Fire Nocturne
Fire as the eyes of a dark crow
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