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Two poems


Fire Nocturne

Fire as the eyes of a dark crow

that sits upon a wire

a stygian - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - thread

leading it into the night

Flame watching moths’ wings

burst forth to gold, to light

purer than that of fireflies

lost in the shadows of fire

Creep creep the eye

of mystic fire undecided in color

eating away at the crow, discarding

the undulate black waves & feathers

How you force a retreat

leaving me to sink into

the mire of nameless(ness &

banishment) vespertine veils

Fire for the eyes of a black crow

that flees from its wire—

disintegrating line like lit powder—

its light overtaken by morning

As sand returned by a tide

recovering buried bones conceiving

constellations hiding the

sacred embers of eyes the crumbling eyes

All Our Days Are Gone

I.

I have dreamed about you often

my old hometown.

The surly winters to the snow-covered

playground.

Those ideal fur hats that crowd

up and down the street.

Frozen vendors, that I have never

really seen.

For it is all in my imagination

and that is what I fear.

That I will forget and soon (then)

it will all disappear.

II.

The track runs

(slim)

through the weed-infected grass

Rough fences on either side

one of boards

one of sticks.

The trees

(have I mentioned)

bloomed today

Against the painted houses

beneath great greenery

(unblossomed)

almost, almost

ready for spring.

The peasant hut

(near decay)

brings forth old memories:

my childhood

days, of sun-languishing

and of farming

the fields

(those too)

colored, green-hued, taint memory’s

old eye and I…

(sigh).

III.

I no longer recognize you

off in the distance.

So far away, floating over the

waters, riding on the mists.

The old boat

(sunk has it?)

is nonexistent.

Imprisoned wheat

still uncut:

winter has come.

Crimson weeds poke

(bleed)

round yellowing stalks.

Hills cannot hide

those blue rounded domes

whose bells do cry

(and I)

in sad, half-forgotten tones.

The lake has frozen over;

the seals have not yet come…

but I see the pier’s half

(completely)

covered with ice.

Though the sun still shines,

there is no warmth in it.

And you are lost to me

(evermore).

 

Born in Krasnoyarsk, Russia, Konstantin Nicholas Rega studies British & American Literature and Creative Writing at The University of Kent in Canterbury, England. He has been published by The Claremont Review, Four Ties Lit Review, Minetta Review, The Write Launch, Pigeonholes, Every Writer, and has won the ZO Magazine Silver Prize for Poetry, and is currently a Review Assistant for Newfound and a contributor to the BLJ. www.neomodernkonstantin.weebly.com


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