Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Lawrence Hall Jul 2019
But Yevtushenko...

                      A tribute to Penguin paperbacks

When they
Someday
Take us away
For reading
For thinking
For writing

Those Penguin paperbacks all tattered and taped
Discovered when they empty our pockets
          Will
Be used against us in their courts of law

But Yevtushenko might corrupt our jailers
Today is Yevgeny Yevtushenko's birthday (1932).

Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Lawrence Hall Jul 2024
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Macbeth, Doctor Zhivago, Captain Call, Yevgeny Yevtushenko, Allen Ginsberg, and Rod McKuen Visit the Dentist but Have to Wait for Beowulf's Root Canal

         In gratitude for all the wonderful dentists, hygienists, and
                       technicians who keep us chewing!


                                  Macbeth Visits the Dentist

Is this a drill which I see before me
The whirring drill outstretched to my teeth
O happiest gas! Come let me clutch thee!
Before my body I throw my dental shield


                            Dr. Zhivago Visits the Dentist

Poor dental hygiene is for crowds of mediocrities
Only individuals seek dentistry
And they shun those who tolerate bad teeth
How many things in the world deserve our loyalty?

A dentist whose papers are in order


                            Captain Call Visits the Dentist

Call saw that the dentist was looking at him
The nitrous oxide drained out of him
Leaving him feeling tired
“I hate a bad tooth. I won’t tolerate it.”


                 Yevgeny Yevtushenko Visits the Dentist

For a tooth to come out
Some of the pain must be devoted to Stalin
Soviet dentistry demanded happy endings
I knew I could floss and brush better than Mayakovsky
Bella’s teeth were second only to those of Akhmatova
Only I could make Babi Yar all about me and my teeth
When I saw a dentist in Zima Junction
I saw the truth of the Revolution in her little mirror


                     Allen Ginsberg Visits the Dentist

I saw the best teeth of my generation destroyed by sugared sodas and a failure to brush and floss

dragging themselves through the medical complex at dawn looking for a fix

thinning-hair old hipsters burning for relief from aching jaws at the healing hands of dedicated professionals among their shining instruments

dedicated professionals who did not drop out of the University of Arkansas and never saw Mohammedan angels among the rooftops


                                   Rod McKuen Visits the Dentist

I am like a molar; I have chewed alone
Gnawed a hundred hamburgers
Never found a bone
Still and all I’m toothy
Reason is you see
Once in a while along the way
Dentists have been good to me.
Dentistry and literature!
Lawrence Hall Apr 2017
Yevgeny Yevtushenko died today.  The Penguin Modern European Poets edition of YEVTUSHENKO: SELECTED POEMS was the first book I bought upon returning from Viet-Nam, in the airport in San Francisco.  That paperback is on the desk beside me as I type.

"Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and make perpetual Light to shine upon him."
Lawrence Hall May 2019
This is a re-post of "All Change at Zima Junction."  This morning I turned in my keys after some forty years of herding cattle (metaphorically), seventeen of them with this institution.  I am unemployed for the first time since I was five or so and was set to toddling out to the chicken yard every evening to gather the eggs in an old Easter basket.  My mother said that the rooster often chased me and made me cry, but I don’t remember that.

And now - what adventure does Aslan have next for me?

The first book I bought upon returning home from Viet-Nam was the Penguin Modern European Poets paperback edition of Yevtushenko: Selected Poems.  That 75-cent paperback from an airport bookstall in San Francisco is beside me on the desk as I write.

                                     All Change at Zima Junction

                            For Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 1932-2017

Everyone changes trains at Zima Junction
Changes lives; nineteen becomes twenty-one
With hardly a pause for twenty and then
Everyone asks you questions you can’t answer

And then they say you’ve changed, and ignore you
The small-town brief-case politician still
Enthroned as if he were a committee -
He asks you what you are doing back here

And then you go away, on a different train:
Everyone changes trains at Zima Junction

                           “I went, and I am still going.”1

1Yevtushenko: Selected Poems. Penguin,1962
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Lawrence Hall Mar 2019
As culled from an arts magazine, 13 March 2019

Socialist Realism - The official doctrine in Soviet art and literature after 1932 that evolved from the traditional commitment to social and civic concerns into an all-pervasive general ideological mandate.

            -Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 20th Century Russian Poetry


collective exhibition space vibe community
interactive narrative brown neighborhood
defined commodified Indigenous
identity tone-deaf decolonial
narratives populist intertwined
exhibition curatorial vision
culture local artists arts district small galleries
DIY spaces speaking out against
gentrification displacing shelter
studio space elsewhere late stage capitalism
collective mantra underdog art savior
corporate entity partnering insensitive
ignorant collective brown people art
contemporary work that may not fit
into establishment art galleries
media advisory venture collaborate
creative community authentic
local statement of expression excitement
creative energy arts district project
many levels collaborate local
creative important creative
community what that collaboration
looks like ongoing local artists going
to be engaged in planning commissioned
project community buy-in consulted members of the creative community Indigenous artists curators museum
directors professors burgeoning landscape
cultural framework critique talk individuals
entities inclusivity open
dialogue opportunities project
conversations collaboration discuss
your projects share our work with you
common ground work together healthy sustainable
accountable decolonization
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Andrew Springer Jan 2013
Yevgeny Yevtushenko*


No monument stands over Babi Yar.
A drop sheer as a crude gravestone.
I am afraid.
            Today I am as old in years
as all the Jewish people.
Now I seem to be
                a Jew.
Here I plod through ancient Egypt.
Here I perish crucified, on the cross,
and to this day I bear the scars of nails.
I seem to be
            Dreyfus.
The Philistine
              is both informer and judge.
I am behind bars.
                Beset on every side.
Hounded,
       spat on,
              slandered.
Squealing, dainty ladies in flounced Brussels lace
stick their parasols into my face.
I seem to be then
                a young boy in Byelostok.
Blood runs, spilling over the floors.
The barroom rabble-rousers
give off a stench of ***** and onion.
A boot kicks me aside, helpless.
In vain I plead with these pogrom bullies.
While they jeer and shout,
                         "Beat the Yids. Save Russia!"
some grain-marketeer beats up my mother.
0 my Russian people!
                   I know
                         you
are international to the core.
But those with unclean hands
have often made a jingle of your purest name.
I know the goodness of my land.
How vile these anti-Semites-
                            without a qualm
they pompously called themselves
the Union of the Russian People!
I seem to be
            Anne Frank
transparent
           as a branch in April.
And I love.
          And have no need of phrases.
My need
       is that we gaze into each other.
How little we can see
                     or smell!
We are denied the leaves,
                         we are denied the sky.
Yet we can do so much --
                        tenderly
embrace each other in a darkened room.
They're coming here?
                    Be not afraid. Those are the booming
sounds of spring:
                 spring is coming here.
Come then to me.
               Quick, give me your lips.
Are they smashing down the door?
                                No, it's the ice breaking ...
The wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar.
The trees look ominous,
                      like judges.
Here all things scream silently,
                               and, baring my head,
slowly I feel myself
                    turning gray.
And I myself
            am one massive, soundless scream
above the thousand thousand buried here.
I am
     each old man
                 here shot dead.
I am
    every child
               here shot dead.
Nothing in me
             shall ever forget!
The "Internationale," let it
                            thunder
when the last anti-Semite on earth
is buried forever.
In my blood there is no Jewish blood.
In their callous rage, all anti-Semites
must hate me now as a Jew.
For that reason
                I am a true Russian!
Lawrence Hall Jan 2018
“Withdrawn from Salem Public Library”

Yevtushenko in a Used-Book Sale

“Salem Public Library, East Main Street,
Salem, VA 24153”
A happy book, thought-stained, and often-read:
An anthology of Russian poetry

Salem, Virginia must be a marvelous town
A library stocked with poetry, and stocked
With poetry readers who have turned again
And again to favorite pages here and there

Long-ago poets murdered by the Soviets
But finding love at last in Salem, Virginia



Re:

20th Century Russian Poetry: Silver and Gold
Selected and with an introduction by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
Albert C. Todd and Max Hayward, editors
New York: Doubleday. 1993
Lawrence Hall Apr 2017
All Change at Zima Junction

For Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 1932-2017

Everyone changes trains at Zima Junction
Changes lives; nineteen becomes twenty-one
With hardly a pause for twenty and then
Everyone asks you questions you can’t answer

And then they say you’ve changed, and ignore you
The small-town brief-case politician still
Enthroned as if she were a committee
And asks you what are you doing back here

And then you go away, on a different train:
Everyone changes trains at Zima Junction

“I went, and I am still going.”1


1Yevtuskenko: Selected Poems. Penguin,1962
Yevgeny Yevtushenko
Lawrence Hall Mar 2019
“The F_g with the Bow Tie” 1

            “Only in Russia is poetry respected – it gets people killed.
              Is there anywhere else where poetry is so common a  
              motive  for ******?”

                                                -Osip Mandelstam 2

Spain. Poetry got people killed in Spain -
And still wherever tyrants of delicate nerves
And artistic sensitivities hear
Whispered rumors of whispered disapproval

And so an innocent, fearful and trembling
Must be motored away to a moonless death
Upon orders spoken, written, tweeted
Telephoned, telegraphed, or teletyped

One prays he has a moment to adjust his tie
Perfectly - as an honor to Poetry




1 The slur is attributed to Federico Garcia Lorca’s murderers:
https://lithub.com/dictators-****-poets-on-federico-garcia-lorcas-last-days/

2 Quoted by Yevgeny Yevtushenko in 20th Century Russian Poetry
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Lawrence Hall Mar 2019
A Hasty Partisan Response to the Mueller Report

                      “And art made tongue-tied by authority”

                         -Sonnet 66, often quoted by Pasternak

The Russian reports on my desk include:

Selected Poems, Yevtushenko
The Possessed, Dostoyevsky
The Zhivago Affair, Finn and Couvee
The Complete Poems of Anna Ahkmatova
August 1914, Solzhenitsyn

And some of them unread, some of them read
And better read than red, so someone said
Some of them shelved (We and The House of the Dead)
But now I’m going to work the flower bed

And what century is it outside?  1


1 Pasternak
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Lawrence Hall Sep 2017
The Saunter of the Penguins

Across our lives the Penguins saunter along:
The Odyssey, The Ministry of Fear
Parade’s End, Penrod, To a God Unknown
Ragged with study, stained with tea and beer

Saint Augustine’s Confessions, Whitman’s Leaves
Tennyson, Wordsworth, The Alexiad
Monsignor Quixote, Wooster and Jeeves
And Yevtushenko – he was quite the lad!

Dog-eared and all crinkly, Scotch-taped with age -
Each Penguin is a wise, eternal sage
Penguin paperbacks
Lawrence Hall Dec 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                               A Child’s Garden of Worse(s)

                   Some poets wrote verses which were not meant
                   to charm the reader but to get them a Stalin prize.

                  -Yevtushenko, A Precocious Autobiography, 1963

The children who are permitted to live
Are not permitted to read what they want
When they ask for adventures our censors give
Ideology, instead of a jaunt

The children who are not submissive to the code
Not following this week’s fashions in science
Or who presume to kick against the goad
Will be inclusively loved into compliance

And from the Hippocrene a taste, a drink?
Oh, no! Children are now forbidden to dream or think
Censorship
Lawrence Hall May 2017
All Settings on Auto-Destruct

“a man enthroned as if it were a committee”
-Yevtushenko, from “Zima Junction”

Senator Pelosi has her head blessed
By the loving hands of The Dalai Lama
And Comey’s looking for a brand-new gig
Maybe as Cassandra’s Mrs. Blossom

J. Edgar’s iron men are said to be in tears
Special investigators rub their tentacles
In delicious anticipation of
A feast of scandals and expense accounts

     “Well, doctor, what have we got?”
     *“A republic, if you can keep it.”
Lawrence Hall Jan 2024
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                An Apology to Brazos Bookstore
                                        on Banned Books Week

               Oh, our descendants will burn with bitter shame
               to remember, when punishing vile acts,
               that most peculiar time, when
               plain honesty was labeled 'courage’

           -Yevtushenko, “Conversation with an American Writer”

Dear Brazos Bookstore:

Several years ago I wrote you a polite note
Suggesting that you were a bit hyperbolic
On the touchy subject of banning books
“This is America,” I said; “it doesn’t happen here”

I was wrong
I apologize

And you are brave

Cordially,
Brazos Bookstore
www.brazosBookstore.com
2421 Bissonnet St, Houston, TX 77005

(I have no professional connection with Brazos Bookstore, that wonderful, independent purveyor of books and an agora of ideas.)
Lawrence Hall Jan 2018
All Change at Zima Junction

For Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 1932-2017

Everyone changes trains at Zima Junction
Changes lives; nineteen becomes twenty-one
With hardly a pause for twenty and then
Everyone asks you questions you can’t answer

And then they say you’ve changed, and ignore you
The small-town brief-case politician still
Enthroned as if she were a committee
And asks you what are you doing back here

And then you go away, on a different train:
Everyone changes trains at Zima Junction

“I went, and I am still going.”1


1Yevtuskenko: Selected Poems. Penguin,1962
An Apology

I have never visited Russia.  I can’t read or speak Russian. Everything in this series is as authentically Russian as a liter of ***** bottled in, oh, Baytown, Texas.  Still, I hope you enjoy this dream-pilgrimage.

I never meant to write poems about Russia, but then I never meant to read Russian literature. The United States Navy was parsimonious in its pay to enlisted men in the 1960s, so the base library and the San Diego Public Library were my free entertainment (as was riding up and down the glass elevator at the Hotel El Cortez, and walking the city and Balboa Park with shipmates), and in illo tempore I happened upon a Modern Library edition of Chekhov’s short stories.

Although Tolkien, McKuen, and other English-language authors have always been my favorites (or favourites), I also found that Russian authors (in translation, of course) also have so much to teach the young and reassure the old. Despite seventy years of horror under Communism, Russia never lost the Faith and never lost her love for literature, literature that shapes chaos into meaning.  In so many ways Russia is a witness to the world.

The first book I bought upon returning home from Viet-Nam was the Penguin Modern European Poets paperback edition of Yevtushenko: Selected Poems.  That 75-cent paperback from a bookstall in the airport in San Francisco is beside me on the desk as I write.

At this point the convention is to write that Yevtushenko changed my life forever, gave me an epiphany, and blah, blah, blah.  He didn’t.  If one’s life changes every time one reads a new author or hears a remarkable speaker or sees a great film, then was there a life to begin with?

But Yevtushenko, Solzhenitsyn, Ahkmatova, Pasternak, Chekhov, and others came to be life-long friends.  And since one writes about friends, I wrote about them too, and one day realized, as P.G. Wodehouse would say, that there might be a book in it.
Lawrence Hall Jun 2019
A book of poetry is a prayer book
Your Daily Office of verses and lines
Attended prayerfully if possible
But, yes, attended in any event

Wavell’s Flowers for your next deployment
Young Yevtushenko for the bus commute
Or a little volume of Pushkin pushed
Into a pocket past your pocketknife

Beginning with Matins, and all through your day
Make the blessings of poetry part of your Way
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:

Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
L B Apr 2020
Good Friday 2020
_____

The wind groans with reluctance
Sends April snow in squalls—
a tossed and careless shawl
worn long and tired with this Day
No glimpse of sun
A dirge of snow surrenders on the grass
Winter making one more pass
among us
gray with grief

Due east of Rat Island

alone

Appropriate in name
Appropriate to this, the day

surrounded only
by the jealous surf
with hateful waves
surrounded by the howls of “crucify!”
“He is not ours!

They are not ours!
We are not ours!”

Send them all away
They belong to the island
to the ground
from which they came
Not for us to cry and claim

Their abandonment

Wooden boxes fill the
trench—
A Babi Yar
of our own doing
so it seems
and yet again...
Golgotha

In the bitterness
of heart there is

an island--

Hart—I think they call it
Both a prison and a graveyard
of NYC

A place “despised and rejected”

rejected of men
an island of sorrows...
and acquainted with grief....”

      “...I see myself an ancient Israelite.
       I wander o’er the roads of ancient Egypt
      And here, upon the cross, I perish, tortured
      And even now, I bear the marks of nails....”
                                   --Yevgeni Yevtushenko

...inscribed on the palms of His hands....

Again—

There is an island
where scores of the forgotten lie
He knows them all by name

Today it binds my tongue
with bonds of sadness
It has traveled in the tides
of time to find us

Our Babi Yar has come for us
to take us to Hart Island

Unmarked
Unloved
Unclaimed
_____

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:BabiJarravijn.jpg…

New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio acknowledged that more people are being buried at the city's potter's field, but stressed that only the bodies of the unclaimed would be buried there.
Lawrence Hall Jun 2024
Lawrence Hall HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                            You are Going to Write a Poem Today

                             A poet's words can outlive empires
                             and shake the foundations of tyrants.

                                              -Yevtushenko

You are going to write a poem today
Although you will never finish it
For the hours, or a person from Porlock
Will lead you to pause your thought for a time

Your poem will repose as a meditation
A word upon the altar of your mind
And even as you are distracted at Mass
Your poem becomes a tiny sip of salvation

All the truthing words that have come to you -
There on your mindful altar they bless the world
Lawrence Hall Feb 2018
You Russian poets must write your lines in blood
For often that is all that is left to you
By invaders, revolutionaries, and
“The briefcase politician in his jeep” 1

Perhaps every Russian is a Pushkin
In frost and heat, in every deprivation
Plowing in the face of the enemy
Building civilization with frozen hands

And always shaping noble tetrameters
Into an eternal song of a Russian spring

1 Yevtushenko, “Zima Junction”
Lawrence Hall Oct 2017
You Russian Poets

You Russian poets must write your lines in blood
For often that is all that is left to you
By invaders, revolutionaries, and
“The briefcase politician in his jeep” 1

Perhaps every Russian is a Pushkin
In frost and heat, in every deprivation
Plowing in the face of the enemy
Building civilization with frozen hands

And always shaping noble tetrameters
Into an eternal song of Russian spring



1 Yevtushenko, “Zima Junction”
Lawrence Hall Dec 2024
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                  Show Me Who You Read

Show me who you read

You love Thoreau’s hut on Walden Pond
You fly with Wendy and Peter to Neverland
You pet Mary Oliver’s marvelous dogs
And tell Yevtushenko not to be so full of himself

Show me who you read

You stand at an angle with Cavafy
You ask Frankl how he found meaning after all
You gaze into Tolkien’s palantir
And at bedtime say good night to the moon

Show me who you read

But I already know

You read by the light of a dreaming star
And everyone loves the starlight you are
Lawrence Hall Mar 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                        Colonial Rule from Low Earth Orbit

                         Telling lies to the young is wrong

                                      -Yevtushenko, “Lies”

Corporations and nations orbit the earth
Colonial rulers as satellites and drones
Enneagramming through our attic beams
Their mad, malevolent multi-wave streams

Ideas not our own – they coil and writhe
As sinister blue lights through days and nights
Device calling silently to device
In unheard hissings of infogoguery

We rattle our electronic chains about
And proclaim our freedom
                                          (as we are told)
A poem is itself.
Lawrence Hall Nov 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                  The Culture Wars We’ve Been Hearing About

Corporal Keats flung himself into the trench
“It’s no good,” he gasped, lighting a cigarette
“The Free Versifiers have ta’en our outposts
We spiked our sonnets but our blank verse is lost”

“And there’s an end on’t,” cried Corporal Johnson
“You will hear thunder,” sighed Corporal Ahkmatova
“Maybe we took the wrong road,” said Corporal Frost
“Where is Yevtushenko?” asked Corporal Tsvetaeva

“Back in Moscow, awarding himself the George Cross
And promoting himself to field marshal”
A poem is itself.
Lawrence Hall May 2024
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                              The Heirs of the Heirs of Stalin


                   But how remove Stalin’s heirs from Stalin!

                          -Yevtushenko, “The Heirs of Stalin”


The heirs of the heirs of Stalin

Fat boys fly Come and Take It flags on their cheeseburgers
Their double cheeseburgers with fat fistfuls of freedom fries
John Wayne-ing lines from Fort Apache and The Green Berets
Taking their orders from QAnon and Fox

The heirs of the heirs of Stalin

Beefcake their *** toys in 5.56
They love the man who threatens their lives and wives
They kneel and grovel to him; they would ****** for him
Moulder in prison for him – and he would never notice them

The heirs of the heirs of Stalin

Whoop that their Leader is anointed of Jesus, that he saves
(His limousine will rumble over their poor graves)
Lawrence Hall Jan 2024
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                               Awkward Adolescent Verse

              Poetry…
              The authority of empires, driven mad,
              Threatened it so many times,
              But it was the rulers who perished

                     -Yevtushenko, “Poetry is a Great Power”

They stole his boots even before he died
And scavengers have eaten out his eyes
His flesh and blood commingle with the mud
His rotting hands still claw the earth, the pain

A dime-store notebook, shredded with his heart
Once pencilled with his awkward, juvenile lines
Of undeveloped images and clumsy rhymes
Which will not be shaped and sharpened in this world

Among young bodies rats squabble and hiss -
Someone will be given a peace prize for this
Lawrence Hall Oct 2023
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office


                        Will There be Coffee after the Crucifixion?

                    Everything’s going to be discovered
                    And understood in the course of time,
                    Only we have to go on thinking

                                    -Yevtushenko, “Zima Junction”

Not all are crucified, but all are wounded
We bring our gifts to the Altar; they fall apart
In secretly clinging to them for ourselves
Our claims to be defined by an era
But rotting corpses in a tangled wood
The celebrant elevates the Host
We lift unfocused eyes in grave pretense
Inattentive at the Wedding of worlds

The Mass is the central Act in Creation -
Not all are crucified, but all are wounded
A meditation (and this is ironic) on being inattentive during the liturgy.
Lawrence Hall Mar 2022
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                 The State of the Union and an Undisclosed Location

The truth is at an undisclosed location
That firm guardian of the Republic
Surrounded by functionaries and bodyguards
Blue-glowing screens set forth on polished oak

The truth is at an undisclosed location
And so am I, an old man musing his dreams
Surrounded by Yevtushenko and Shakespeare
Lord Byron, Shelley, Keats - Miss Marple too

The truth is at an undisclosed location
But we can discover it if we try

(Begin with the sale table at Barnes & Noble)
"What is truth?"

-Pontius Pilate
Lawrence Hall Oct 2020
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                              Lines for Marina Tsvetaeva

        “Her poetry is…passion, pain, metaphor, and music.”

                                 - Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Her words soar over utilitarians
Past pale, pedantic propagandists who
Would wrench all poetry into a cause
As if verse were but a commodity

Her picture on a Penguin paperback
Embraces the viewer, stares back, dares back
Her eyes defiant, her arms folded in hope
Armored in her famous clunky jewelry

She bleeds onto the page, into the soul
Her words, suspended in truth against the age
A poem is itself; Marina was even more truly herself.
Lawrence Hall Jan 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                Happy Roman New Year - Join me for a Cuppa


                                   I went, and I am still going.

                                       -Yevgeny Yevtushenko
                                             “Zima Junction”


The dogs and I are out on our morning patrol
Greeting the new day, new month, and new year
Greeting the sun as he sings through woods
His song of Creation, Creation-fresh

I have fed the animals, lit the fire
Made coffee to enjoy at my old desk
With Edmondson, Wells, and their pal Shakespeare
And John Senior with his awfully thinky words

Fresh coffee, fresh words for me and for you –
Join me, won’t you, for a merry cup of brew!



I have no connection with the authors or publishers; I simply recommend them to you:

Edmondson, Paul and Wells. All the Sonnets of Shakespeare. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2020

Senior, John. Pale Horse, Easy Rider. Lawrence, Kansas, Shakespeherian Rag Press, 1992
A poem is itself.
Lawrence Hall Feb 2024
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                   Browsing the Poetry Titles in the Book Store

            I soon had a thorough understanding of the rules.              
            For a poem to go through there had to be a few lines  
            devoted to [         ]

                     -Yevtushenko, p. 68, A Precocious Autobiography

Call Me by the Post-Colonial Things We Carried Without Borders in the Boat in the Twilight Garden of our Being Unsilencing the Silent Voices Songs of Our Powerful People Aimlessly in Fire New and Selected Hopes To Change Your Life Forever Becoming the Healing                                                          ­                                                       You Always Wanted to Be in the Emptiness Within While Searching the Soul of the Underself in Quest of Anti-hierarchy For Elegies of the Lover
Who
Never
Was
But
Who
Might
Be on the Silences of Screaming Wings in a Rhapsody of a Plangent Tangent of Voided Meanings at the End of the             Rainbow World When a Golden Sickle Pierced the Sighings of                     the Moon in  Your Shivering Hand Leaves in the Exiled Gentleness of              Barbed Wire Pillows Comforting Your Cerulean Soul-Quest of Meaningful    Meaninglessness adrift in the Writhing  


Arms of your Powerful Weakness as a Twinkling Pancreas Vaults        Ambition Through Disconnected Quotes from Shakespeare Who was My           Soul-Twin Aflame with Passionless Passion for a Forbidden Vegetable Incarnadining     the Cosmic Cypress of Your Unattainable Body Through the Music of                 the Trapezoids as the Forbidden Kiss of Life

And, like, stuff
Lawrence Hall Jun 2022
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                     ­      My Bourgeois Leanings

          One day, at a meeting of the Komsomol…he was accused
          of bourgeois leanings just because he happened to wear a tie.

                          -Yevtushenko, A Precocious Autobiography,
                                    recounting an anecdote by his father

I am the only man who wears a tie
With proper coat and trousers (inspection pass)
Properly kitted like a proper guy
To weddings, funerals, dinners, and Sunday Mass

I am the only man who does not wear
Sneakers or baseball caps, gas-station shades
Knee pants, tee shirts, jeans with a built-in tear
Or plastic jackets shaped like hand grenades

If we are facing civilization’s end -
One’s trousers touch one’s oxfords with a quarter-inch bend
Lawrence Hall Nov 2020
A Loss of Vision

                      As we grow older we grow honester,
                      that's something.

                             -Yevtushenko, “Zima Junction”

I drove a friend to his ophthalmologist
When I walked him into the office
He could perceive only light and shadow
After we left, some four hours later

He could read the fine print on his McDonald's coffee cup

Miracle. Laser surgery. Miracle.

The McDonald's was our third place to try
For coffee; the first two chains were empty and wrecked
Lake Charles is still a mess after hurricane-curses
This summer, with wreckage everywhere, street signs gone

Houses blasted and empty, shops blasted and empty
Work crews along some streets, silence along others

Dear Leader never bothered to notice
The new Dear Leader won't bother to notice
They send our children overseas to bomb people
And build them new infrastructure and then

Bomb everything again

We are trying to be good Americans
Our golf-course presidents and
Keyboard-kommando generalissimos
And feeble Merovingian Congress

Fist-bump each other

Only my friend has his vision again
A poem is itself.
Lawrence Hall Jan 2024
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                       The Elections of 2024

                     How sharply our children will be ashamed…
                     remembering how in so strange a time
                     common integrity could look like courage

                                     -Yevtushenko, “Talk”

                    1. Thesis (of a sort)

The nation shamble-shuffles erratically
Erratically to a lectern and microphone
A microphone on a Potemkin stage
While a bewildered audience feebly applauds

                    2. Antithesis (of a sort)

The nation lemming-marches along the streets
Lemming-marches along with bullhorns and flags
Bullhorns bellowing in 5.56
The Gospel according to Saint QAnon

                    3. Recusancy instead of synthesis

But I am an American, not a D, an R, a Q
My faith is in the Constitution, and maybe
                                                       In you
Lawrence Hall Apr 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

              Awarded the Chair of Poetry at a Leafy Rural Tree

Among its ancient gifts are acorns and leaves
But the most generous stipend is peace
Oh, sure, we have our academic rivalries –
Just last night a raccoon occupied the chair

And the cardinals and jays squawk a bit
Mostly about seeds, seldom about verse
For arguing with Keats and Yevtushenko
Is my great pleasure and duty, not theirs

Who knew –

That an old steel chair dragged onto the lawn
Could be a center of civilization?
A poem is itself, especially if critiqued by a mockingbird.
Lawrence Hall Sep 2022
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                              Comrade­s Who Checklist Poets

                      A Poet’s Autobiography is his Poetry

                                       -Yevtushenko

A poem is itself

So I’m not going to play any victim cards
I’m not even seated in their game
Ticking self-pity boxes is their game
Not mine

A poem is itself

I am not anyone’s propagandist
All are free to read a poem or not
Like it or not for its artistry and craft
(Or lack thereof)
But I won’t be a confessional professional

A poem is itself

A worthy editor is a pearl beyond price
But a literary commissar is nekul'turnyy

For a poem is itself
Lawrence Hall Feb 2024
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                           The Wind Drove the Pages Wild

                     Reading Yevtushenko on a Windy Day

The flapping, fluttering pages went wild in the wind
And poetry sometimes should go wild, blow wild
To shake those gently slumbering words awake
Provoking peaceful musings into a storm

Nouns chasing verbs into logical conclusions
That turn about and bite the reader in the (hand)
And adjectives torment the symbolism
While adverbs, as always, were mostly in the way

I just wanted a quiet hour with coffee and verse
But flapping, fluttering pages went wild in the wind
Lawrence Hall Nov 2024
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                               Who Shares Your Desk?

Hundreds of friends share my desk with me
Leaving coffee and wine and tobacco stains
All over the place, their thoughts cluttering my mind
Dreams and possibilities for my heart

Yevtushenko and his Silver Age poets
More Russian poets
Shakespeare in a worn college omnibus
Larry McMurtry
(One must understood that in Texas Lonesome Dove is a holy text)
The Oxford Book of Twentieth Century English Verse
The Oxford Book of Narrative Verse
The Oxford Book of Christian Verse
The Oxford Book of Seventeenth Century Verse
Leonard Cohen and his famous blue raincoat
Cavafy at an oblique angle to the universe
Wordsworth and Dorothy out for a walk
Plath
Keats
Sondheim
Montale
Hopkins
The Oxford Book of English Verse, the 1939 Q Edition
(Not that Q!)
The Oxford Book of English Verse, the 1999 Ricks Edition
Pasternak
Lewis
Frankl
The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse
Kafka
Herrick
Milosz
Virgil
Tennyson
Wavell and his manly flowers
Claude McKay
300 Tang poets (they do seem to drink a lot)
Mary Oliver and all her doggies

So there they are, in untidy rows and piles
(The Tang poets simply will not behave)
They are patient with my slovenliness
Pens, screwdrivers, a Rosary, two light bulbs
(I don’t know why)
A thermometer from my grandparents’ house

A 1962 Missale Romano and a toy fire truck
An Orthodox ikon from Tod of happy memory
A Tupperware coffee cup they don’t make anymore
Spare spectacles for seeing what comes next

Hundred of friends who ask the best of me
And who don’t mind my rows and piles of words
They talk to me, and I ask their advice
I pray I am not a disappointment to them

Or to you
Lawrence Hall Oct 2020
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
https://poeticdrivel.blogspot.com/

                          The Cruise of HMS Disreputable

                                                                        For myself,
                    I knew as soon as I could read and write
                   That I must be a poet.

                                        -Sir John Betjeman

I left Mesquite and broken promises
In the after-market rear-view mirror
Bolted to the wing of my third-hand MG
And rattled along that magic road to the west

Sleeping bag, Olivetti portable
Dostoyevsky, Yevtushenko, some clothes
An honorable discharge from a dishonorable war
A few undistinguished undergraduate credits

And now…

I have left behind my Nobel acceptance speech
Because the journey will have to be enough
Lawrence Hall Dec 2020
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


                            Reading is a Suspicious Activity:
                                Blue-Penciled in Solovetsky

   “…Soviet writers failed to write about their personal thoughts.”

                                               -Yevtushenko

Reading is a suspicious activity
Unless it’s a technical book of instructions
Or a hunting magazine with centerfolds
Of seductive semi-automatics

Writing is a forbidden activity
Unless it’s a grocery shopping list
Or the code to a new computer game
Of zombie valkyries with ******* tats

They’ve only gotten as far as statues thrown down
They’ll destroy the libraries next – and maybe you
A poem is itself.
Lawrence Hall Apr 2024
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                 Hey! Hey! **! **! Mindless Chants Have Got to Go!

One seeks in vain for a “Hey! Hey! **! **!”
In the Bible, the Torah, the Bhagavad Gita
In Tolkien, Lewis, Frankl, or Yevtushenko
In any declaration of the rights of man

The Greek philosophers never barked “Hey! Hey! **! **!”
Phillis Wheatley would have rebuked that vulgarity
Lincoln yapped no such drivel at Gettysburg
Elizabeth Bishop argued with wit and grace

“Hey! Hey! **! **!” is boorish and ineffectual
And would never be spoken by a true intellectual
Lawrence Hall Jan 2024
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                              Nones as a Religious Category


                               …afterwards our pupils
                               will not forgive in us what we forgave

                                             -Yevtushenko, “Lies”


If children ask for bread will we give them

Musical stylings of abysmal mediocrity
Packaged in the poster-art palettes of the sixties
When the altars and the hymnals were stripped
Of everything beautiful, true, and good

When

Latin missals were reduced to baby-talk
Felt banners appeared like refrigerator art
The Body of the Lord was shoveled aside
In a malformed tabernacle of hammered scrap

And maybe that’s why the young people leave -
We’ve given them little in which to believe
The Yoke of “Freedom”

"We'll cast off the shackles of freedom and the yoke of democracy."
— Vladimir Polyakov


The yoke of “freedom” — dreams turned fiction,
A trap of hope, a blinding mist,
From BEASTS we learned our shallow diction —
And sank below the blackest abyss.

No, that fake yoke will not be lifted —
“Improve the world”? The cost was steep:
Fascistic filth now rules, uplifted,
And drags us down to herded sheep.

The “minds” of dulled and drooling masses —
This world’s long turned a freak parade.
Each day, more twisted horror passes —
It's time to pierce the deeper shade.

That second floor of lies from BEASTS —
A doctrine soaked in veiled Hell-fire.
The mob sees not the Satan’s feast
Behind the Mask they all admire.

We’ll pierce it through — and fall, forsaken,
To deepest Hell — as well we should.
For now, the global camp is taken
By savage Evil, building good.



---------------------




A yoke called “freedom” crushed the mind —
And dragged the world to sheep and slime.



---------------------



The Boredom of Pseudo-Life

Life is dull — it’s no illusion:
This world’s a fake, a grim delusion.
The Realms of Spirit hold the key —
Hints, not orders, set you free.

Commands and “wise” advice are chains,
Spawned by darkness, soaked in stains.
Heed them — rot will soon begin,
And **** your soul from deep within.

A mind without the Spirit? — Hell.
That’s why the world’s a fascist shell.
God’s spark was sold by fools and knaves
For wallets, gadgets, gold — as slaves.

"Just fine!" — the brute declares with pride,
As dumbness spreads, and truth has died.
"Normal" now is mental rot —
Thanks to Satan’s stealthy plot.

Among such fools, joy’s out of reach.
Their numbers grow — they yell, they screech,
And fuel the fascist brute parade
With every shove and block and blade.

They’re gray as mold, a mindless swarm —
Shoving elbows, buying form,
Crowding aisles, consuming lies,
Blindly marching toward new cries

Of Hell ahead — it’s almost here.
This grayness — worse than sulfur fear.
Don’t walk that path with empty eyes —
Just trust your soul, where wisdom lies.



---------------------




“Normal” now is dumb and dead —
The soul is starved, the mind is led.



---------------------



The Commissariat of Sold-Out Verse
(after Bulat Okudzhava's “Commissars in Dusty Helmets”)

"Commissars in dusty helmets" —
Okudzhava missed the mark.
Truth gets twisted into velvet
When you skip the slaughter's dark.

Commissars had shot his kin —
All of them. A ******* crime.
Yet he sang of jails within,
As if rot deserved a rhyme.

To that vile, demented system
Swarmed the ****-ups, proud and loud.
Only slaves would dare assist 'em,
Printing filth to please the crowd.

Went to layout like to slaughter,
Selling soul for lines of shame.
While the honest ones — no quarter —
Tore their shirts but spoke no name.

Commissars in dusty cover
Broke the country, crushed the land.
Those who dared to cry or stutter
Died like rebels — hand in hand.

Now the filth is even fouler —
Worse than them — so rise and fight!
Let your verses mark the howlers,
Sting the traitors out of sight.

Let the verse erupt and sear —
For when fascism masks as “love,”
Poets bleed instead of cheer,
Smearing ink with sacred stuff.

This’s the only path to take
If the End of Times has come:
Stop the sugar, stop the fake —
Write against the marching ****!



---------------------




When verse obeys — the soul is dead.
Real poems fight the lies instead.



---------------------



Answers Without a Question

Immaculate conception?
Just like budding in a jar.
Faith in nonsense breeds deception —
Flood them deep and rule by far.

Drown them in a sweet illusion,
“Sanctify” it with a lie.
Then destroy — through mass confusion —
Mind and Spirit, Truth and Pride.

Use a priestly horde to spread it,
Bolder lies and thicker fog.
Truth will softly call — but let it
Reach the Soul like distant log.

Truth speaks gently, never shouting.
You must seek it, heart in hand.
But the herds are kept from doubting
By a roar they understand:

Wild-eyed sermons, empty phrases,
Words that mimic human speech.
Truth escapes those stable mazes —
Only hearts and minds can reach.

Thinking sharp, not blind believing,
No examples, no "because" —
This alone resists deceiving.
This is how you fight the claws.

All’s within — so why a preacher?
Only business needs a “guide.”
Every pulpit-seller teacher
Is a crook in holy hide.

Intuition, inner sensing,
Critical, creative thought —
These are answers worth commencing.
Ask the question you have brought.



---------------------




Truth is quiet. Lies parade.
Ask your question — unafraid.



---------------------



Outer Goals — The Root of Fools and Control

The light’s within — the fog is outer.
The deeper fog, the darker night.
The world, my friend, is full of doubters —
Find their truths — and lose the Light.

A goal “out there” is mass production
Of mindless fools and marching meat.
They just tweak the goal’s construction —
Same old chains, but now “elite.”

True goal’s within, not in the rubble
Of worldly junk and rotting lies.
Creation’s spark, not learned-through-trouble,
Is where real, knowing power lies.

A goal in “future” is deception,
Crowd control in sleek disguise.
Didn’t reach it? New direction! —
Feed the sick with fresher lies.



---------------------




Outer goals — control the head.
Truth is here, not in what’s said.



---------------------



The Goal Within

The Light is quiet, glowing inward.
Outside — a fog that thickens fast.
The mind gets lost in shifting forward,
And Truth is veiled as shadows pass.

The world feeds lies in gilded wrapping —
A friend, beware the outer chase.
Each "noble aim" is just entrapment —
It steals the Light, it dims your grace.

To chase what’s “next” is mass illusion,
A tool to herd, a game of chains.
They shift the goal — it breeds confusion,
And binds the soul in silent pains.

But in the core, beneath the clutter,
Where matter bends to Spirit’s gaze,
The pulse of Knowing starts to flutter —
No future there, no worldly praise.

No preacher there, no map, no measure,
Just presence — clear, alive, and still.
Not reaching out, but holding treasure
The outer world can’t touch or ****.



---------------------




The Light is here — don’t chase the mist.
The goal’s within... and it just is.



---------------------



No Goal, No Fog

No goal to seek.
No path to win.
The fog is loud —
But Light is in.

Don’t chase the form,
Don’t trust the flame.
What shifts and moves
Will shift to shame.

Be still. Unfold.
No future here.
The Now is vast.
The Heart is clear.



---------------------



Ash of Purpose

No goal. Just ash.
The dream is thin.
You chase the fog —
It pulls you in.

No path remains.
No hand, no guide.
The Light you were —
You left outside.

The future speaks —
It always lies.
It feeds the weak
And blinds the wise.

So sit in dark.
Let all things fall.
The One that stays
Is none at all.



---------------------



Zero

Not light.
Not dark.
Not fire.
Not spark.

No self.
No name.
No breath.
No flame.

No goal.
No fear.
No sound.
No here.

No past.
No start.
Just Void —
and Heart.


---

After Zero

No word —
but pulse.
No flame —
but glow.

No edge —
just space.
No “where” —
but flow.

No “I” —
just this:
a breathless
yes.

It moves
but still.
It knows —
but will?

No need.
No plan.
Just Light
began.



---------------------



Creating Dead Souls with Fear and Lies

With fear of death, they breed the dead—
Believe propaganda’s lies,
And you’ll become a numb misled,
A fool beneath god’s disguise.

They spin their scary tales around,
You swallow all the foolish fear,
Become a coward, dumb and bound,
A puppet trapped in darkened gear.

Once caught inside this deadlocked spin,
Only fear remains to reign,
The mind shrinks small, worn thin within,
The soul dissolves in choking pain.

With broken spirit, all is lost—
The world is canned, rights sold and sealed.
This “citizen” pays the cost
In fake lands where truths are peeled.

CowID showed the Great ***’s face—
He rules through filth and vile ****.
Spreading chaos, lawless space,
Where evil grows and rules become.

The world beneath satan’s throne—
No hope, no future left to see.
When fools infect the masses’ bone,
Humanity fades utterly.

Fear plus folly, now no man—
Just nonsense crowds, dead souls’ domain.



---------------------




Fear breeds dead; lies keep them chained—
No soul remains, just fools retained.



---------------------



True Art

Invite the pain, the fear,
Transform them, forge them strong —
For freedom’s sake, not for the drear
Of fools who play along.

Will you find Light?
Unlikely, friend...
Will you break the blight?
Somewhere near the end.

They’ll write their songs, their lies,
Respond: “Give up the fight!”
But don’t you fall for their disguise,
Hold fast your will and might.

Though toiling “in the drawer,”
Though honor pays no toll,
Don’t trade your fire for shallow roar
Of crowds who clutch control.

So dare! Though vain the grind,
Though hardship chains your path,
For liars rule the blinded mind —
Condemning honest wrath.

The truthful now are rare and few,
Dull pride has taken throne.
In fake art’s stench, the rotten brew
Drowns reason, chills the bone.

Like public pleasuring,
The putrid feelings reign.
Fascism stalks, the decent mute —
Or scribble all in vain.

With zero reach, you slave like ox,
In dark, forsaken pits.
Yet still your soul will break the locks —
True words ignite the blitz.

Among the kneeling, fallen ranks,
The Creators’ spirits rise —
Their genuine, earth-shattering thanks
Shatter the falsehood’s lies.



---------------------




True art bleeds pain, not empty cheers —
It fights alone, but conquers fears.



---------------------



Pseudoscience, Media, and Sold-Out “Culture”

The samples fixed —
“Commissioned” reigns supreme.
Degrees achieved,
But monsters rule the scheme.

Orders flood from foulest lair,
Like plagues that spread in endless tide.
False diseases — viral scare —
They launched a test stone far and wide.

CowID fools command the game,
Masters of deceit and fear.
Pseudoscience, ashes — shame,
Decay grows far and near.

The same decay infects “culture” too,
Though literature seems less oppressed.
Yet devils push their flamed debut,
While honest work’s depressed.

No money — just a worthless shell,
In lying lands, a ghost unseen.
“Vatniks” praised in hellish hell,
The monsters’ “Pecheneg” machine.

“Strongholds,” “Rise up from your knees!” —
They march you straight to slaughter’s door.
Truth’s voices squeak midst howling seas,
Censorship strikes silence more.

No new age — just darkest blight,
The sellouts howl, the media’s flood.
Infernal world sinks out of sight,
A bottomless pit of blood.



---------------------




Lies spread fast — the fools obey,
The world decays in shadow’s sway.



---------------------



Pseudoscience, Media ******, and Bought-Out “Culture”

Samples rigged — the fix is in.
Paid-for lies run deep and wide.
Degrees? Just masks for filthy sin —
Monsters in the world now ride.

Orders flood from devil’s pit,
Plagues of fake disease unleashed.
False AIDS tests? They threw a fit,
CowID fools have lied and fleeced.

Fear and lies — their cruel dominion.
Pseudoscience rots to dust.
Decay spreads fast — no redemption,
Truth’s crushed bones lie in the rust.

Same decay invades “culture” —
Though lit looks less consumed by grime.
But devils hype their ***** vulture,
While honest work’s a crime.

No cash — just wrappers, worthless ****.
In lies’ swamp, you’re ghost and waste.
“Vatnik” trash rules every bit —
Monsters feast in savage haste.

“Stand up!” they scream — to slaughter’s field,
Where truth’s a squeak drowned by the wolf.
Censorship’s a steel-clad shield,
Silencing all honest proof.

No bright dawn — just blind damnation.
Sellouts howl through total lies.
This world’s a pit, an abomination —
Infernal hell beneath black skies.



---------------------




Lies feed fools — truth’s on the run,
The world’s a pit, no light, no sun.



---------------------



Pseudoscience “Experiments”

"To defend a theory,
One can conduct enough research."
— Arthur Bloch, Murphy’s Law

"The more knowledge,
The deeper the ignorance."
— Buddhist Saying


The “scientist” works tireless,
To prove his sacred creed:
He runs “experiments” ceaseless,
Rejects what breaks his feed.

Facts and tests that don’t align
Become “artifacts” at best.
Thousands warp the grand design —
A rotten, false contest.

Built to serve some dark agenda,
Foreign to true knowing’s light.
Cash and lies fuel the propaganda,
Just to cloak the wrong and blight.

The world’s trapped deep in madness —
“Science” wiped the soul away.
Logic cramps the mind’s gladness,
Without intuition’s sway.

Dry reason without feeling
Leads the self to slow decay.
“Just prove that nonsense, no big deal!” —
The fool believes the play.

Direct Vision — mind’s true core,
Healthy psyche’s shining base.
“Science” hunts that truth once more —
To sink it to disgrace.

We’re at the bottom, sinking fast,
Science’s tank runs dry below.
Its echoes keep us trapped, aghast,
Like sea cucumbers, minds won’t grow.

When you buy their lies in whole,
Killing your intuitive spark,
You open evil’s door to soul,
And plunge into the dark.

More “knowledge” means more ignorance —
Remember well this bitter song.
Pseudoscience leads the dance,
To the madhouse all along.

Two thirds of earth’s locked in the cage,
Believing “science” lies and games.
Is “science” just an axe and rage,
To hack the living soul in flames?

“Science” forged by soulless fiends,
For evil’s simple, cruel demand.
They need dull slaves with cracked-up minds,
With “knowledge” hammered, not to stand.



---------------------




More “science,” more the dark unknown —
Pseudoknowledge kills the soul alone.



---------------------



Worthy...

"Worthy above all —
To not let those who give out favors
Drive you to the stall,
Or shut your mouth with hay."
— Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 1976


Worthy — even if all’s a wreck,
Sometimes the only way is death.
If chances fail, then die unchecked —
For “living” means to lose your breath.

Only death can purge the flood
Of filth that floods your weary mind.
The Beast through ages breeds its mud —
A mockery of soul confined.

Suicide’s a coward’s game —
Die fighting if you’ve got the might.
You cannot crush the World’s own shame —
This chaos is the “law” of night.

But only by the fight alone
Can you your spirit hope to save.
We all dream crowns — but stand alone,
Not heralds, not the brave.

So “dance away from fire’s glow” —
That’s how the battle’s truly won.
Be but a bad forerunner’s show —
And fate of slaves you’ll overrun.

Slavery and dullness reign —
A poison foul, unfit for men.
Create, resist — let not the stain
Of wretchedness consume your ken.

**** every fear — it’s late to scare,
Armageddon’s world awaits.
It comes with wrath, a grim affair —
We stand within the End of Dates.

The Sun shines stronger, magma flows
Beneath Antarctic’s frozen crust.
The world — spawn of Marasmus — grows
Drowned in the Beast’s relentless lust.

Fight Evil worthily, with calm,
Meet your poor fate with steady heart.
Your choice: fake plagues, or war’s alarm —
Or Cataclysm’s fresh start.



---------------------




Worthy fight, though all decays —
Choose your end, and not the haze.



---------------------



Mocking Troops, or False Reasons to Not Fight Evil

Marines for sport —
The real foes lie within.
Those beasts hold court,
Their victories are grim.

Don’t fool yourself — you don’t feel
The filth you thrash inside.
You "justify" the seal,
Diving deep in lies’ tide.

They teach those “foundations”
Since cradle to the dumb.
The fools flock to stations —
To cops and troops they come.

Men join communes —
A new fight’s born this way.
But fools swarm like ruins —
Slaves stuck in decay.

It’s time to unite
With minds that still can see —
Or sink into the blight
Of rat holes endlessly.

Rat holes, not rabbit dens —
A stupid world confined.
All “ideas” chain the lens —
Slavery’s harsh bind.

The end is coming — cataclysms
Will wipe this fake world clean.
But for fascism’s schisms,
The sheep still play the scene.



---------------------




Troops for show, fools abound,
Rats will sink this sinking ground.



---------------------



The “Sailors” Have No Questions...

The **** have lost all questions;
The fools have killed the light —
Their Honor, Conscience, Soul,
Drowned in verbal spite.

A flood of words —
Dark forces scream and crow.
No questions left — just lies,
Commands that never show.

The world’s last song is sung,
Its end is set, not free.



---------------------



Pharisee’s Odyssey

Bend yourself much deeper still,
Lie more stupid, lie with spite,
Be the cruel to weak at will —
That’s the way to win the fight.

No need to roam or stray afar —
You’ll fit right in where villains dwell,
If you become a selling scar,
Forgetting honor, truth, and hell.



---------------------



Questions Without Answers

Is there a lyre inside the latrine?
Is wisdom needed ‘midst the fools?
Is this a den, a humble scene,
Or just a chain that binds and rules?

Chains of lies, submission, fear,
Of treachery and twilight mind.
Is this the world — a scaffold near,
Or heaps of filth for us to find?



---------------------



View from Hell, or Another Armageddon

Pol *** waits not —
No place in Hell.
A wretched mob,
For beasts, their hell.

Building here
A New Inferno.
The fool cheers:
“All for peace, you know!”

Protective lies,
The creatures preach.
All calm and smooth —
In False Land’s reach.

One “Pol ***”
We always hear.
Fascism walks —
Lies sharp and clear.

The pitiful crowd
Listens quick.
Soon only wise
Will face the wick.

Obedient to Darkness,
They profit well,
While dust in noose
Keeps burning hell.

From Hell to Hell —
A world’s bleak road.
Corrupt fiends,
Abundant load.

Not Pol *** —
Much worse they be.
Darkness descends
Through them, you see.

The people burned
Like ****** sheets,
Calling evil
“Good” with deceit.

That Darkness half
Has crushed the spine
Of “peoples” — or
Are monsters in line?

Like wheels of grief,
No end in sight.
We wait again
For doom’s dark night.

Armageddon looms —
Hell’s paradise —
The final fall,
The coldest ice.



---------------------




Hell builds hell, the fools obey,
Another end, another day.



---------------------



From Hell’s Eye, Another Armageddon

Pol *** waits not — no room below,
In Hell where shadows coil and flow.
A pitiful herd, dark spirits’ dough,
The forge of beasts, their world of woe.

They build anew the fiery gate,
A New Abyss, a cursed fate.
The fool rejoices, deaf to hate:
“All for peace,” their poisoned bait.

Whispers veil the silent grave,
False calm in lies the darkness gave.
In False Land’s maze, the lost enslave,
One voice: “Pol ***,” the reaper’s stave.

Fascism breathes, a roaring flame,
Striking lies in endless game.
The herd obeys without a name,
Only wise shall face the blame.

Bound to Night’s eternal claim,
They profit while the embers maim.
Dust in noose, the burning frame,
From Hell to Hell — the cycle’s same.

Not Pol ***’s shadow, darker still,
Through cursed veins, the darkness spills.
The people scorched on broken hills,
Call evil good, the lie distills.

Half the dark has bowed the spine
Of “peoples” lost, or monsters’ line?
Wheels of sorrow, endless twine —
We wait the final, cold design.

Armageddon’s breath draws near,
Hell’s embrace, both dread and seer.
The end unfolds without a tear —
A sacred death, a timeless sphere.



---------------------




From depths of Hell, the shadows rise —
The final dawn in darkened skies.



---------------------



Into the New Hell...

Staged performances—
A fabricated little world.
Only lies make it so dense,
Its time draws near, unfurled.

The point of no return long passed—
Into the NEW HELL we go.
The **** were ready, standing fast,
Glad for crumbs in shadow’s glow.

Into the New Hell — debts unpaid—
It’s just beyond the rise.
Once thieves alone, now fascist made,
A hero in disguise.

A bureaucrat, a tyrant’s hand,
A wicked propaganda mouth,
A teacher rotting souls like sand,
A doctor sold to south.

The Earth’s Kunstkamera,
Save rare few escape the gloom—
All march inside this prison bar,
While paradise’s myths
Are for donkeys’ doom.



---------------------




New Hell waits — no debts to pay,
Fascists lead, thieves fade away.



---------------------



The Pit of the World

"And so this street,
Or rather, this pit
Is named for
That Mandelstam..."
— Osip Mandelstam, “Mandelstam Street,” 1935


Mandelstam! The PIT! Oh, Mother,
Don’t bear children into Hell:
To call things straight — three quarters
Of the world’s a den of hell.

Among the beasts, the Pure at Heart —
Like Osip’s shining Light —
Perish, nowhere to depart,
Beneath the brute’s harsh blight.

The brute will call white soot black,
And poets evil foes;
The beasts will rise in vicious pack —
To jail or madhouse goes.

They shot Gumilyov down,
Said: “Serves him right,” no shame.
Fools sunk low beneath the crown
Of TOTAL lying’s flame.

And Marina Tsvetaeva —
They crushed her to the noose.
If here the beast is led from man —
Stay silent, lie — abuse!

Mandelstam’s pit? Exactly:
A world that bows to Evil’s throne!
Be wise and stubborn, act exactly —
Create, defy that groan.

Mousetraps with rotten cheese —
The fools’ “good” they prize so much.
Be lone, if your mind’s at ease —
Among beasts, you’ll lose your touch.



---------------------




Mandelstam’s pit — a world in chains,
Create, resist — break Evil’s reins.



---------------------



In the Mousetrap

Nature’s more complex than “pure logic,”
Math’s cold rules don’t always fit.
Pedagogy drives the crooked spike
Into minds, to dull their wit.

The builder—cruel—commands the build
Of World’s dark Fortress of Evil.
The “scientist” speeds up the drill,
“Proving” what fools find feasible.

“Proof” misses spiritual flows—
To donkeys, the world’s quite plain.
The beasts, through media’s loud throes,
Preach the free cheese — a poisoned gain.

All mousetraps—fictitious lands—
A pen for fools, a herded crowd.
Another metaphor — sheep at hand,
Led to slaughter ’neath goat’s loud shroud.

The worst revealed by CowID —
A world a spawn of Evil’s might.
Ruled by beasts, and traitors feed
The goat’s commands to blind sheep’s plight.

The World’s Great Goat, Satan’s face,
Set false science’s wheels in motion.
In slaves’ minds, chains of disgrace—
Proofs fool’s faith, a blind devotion.

Idiocy’s no random fate —
Stupidity’s plague, worldwide spread.
Beasts control through slow decay,
A herd of cattle, numb and dead.

Their goal: to turn men into beasts,
Erase what’s human in the soul,
Make simple all — without a feast —
A digital collar, a control.

To the World’s Concentration Camp,
Sheep led on by programmed score.
AI rewards in cruel stamp—
A shame upon Earth’s core.

Construction plans face doom ahead,
A vile Cataclysm will sweep.
While Lies’ Ocean floods instead,
Foul fascism crawls and creeps.



---------------------




Trapped in lies, the herd obeys,
Digital chains seal all our days.



---------------------



Within the Mousetrap

Nature’s threads—far beyond cold logic’s grip,
Mathematics fails to bind the spirit’s flow.
Pedagogy drives nails that choke the mind’s bright ship,
A twisted forge where sterile shadows grow.

The builder vile commands the darkened spire,
Raising walls of the World’s Eternal Hell.
The “scholar” quickens lies’ relentless fire—
Proofs forged to bind the donkey’s spell.

Spirit’s currents pass the “proof” unseen,
To fools, the world’s a flat, dull stone.
Through media’s whisper, the beast’s machine
Sings of free cheese—an abyss unknown.

Mousetraps lie in phantom lands afar—
Pens for sheep, a march to doom.
Goats shout loud, the final war—
The flock moves blind toward their tomb.

CowID’s veil reveals the cursed ground,
A spawn of darkness, ruled by fiends.
Beasts command, and traitors bound,
The goat’s dark will in silent means.

The Great Goat, Satan’s hidden face,
Set false science’s sacred rites.
Chains of ignorance enslave the race,
In shadows cast from endless nights.

Stupidity’s a sacred blight,
Spread like plague through mortal clay.
Decay’s throne rules out of sight—
Beasts herd men who lose their way.

The last design: to break the soul,
Erase the light, impose the bind.
A digital collar takes its toll,
The cage for heart and mind confined.

To the World’s cold camp they lead,
Sheep numbered, marked, and scored.
AI feeds the hunger’s greed—
The Earth’s lament ignored.

But soon the Cataclysm’s breath
Will sweep the cursed plans away.
Till then, the Ocean’s flood of death
Drowns hope beneath the grey.



---------------------




Shadows weave a silent snare,
Souls confined in dark despair.



---------------------



Moments of Decay

"I remember a wondrous moment:
Before me you appeared,
Like a fleeting vision,
Like a genius of pure beauty."
— A. Pushkin, “To *,” 1825


No need to seek those wondrous times,
Or guard them like a holy spell.
The ascetic walks rough paths and climbs —
Decay’s around, a stench of hell.

You’ll always fail, when passions reign,
Forgetting reason, “being’s” core.
Live through the PAIN, endure the strain —
Don’t rot and crawl in putrid gore.

Decay is everywhere, each breath
Is tinged with rot’s unholy scent.
Only Creation cheats slow death,
If madness' prison’s not consent.

The madhouse world — CowID
Revealed the dull fascist scream.
Three quarters in this rotten sea
Are **** that sell the broken dream.

Love’s a fetish, often doll —
No human there, just empty shell.
In greed and lust the spirits fall,
Dark holes in “consciousness” dwell.

Remember that wondrous flash,
When inward you retreat alone;
Where rot and nonsense fail to lash,
If still the Spirit burns like stone.

Legions of soulless beasts abound,
Stupidity—a plague that spreads.
Megatons of lies surround—
Shield not your head; disease embeds.

You’ll fall ill, like many do—
Idiots now the majority.
Warrior propagandists brew
Demons led by Goat’s decree.

The beasts grow wild, their madness deep—
A sign the End is drawing near.
Yet total lies still make fools leap—
Blind led by one who’s lame and queer.

That “distant” path ends in a cliff—
Where all the rot will be laid bare.
But all is “fine” in false belief—
Moments of “joy,” illusions rare...



---------------------




Decay’s all around, rot in the air,
Spirit burns — if you still dare.



---------------------



Endless, Boundless Despair

"O spring without end, without bound—
Endless, boundless dream!
I recognize you, life! I’m found!
And hail you with shield’s gleam!"
— Alexander Blok, 1907


O boundless, endless, aching woe,
Endless, boundless grief and pain:
In hopeless depths I fade and go,
So weary of the slave’s cruel chain.

Since youth, I’ve scorned the labels pinned—
“Freedom here”—I send them all to hell.
Only pain and weariness have sinned,
Passed down by beasts whose souls fell.

Poverty, a legacy of ache,
Passed on through every slavish frame.
No hope for Reason’s dawn to break—
This world is sick, and none to blame.

Madness handed down through years,
To new generations it is sworn.
With fear and pain, the seed appears—
The many lost, the fools are born.

O boundless, endless misery...
Only Cataclysm may disperse,
But not a path to paradise—
A New Hell comes for fascist curse.

A few may pass to realms apart,
Unchained, unbound, fierce in fight,
Free from Hell’s deceiving art,
Defiant in eternal light.

True freedom lies beyond the lies,
The fruit of struggle long endured.
But fools, too blind to recognize,
Reject all truth, forever lured.

Such freedom dwells in minds of few—
A doomed world clings to rot and spite.
Tortures go on, though time is few,
To strain the mind in endless night.

And boundless, endless sorrow guards
The rage of Darkness, deep and cold:
Now only pain can keep the shards—
In lies, the beasts control the bold.



---------------------




Endless grief, the spirit’s fight,
Few are free within the night.



---------------------



Marching in a Howl...

Idiots know—the Führer’s best.
Idiots trust—he’ll save the rest:
With just a glance, he’ll crush the foes,
Blow every storm with mighty blows.

Idiots march in rigid line,
To crush the enemy’s design.
Propaganda’s howl, like whip,
Drives them on—no chance to slip.



---------------------



Science Madness

The stubborn way they mock and scorn
Life’s riddles deep and vast —
Is but a sieve that filters scorn,
“Science” lies from first to last.

In name of saving reason’s flame,
They smother all the strange,
The irrational, the same
That makes fake science change.

Their logic’s warped beyond all bounds
Where miracles draw near,
Not trivial things, but sacred grounds
They crush with scoffing sneer.

There’re countless such examples told,
But this is not their tale:
In minds corrupt and spirit cold
Beliefs doomed to fail.

Only fools will trust the lies
Of orders pre-designed,
The bogus science’s disguise—
Rot that’s long declined.

Rot where spirit’s scorned and crushed,
Pure soul dismissed as fake;
Their leader, horned and foul and hushed,
Small souls he loves to break.

Master, corrupter, priest of lies,
Science’s dark facade,
Tempts with his deceiving guise—
Drags all to death’s façade.

The CowID’s wicked game
Dragged fools into the pen.
No doubt—the lies give power’s name
To warped and twisted men.

“Scientific” freaks and fiends,
And propaganda’s roar,
Will bring us down by evil means,
While spirit’s gone before.

They purge the soul, their only aim—
Science as executioner.
From every place, this wicked game
Was planned by sinister cur.

The mystery of life’s true light
They’ve turned to slime and fear.
And those who bear God’s spark so bright—
Are slugged and dragged down here.

All gray and bleak, the final cost—
Darkness’ ruthless attack.
Fake science launches every shot
To keep the world off track.

Those ******* sell their poisoned lies,
Our enemies in kind.
But reckoning shall surely rise,
When soul leads mind.

Mad science madness fades away—
A sickness, stale and vile,
And reason’s light shall claim the day,
Free from that dreadful trial.



---------------------



Personality

“A question hangs: does true self exist,
Or just a mass of conditioned twists?”
— Jiddu Krishnamurti’s voice insists.


A nested doll, all cracked and worn,
Paint running off, truth torn,
Lies overflow, with poison born,
Darkness feeds this world forlorn.

Under pressure of deceit,
They **** the mind with fear’s deceit—
Since childhood trapped in dread’s defeat,
Crunch-crunch, the lies repeat.

They prize submission’s empty claim—
Consume the rot, remain the same.
Feed your fears, then bear the blame,
Become dull, a dim-lit flame.

They piece together you and me
Like matryoshkas endlessly—
Schizophrenia’s layered spree,
A tangled mass, a misery.

It spreads so fast—a chaotic stew,
Seeming solid, yet untrue.
Nothing whole inside for you,
Unless pure Spirit holds it through.

No lie or full and selfish gut
Can bind the shards, the shattered cut.
Today from filth they mold anew—
Fascism’s cups are filling through.

Drink deep, drown out your soul’s own cry,
They give it free—just sip and die.
Blood drunk down, the spirit’s sigh—
Killed gently under painted sky.

No need to ****, just keep the peace—
Silence builds the foul increase.
Become a worm, the rot’s release,
While propaganda’s howls never cease.

Lies fall heavy, never slight,
In these last days, a fading light.
Fascist Hell looms in the night,
Soon shattered, skies regain their height.

Cleansed by cataclysm’s harsh hand,
This shameful Hell, this cursed land,
Branded fascism, vile and grand—
Few escape its grasp or stand.

Strengthen Spirit, hold the flame—
Only thus you’ll break the chain.
Cataclysm’s no myth, no game—
It’s coming soon to cleanse the pain.



---------------------



Men and Rodents

Here tiny men gnaw at crumbs —
Each other’s scraps, their petty sums.
Minds so poor, a chaos thrums,
A maddened mess where madness drums.

**** reigns supreme, the traitor’s king,
While worthy souls have lost their wing.
Stupidity’s a rock that clings,
Unyielding, crushing all bright things.

From coal to diamond through the years,
Yet dullness breeds and feeds on fears.
In jungle dark, the talent clears —
But bends to **** and disappears.

If to the filth you bow your head,
Forget the Light you once had led,
You’ll rot in muck — the cursed bed,
Where all the world’s lost hope is fed.

Patience of freaks, their dull disgrace —
A monstrous, ever-growing plague.
So many madmen fill this place,
Darkness thrives and wins the race.

Total chaos, boundless fools,
War’s bloodless now, no ****** pools.
Fascism’s needle kills and rules,
While tiny men play petty duels.

These tiny men, the worthy hate,
Forget the books that idiots state.
Trash and lies—they pile the freight,
A cesspool filled with poisoned bait.

You are the Spirit, hold it tight—
In this madhouse, it’s your light.
Answers come from Spirit’s height,
While fools deserve disdain outright.

The End approaches, war with Mind,
From the abyss, salvation find.
Cataclysms cleanse the blind,
And end will come for those unkind.

The worthy saved if Spirit leads,
While creatures tremble, dread proceeds.
The foul stench from media feeds,
For it knows shame will drown their creeds.



---------------------



Men and Vermin

Small men gnaw on scraps like rats,
Minds are weak, a chaos spats.
**** rules — traitors, kings of slime,
The worthy crushed by rocks of time.

Coal to diamond, fate’s design,
But dullness thrives, devours the spine.
In jungles dark, the gifted fall —
Bow to filth, you lose it all.

Patience of monsters, sin profound,
Madness everywhere abounds.
Darkness wins — the fools comply,
War bloodless, fascists’ syringe nigh.

Tiny men, foes to the wise,
Burn the books, embrace the lies.
Trash and venom feed the lie,
Spirit’s flame alone can fly.

Fools deserve the harshest scorn,
End is near — new war is born.
From abyss the saved arise,
Cataclysm clears the skies.

Those who fight with spirit’s sword,
Escape the dark, embrace the Lord.
Beasts tremble, smell defeat,
Media’s lies meet their heat.



---------------------



Men and Vermin

Small men gnaw like rats on scraps,
Minds starved thin in chaos’ traps.
****’s the king, the traitor’s throne,
Worthies crushed beneath the stone.

Coal turns diamond through the pain,
Dullness guards the cursed chain.
In these jungles, sharp will fall —
Bow to filth, you lose it all.

Monsters’ patience, sin’s deep scar,
Madness rules both near and far.
Darkness wins, fools march in line,
War bloodless — fascist’s sign.

Tiny men, the wise they hate,
Burn the books, embrace their fate.
Trash and lies breed venom’s sting,
Spirit’s fire alone can sing.

Fools deserve contempt and scorn,
End approaches, war is born.
From the abyss the saved arise,
Cataclysm clears the skies.

Fight with Spirit’s flaming sword,
Escape the dark — obey no lord.
Beasts now tremble, taste defeat,
Media’s lies face their heat.



---------------------



Banana-nyama

The monkey’s full, the monkey’s drunk,
But bananas? Nope — just junk.
Total lies — a stinking stew,
Building cages, brick by glue.

Filth spreads out — yet devils build,
Claiming food, and “bonds” fulfilled.
This poem’s truth, the world’s disgrace —
Both absurd, a sick disgrace.



---------------------


At Full Speed…

The secret’s out, the Devil rules,
The world’s a pawn, the Devil’s fools.
Faster, quicker — all aboard!
Rush to hell, no time ignored.

This fragile world’s sent off to camp,
Where reason dies — the final stamp.
There lies flow like magic’s wine,
“Care” a scare, betrayal’s sign.

Falsehood reigns, the ruling shame,
Their rule defiles the soul’s own flame.
Soullessness — the only goal…
At full speed down the darkened shoal.

Then, as the last speck turns to dust,
The little ship will break and rust.
From dust will rise the fiery pit,
While Spirit fades — the fiend will sit.

— The End —