotism
the beautiful, elegant sixteen.
-part 1
conceptcollection
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected]
when i start by name
perhaps in a flap of fault
exculpate my soul
for maximum rectitude
is the true fill of my heart
glory to the sons of Russia
Kudos to you all and your foremen;
Nikolai Gogol the master in the dead souls
Alexander Pushkin the effeminate poet
Vladimir Lenin who knew what was doable
Alexander sholenestysn the Siberian jail bird
who was on the poetic phone by five
Feodor Dostoyevsky the epileptic Karamazov
Maxim Gorky and Antony Chenkoy leave them alone
Ayn Rand the woman who shrug the atlas for we the living
Vladimir Nabokov the school master who asked for ***
from her student the adourous ******
Boris Pasternak the Muzhik like Leo Tolstoy
who wanted land beyond the horizon
for doctor Zhivago the **** peasant
or Vladimir Makayavosky who slapped the public
in the face of their capitalistic taste,
Glorified be you all you sons of Russia
your Muse is beautiful and erotically crazy
glory for your humour and your finer threads
with which you have woven for me my poems of dystopia
glory be to you all in the stark oblivion
of Leon Trotsky and his penman Leonid Brezhnev
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
They're brown.
Earth-colored, if you will.
With a slight tinge of green, if you hang around long enough.
But there's more.
There's history, of a tragic sort.
I doubt you'll stay around long enough,
To watch everything unravel.
6 letters.
I'm not some Nabokov beauty.
Well, technically, by age, yes.
I don't go for the older sort.
It was a term of endearment,
But now, it's pure rage.
5'3".
I have a tiny frame. Smaller than most.
I'm not intimidating.
You can pick me up, and throw me down.
(Though I'd prefer you wouldn't.)
32.
Battle wounds. They tell my story.
All over.
Wrists, forearms.
Thighs, hips, ankles.
It's too easy.
13 years.
13 years filled with pain and insanity.
Filled to the brim with memories.
Terrifying memories of watching booze-induced tirades.
They were so oblivious to my cold breath.
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 9:14 PM UTC
~
"The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness." — Vladimir Nabokov
Clockworks and Ferris wheels
mix time and laughter into their spin
and then comes twilight
and a vacant lot
of endless cycles:
hide and seek in a night-time labyrinth
and then the night walks begin
this fear of emptiness
—time is not a straight line
a warning to the curious:
don't ever trust the stars
to guide you
in the black hit of space
the warmth of our flare's lifespan
is a true testament to the skill and sorcery
found in every limb, larynx
and lovelorn heart
of this dimming voidance
Dec 16, 2022
Dec 16, 2022 at 7:18 AM UTC
I am Munich
I am Paris
I am Edinburgh
I am New York City
But I am not New Jersey
I am not Bonn
I am not Alberta
I am where the city lights are
My life is a piece of art
I am where the symphonies lie
I am wherever Nabokov and Dali want me to be
I am on paints and pictures
I am temptation of rapture
Oh, Mister Nabokov, why this fate for me? (I beg to you)
Oh, Miss Grey, why this fate for me? ( I envy you)
Oh, Miss Banks, why this fate for me? (I hate you)
Tortured ****
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 11:57 AM UTC
my mundane life
is all too trivial
I am a child
I still live
in my parents house
the one my father built
with his words,
the one my mother
blew spirit into
with her macaronis
the one I sat
in my room
studying in
useless packs
of forgotten information
trying
to cry.
into new notebooks
and ukulele
filling bathtubs
opening windows
letting air
form an air
of beauty
in my ugly
homely
country
unloved country
every being here
utters poorly articulated words
of loath
to you
how do you stand
so strong
whilst staggering within
adversity?
would my life
be more
or less
mundane
if I were nabokov
living in russia
transcending and transmitting
beauty?
coated with cold
and cruelty
thats cruel for cruelty
and aesthetics sake,
rather than
heat
and rage
and silenced
misery.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 5:49 PM UTC
MY Place IS Placeless
Matloob Bokhari
You are moonlight
You are fragrance in the breeze
I am bewildered to see you
I am speechless
In the frenzy of my love
I am drifting in the sea of your love
Now and then ,joy and depression
Dark thoughts and light of love
I am senseless
You and I are inseparable
I want to kiss you with tenderness
I am helpless
I live for you, my love is timeless
My heart ,where you are living,
Has become a room of prayer
All I belong to you!
I am a nameless poet
My place is placeless!
Persian Khushi Sweet and touching
Deanna Caroline Bosworth How precious!...Quite the romantic
Connie Hofacker Hemmerich Senter Wow, I feel the commitment of your heart...a room of prayer, so very toucing, Matloob. Thank you, for sharing.
Fran Ayers So lovely!!.I missed your poetry!!
Natasha Nabokov Thank you, . Kiss kiss
Barbara Shoetaker You write so passionately.
Demelia Denton A writer of many explicit romantic words Matloob Bokhari ~ Beautifully written
Lindy Michaels Really lovely...
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
Kiss me with my lips that look like blood pooling
and eyes that look like an exit sign
Sitting on the back porch licking a popsicle
the color of your essence slowly with eyelids closed
and careful movements
I am a snake charmer
a deadly woman
and I am 12
you want me whispering stardust into your ears
and you’re trying to make yourself see it as wrong
But I am all want
I am need
something about me is saying please
I am silk sheets
a sunny day breeze
and I am 12
the edges of my blonde hair comes to the
third vertebrae in my spine
and you want your hands curled in it
you want me like
I am water to the flame that rests in your tongue
you’ve never read ****** before
but you swear I'm the one
Vladimir Nabokov had in mind
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
THESE EYES,THESE BEAUTIFUL EYES
When you looked at me
The fire of your eyes created
Deep waves in the sea of my soul
I am drowning deeper and deeper
In the wide ocean of infinite love
These eyes,these beautiful eyes
Made me see deep in the ocean
And imbibe wisdom from the sky
These eyes,these beautiful eyes
Painted kindness on my mind;
And inscribed love on my heart
These eyes,these beautiful eyes
More beautiful than the starry night
More sweet than the moonbeam kiss
More kind than fragrance of perfumed garden
These eyes,these beautiful eyes
Marilyn Ann Francis Beautiful....EXCELLENT...MAF
Angela Davis
Natasha Nabokov Thank you, poets, you make my day Natasha Nabokov It's such a memorable poem, Matloob. Thank you
Wow, Matloob, you should post your work in FM Online Magazine, I know that the editor would publish it!
Michele Vizzotti-White Writing about eyes is such a great idea and u do it so beautifuly, u go on from the appearance to the way they make one feel in few but rich words, my fav line is the painted kindness in my mind eyes tell so much yet i have not read many poems about them
Saalik Siddiqui Fantastic indeed.
Demelia Denton Another beautiful poem Matloob
Melanie Bingham Chapman very, very nicely written !
Natasha Nabokov Oh, you are so magnificently productive
Larry Barmash What would you do if I sang out a tune
Perry Alexander Nectar of love.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
paris...
no american in sight, or how i just see utopia...
songs on the steps of sacré-cœur, kissing
an american girl, then cheese and wine
next to the Eiffel tower, laughing, joking, trailing
and tailing off with talk of nabokov,
the nightclub scene with ping-pong ecstasy dances,
youth, youth, youth,
of youth that congregated once in those places,
parisian girls congregating for a game french hushes
with the chinese whispers and anglo comic charades
learned from the conquering normans...
paris back then, what wouldn't i have given for it,
but i learned of starving north,
where lecture upon lecture repeated david hume,
and i said:
it's the 21st century after all!
make edinburgh the new paris!
oh paris, but paris stay intact,
with the eiffel tower in my palm,
where all love met no love
but love met love all the more fictive,
written with a million reincarnations
that once told a tale of warring fractions known
as factions,
and it was told so: paris of my past where
i walked the streets with the compass height
ordaining coordinates that the tower was
to thus learn:
in times of panicky sentencing est mort,
people congregate in hawkish gaze
at monuments of their bone and marrow
turned into cement and irons of scaffold,
and there they congregate to ogle a new hope
when encouraged by a new fascination
of those that are less amazed by the phonetic
simplicity of animals than those who keep them.
oh paris, how i too wished things would have
remained a truer you begging truancy
from international press coverage,
how that one summer i became embedded
in taking to sleep on rock that felt like
woollen napkins filled with duck quills.
and in the memoriam altar two boys played
this song: as entombed by the title.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
Weird in his outfits of a late ragamuffin
Reflecting strength of character and soul toughness
Contrasted by dreadlocks on his pykitonic head
Giving him a look of an African amorous ogre,
In the tough stunt for *** with a tectonic girl,
Veneered by mastery of his pen and keyboard
Following after his *** starved ancestor
The muzhik; Vladimir Nabokov the ****** lover,
Swimming in enviable freedom to *********
Afro-English words in his road to the burning church
That barely roasts the peasants for tribal reasons,
A ****** ground for Mochama’s humour
That will hold you glued and captive to the pages
Until the he goat of Abagusii goes through
The second round of its ****** act
Basically forming education for Smitta
The smitten rock of African literature.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 6:11 AM UTC
MY Place IS Placeless
Matloob Bokhari
You are moonlight
You are fragrance in the breeze
I am bewildered to see you
I am speechless
In the frenzy of my love
I am drifting in the sea of your love
Now and then ,joy and depression
Dark thoughts and light of love
I am senseless
You and I are inseparable
I want to kiss you with tenderness
I am helpless
I live for you, my love is timeless
My heart ,where you are living,
Has become a room of prayer
All I belong to you!
I am a nameless poet
My place is placeless!
Persian Khushi Sweet and touching
Deanna Caroline Bosworth How precious!...Quite the romantic
Connie Hofacker Hemmerich Senter Wow, I feel the commitment of your heart...a room of prayer, so very toucing, Matloob. Thank you, for sharing.
Fran Ayers So lovely!!.I missed your poetry!!
Natasha Nabokov Thank you, . Kiss kiss
Barbara Shoetaker You write so passionately.
Demelia Denton A writer of many explicit romantic words Matloob Bokhari ~ Beautifully written
Lindy Michaels Really lovely...
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
I printed out America
I looked it up on youtube
And I lost it.
Where are you, America?
Did you hide under my communistically red bed sheets?
You’re not there
Are you the piece of paper under my ****
No, that's another Ginsbergian poem full of soul and extra brilliant kindness.
Are you on my wall?
No, Baudelaire and Mayakovsky turn their heads in disagreement.
Are you one of the leafs in my room of poetry leaf fall?
Do you lie sublimely on my shelf along Nabokov and Turgenev?
Or are you the paper I left on the table in a rush?
Do you lie scrambled in my bin?
I know you never would
Or perhaps the wind took you away
And you forgot to wave?
America, I put my queer hands down in desperation.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 5:22 AM UTC
is a familiar phrase
we like to flaunt
especially
when we would like to utter a complaint
about contemporary grievances
god and the world & cetera
in doing so
we keep good company
from Socrates to Livius
to Shakespeare, Goethe, Emerson,
Whitman, Fitzgerald, Hurston, Vonnegut,
Morrison, Angelou, Nabokov, etc.
I guess this is because
the times like these
are always those
in which we live
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 6:44 PM UTC
"...our poor romance was for a moment reflected, pondered upon, and dismissed like a dull party, like a rainy picnic to which only the dullest bores had come, like a humdrum exercise, like a bit of dry mud caking her childhood." V Nabokov
How easy it is to confuse love with hatred
Like what they poured on your soul was acid
Slowly but surely the two opposites bounded
Every moment you spent is now clouded
Welcome to the moment you dreaded
Because slowly that hate disappears
Was it numbed by all those beers?
No, I'm just tired of the pasts' sneers
"Remember? He made you happy!
No, I'm just tired of all those tears
Now it's your heart that hurts with my spears
All those pains faded away
Elsewhere, I led them astray
You're dead to me, go decay
I don't love you, I daresay
Surprise! Viciousness is my forte.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 7:58 PM UTC
I’m not always a fan of poetry - if I actually take time to ponder it
- it can be so irritatingly rhymey, kind of fussy and needlessly intricate.
Compare my love to a summer’s day and I’ll probably yawn and walk away.
Take a nuanced look at the transactions of *** and consent,
and as adults, we may wonder where the romance went.
You know, it only happens once in a while,
that someone with wit and individual style
comes along with something to say
and scribbles it down in a poem or play.
Here’s to the creative visionaries,
to Dickinson's unique and dreamy imagery,
to Shakespear’s highly stylized, run-on sentences
that manage to speak to us over the centuries
or challenge our stifled, bourgeoisie banality
like Nabokov’s use of stunning vocabulary.
Apr 12, 2022
Apr 12, 2022 at 5:51 AM UTC
Man's literature surveys the landscape of
life with such care that
the passionate man is merely a
caricature of innumerable minds.
The self-created man is as such
according to the connections of his own
experience to that of the volumes
adorning the world's shelves.
Mine eyes of passion are the reincarnation
of the angel Edmund Dantès; anguish
the respondent ripple of the Creature born in
Ingolstadt. Burns teaches humility
as Boethius the ambitions of Lady Fortune, both
under the whims of fleshly confinement.
To bear further testament, Nabokov
brands the sublimity of the individual as
the lost, old soul Taibhsear
calls Love out on the street holding the name
not of his greatest desire but that of her's.
Eons hold the grandest wealth that is the build-up
of the "drops in the ocean" that
are the whims of man and his
written word.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 3:17 PM UTC
Let's run away together
and buy a cramped, one bedroom apartment
in New York or Prague or San Fran or Bristol
wherever you like
(I could never begrudge you anything)
I'd sleep so much better
with you in my arms
(I wouldn't be scared
that you would **** yourself
in the night)
I'd learn to cook
vegitarian
just for you
and
I'd make you tea
when you were sick;
You'd tell me
"You're pretty"
every morning
and mean it
and
You'd read me
Nabokov and Ginsburg and Shakespeare
over breakfast on the weekend.
We'd go to the museum
and discuss
artistic movements
and painting techniques;
We'd go to concerts
and dance (though
neither of us
can)
We'd lie in the grass
under the stars
naming off constellation
basking in each others' proximity.
In short, we would
love each other;
*** each other;
make each other happy.
Let's run away.
let's run away together.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
IF I LOVE NOT, I HAVE NOTHING
MATLOOB BOKHARI
If I worship more than arch angel but don’t love
I have nothing
If I give all I have to the poor, but don’t love
I have nothing
If I have faith which moves mountains,but don’t love
I have nothing
If I give gold in alms as big as Ohad but don’t love
I have nothing
If I die moving around the arc of covenant, but don’t love
I have nothing
If I die fighting in the holy war, but don’t love
I have nothing
If I die and buried in the tomb of prophet but don’t love
I have nothing
If I get land larger than Solomon’s Kingdom,but don’t love
I have nothing
If I receive God’s healing power like Christ but don’t love
I have nothing
If I am given un paralleled patience like Ayub but don’t love
I have nothing
If make sacrifice like Ismael and Hussain but don’t love
I have nothing
If I am given the kingdom of the world, but don’t love
I have nothing
No matter what I have done, no matter what will I do
Without wings of love, I cannot soar in the kingdom of God
Natasha Nabokov: reading your poems, I am reminded of Tagore who is my first love
Angela Davis :matloob, your work is so amazing!
Laura Luce del:Hello Matloob Thanks., Its an amazing, understandable & great write. I hope you are blessed throughout the rest of yoir life. Never stop writing! ♡LLM
Vincent Boykin: I admire your courage in writing about Love in a serious relationship with the spiritual. It's shows your heart and that you understand Love. Love is usually just some word in the cosmos. Love bonds everything in good. Love. Super Poem! It's how I took it. It made my day. Thank you.
Demelia Denton: An amazing poem Matloob .... Enchanting ...beautifully worded
Michele Vizzotti-White: I like the fast pace of it, but it still is rich in thought/words
Fay Slimm: Ah - - how true are these words Mat. - love is all we need and nothing more. An inspiring read.
Seyed Mohammad Reza Parhizgar : this is why you are called Matloob, but I have something better than love, and that's God.thanks dear friend I loved your poem.
Sara Fielder: I agree, love should be the motivating factor in everything we think, do, and say. The world would be a better place if we all remembered that.
Stephen Montgomery : My favorite line is: all I can sense the cogs turning in this sincere post which has come to an understanding; Love must be everything because love conflicts with nothing. Hold everything sacred and nothing suffers
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
O blond angel of blue eyes and Nabokov quotes
Where are you now?
I know on whose shoulder you cry
I know who is your sun
Your poems lie forgotten on my shelf, burned by the fire of my soul
I saw you and him in Queen St mall, O I wish it was my hand you were holding
I remember we walked down this street held hands you kissed me both at the same time I was so happy
I remember you, so ambitious shining on my sky
Your light never faded
Do you still play with rhymes at times?
Is your night still bright?
Does moon play you a tune?
Is every girl to whom I split my heart with be only your reflection?
Cold gaze, brilliant mind, gentle gentle gentle
Im lost in a maze
I still think of you so often
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 4:01 AM UTC
Awaken on Friday morning with green hair,
Looking every bit as mythical, out of the ordinary as your personality.
Do you remember telling me in my clouded memory that I was loved?
I don't blame you if you don't,
You were shapeshifting, you were busy.
You had more to worry about than my ramblings and poetry.
///Preamble.
Into the past where I find myself slipping,
Forgive me if you find that I'm trespassing.
I see hurt and heartbreak...
Want to bring you back through the vortex
Despite the physical barriers.
How many thousands of men could not break your enigma,
And how many sincere girls have shattered your heart beyond repair?
Oh, who could have blamed you for reading Nabokov in bed?
The marijuana haze was too prevalent,
You having gone years without joy but not a handful of minutes without self-deprecation,
I saw in the full frame of this seriousness,
I cut my hand on the picture frame,
And looked to the floor out of shame.
This is your story after all,
Is it fair if I exclude myself?
///Submersion.
Born under a black sun,
And drowning in the omnipresent light,
The Pantheon took note of the atmosphere,
Heightened with sadness.
But you're locked up, Melpomene,
I hardly know your name,
Your tragic songs...
What quiet, old voice has led me to write this?
The same morning my anxiety had reached its peak
And I had little reason to think you'd reached clarity,
I sat in the hallway of struggled composition,
Arrived at the reckoning that nothing should cause worry,
That questions either warrant answers, spite or silence.
All in between is dictated by sadness,
Dictated by you, then.
Please, step back from the ledge.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 6:55 AM UTC
You, like Nabokov, are also a polyglot!
An intellectual with French roots, and how nice
That “Pozner’ programme’s again truly lot,
And which year you’ve been on the screen with us.
You’re as an ideal for ladies:
You’re Alain Delon’s Russian pattern.
Your youth’s fuse can’t be extinguished nowadays.
And the audience welcomes in you a hero then!
If only Nabokov were living!
Then you would play chess together with him,
And in welcome and again coming spring,
You would collect butterflies just for him!
But the epoch’s consciences are passing away
In silence—who’s the next, we don’t know, will leave,
It looks as if we were in war every day,
Unfortunately, we’re losing someone coming to grief.
How many outstanding people have died,
How few outstanding people have remained,
So prosper to the envious out of spite,
Live long—bringing us happiness being great.
{04.03.2020}
Владимиру Владимировичу Познеру
Вы – как Набоков: тоже полиглот!
Интеллигент с французскими корнями.
Как хорошо, что Вы (который год!)
В Программе «Познер» на экране - с нами!
Для многих женщин Вы как идеал:
Ален Делон российского покроя!
Неугасим в Вас юности запал,
И зритель в Вас приветствует Героя!
Эх, если бы Набоков был живой!
Вы с ним тогда бы в шахматы сыграли!
И вместе – наступающей весной –
Ему бы новых бабочек собрали!
Но совести Эпохи в тишине
Уходят. И кто следующий – не знаем…
Мы каждый день как будто на войне:
Кого-то, к сожалению, теряем:
Так много выдающихся ушло,
Так мало выдающихся осталось.
Так здравствуйте завистникам на зло!
Живите долго – в этом наша радость!
{04.03.2020}
Translator - I. Toporov
May 10, 2020
May 10, 2020 at 11:27 AM UTC