Best Volga Poems
Silent Lies and Deception
In the silence of murky waters
There slithers oily snakes of the night
Wearing masks of deception
Beware of fools singing with Stalin’s tongue
The KGB shall set you free
Drowning you in the river Volga
The cold water keeping your lips tight
Whilst the silent ones spread their deceits
Lies, lies their dirty little lies
I wonder how their tongues wag and loudly sprout
So righteous, like imams with out a doubt
I call for radio silence
When comes the clique of hate
They say they have none, and
Maybe this is true
They run out at times, spreading it to you
Those who truly have good will and peace
Growing like flowers in a botanical heaven
Never spew the bloody insecticides here on earth
That alters the genes of peace in me and you
Beware of white sheep
That howls like the wolf at the full moon
A wise man knows the meaning of silence
Silent ones simply slither sneaky prose in the night
The Caspian Sea
Holds many ghosts who if not for death
Could tell you many silent tales
Of those with a million smiles and twisted masks
Seekers of the Silent Lies and Deception
Dead Sea and salty tombs
Silent in womb
Notes: The last poems Angel and Devil, about mans ability for both good and evil, I continued the theme here, by describing two repressive regimes, Russian under the likes of Stalin and Putin and the Palestinian one under Arafat. The poem is either incomplete or to be continued in a second poem, as in the end I inferred the Silent one Amina, a story about the repression and hardships of women in India. An excellent book by a great author Fiza Pathan.
( while taking a tour through those poems readers are requested to keep in their hands, a
feather from the pea-cock’s tail )
Volga - 1
there might have been some provocation
on the part of the rat’s bible
it is not known when and how
every piece of sleep that spatters
from the oesophagus of the dip-swimming
has stick to the c-sharp
of the newly-purchased tooth-brush
the air within the wish-bicycle
figures nothing less
how much is it necessary now
to murder the blue-hue with the study
that can be saved by the depression of the Ganges-basin
to develop the snap-shot of the garland-exchange with the
antiseptic cream
would you think it for some moments
my lord
the lord of the market
before sending any secret e-mail
to the cyclone
residing in the room
behind the stair-case
let the Volga be read once more
with all its clothes
and hair-styles
Volga - 2
the winter of the water-canon
oxidised by the fireflies
wants to touch every bamboo-flute
of this soil, it seems
as if it plays
in the body of every cauliflower
the total memorising-skill
of the blue and yellow pyramid
and if some lines of changes
in the planet be added
the birth-day of the bolster
that goes to the sea
may learn with a lesser effort
the pollen-efficiency of the nail-marked walls
how much should I scold the squirrels
who don’t want to swim
in the still-water of the black-board
Volga – 3
the green-circuit of the fried-almonds
that was submerged
in the open-hair of the afternoon
the whole-night workshop
has taught
the thumb-impression is to be put
how far below it
if the autobiographies are planted
into the drawer of nature
the solubility of the river-reed
gets it done too late at night
all the plus-signs around
from their etiquettes
come down
so many foot-notes
caused by the season-changes
so before planting life
to the address of the wall-lamps
it seems the cotton-flower
written by the oceans
began yawning
SCENERY TO PAINT
Every day we reviewed them in parade attitude
Along the Snake River in the Tetons’ solitude,
Or at attention on the banks of the Volga
In the infinite taiga -
In neat ranks along river terraces
Warm dark firs mixed with yellow acer,
All with the wind slowly leaning,
Their branches across the river-ice signalling
To great endless squadrons of their fellows :
In spring with their full flowers - yellows :
An army in a gold and topaz uniform
Ready and waiting for orders to fall in and conform ;
And in fall with their rich golden foliage
Always polished and ready for duty with courage.
In poor soil, in tough climate, these were heroes
Prepared for all their tomorrows.
Each morning we watched “Reveille” parade
In the dawn’s early light; and the evening shade
Gave “taps” for that heroic multitude -
The taiga’s topaz army, in golden solitude.
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Written by Sydney Peck
Entered in Tracie ~*~ Indigo Dreamweaver's Contest ...Paint the world...
Meeting Van Gogh…sonnet
the wheat-field, blond as a Volga German milk maid, heat
intense and in the shade of a demanding olive tree I saw
grumpy Van Gogh, glaring at me intruding on his painting.
“Sorry for the scooter it is electric blue and doesn’t fit in,
pretend it is a donkey free of its leather harness.”
The vines, deep green leaves and fertile soil, soon there
would be grapes, mostly dark cerulean, an army of wine
to come tempting souls into surrender… liquid pleasures;
and the narrow road snakes amongst fields like a black
mamba hunting grey rabbits in the meadow.
I have the afternoon sun in my eyes, a cooling breeze
on my back; and then I drive off the road fall amongst
thistle and thorns and the spell is broken, look around
but only Van Gogh witnessed my disgrace.
Russian Dreams
Ukraine screams
In the deep of night
The death squad’s March and gaily sing
The motherland is great
Jews are all dead
Russia is the new Reich
No matter what the putain has said
Estonia has fallen
Latvia knows it’s a recall of old Stalin
It started with Russians
Shooting black Russians in the Volga night
Whipping pussy riots into a frenzy
The free press all but surrendered
Or maybe butchered ya?
The orthodox clergy recalled to the crusades
The Kremlin will march
Like Napoleon before
Not heeding history
Or the battles lost in lore
Russians have been imprisoned
In the century before
This is why
You may live to see
………..a new world war of three
Vikings and Islam
Way back in the 7 hundred or something when
Islam leaders tried to establish a Caliphate in
Europe, they met Vikings who were plundering
their way down the river of Volga and often
employed the barbaric Norsemen to do a bit of
plundering on their behalf.
A few Vikings converted, when coming home
they spoke about the evil of fermented drink
and it took hold, even when Islam, the religion,
was forgotten the idea of sobriety lingered and
has had a deep influence in Nordic Societies
ever since. Well, the Moslems are back, not as
occupiers, but one wishes, on Saturday nights,
a bit of sober Islam would be remembered.
Volga – 4
to the homoeopathy phial
standing on the traffic-island
why it appears
within her womb
the number of germinated nights
stolen without a kiss
is too little
is then it true
if all the chanting of Harinam
can’t be withdrawn from the alcohol
the body-odour of the running tamarisk-shrub
will enter into the circuit-house
and that devouring of the parchment
brings to the feelings of the non-veg ant-hills
the let’s-go-cure
gathering in the sauce-island
Volga - 5
coming to this ironed canal-side
every auto-rickshaw
wants to know and let other know
the mystery
behind the rice-rain
from the cirrus
the shame in the eyes of the seal containing signs
supplies the whole-sale dealership
of the civil disobedience movement
to the locality
the role of the hammer also
wakes up early in the morning
to put under its own tongue
an antacid
is it possible that the spits
used in the observatory
be made a little more fast-moving
manuscript of the basement of a well
the biography of the pond-heron will be scripted
even-then the productivity of the merry-go-round
wouldn’t be uttered for a moment
no sir, such has never been expected
in the liquefied banana-blossoms
too many hot breads resulted from the season-change
continues to bat vehemently
and climbs to the peak of heart-throbbing runs
they in a group will go to the
aqua anetha of the mole hill
to organise a folk-song
to understand this
no arbitration of the cactus is required
notwithstanding
it is heard that the thread was pulled
by the violin of the wife of the moon-god
from behind the screen
here in the eye-front
is the basement of the morning-well
on its one page lies the faulty crow-caws
and on another some sun-shines
swinging on the hanger
after some pages in recurring …the chicken-pox … the boot-polish …
within the two covers of the dance-drama
also comes the creepers and herbs
grown around the melting point
of the arm-chair
whose legs are broken
if each pore on the skin of the river-lily
becomes so much known
then in the background of this low land
let us have one game more
Pallikarnai,one of
the prominent
waterbodies that
once provided life
breath to Chennai
(Tamilnadu, India)
is now a garbage
dumpyard. It now
serves as a moving
symbol of how the
civilized can
threaten the
environment.
I
Pallikarnai
Resounds
In the Alps.
Retches the
himalayas.
Foams
In the Ganges.
Forays the volga.
Muddles
In the Amazon
Mucks the Nile.
Incarnates
In myriad moulds
And disguises
Around the world.
Masking the demon
behind
Hoodwinks the
beholder
Letting none to
snare.
II
The subjacent hell
Pandemic heaps of
plastics
Annals of the soil
receded.
Putrifying greed
Kicked shut
The eyes of mother
earth.
Clinging the
remnants
Eager to sprout
Future laments.
Wailing of
Strangled stars
Unceased.
Abandoned birds
Scribbles the dirge
In the blazing sky.
III
Fire unfurled
Everywhere.
The stretching blaze
Scorched the city
Stoked humen bodies.
Their mind
Charred long ago.
Unable to bear
The acrid smell
Wind collapsed.
Streets whirls
around
Stuck in the
hounding wheels.
The world
Tosses upside down.
IV
Flies
Abducted the city.
Assaulted school
buses
As tanks
Demolished the sky
scrappers.
As missiles
Sped up to homes.
In hungry mouth
Dropped bombs.
Eyes were plucked
out,
Lips consumed.
Dismayed sky shrunk.
Stars severed down.
Corses
Drifted in drinking
water.
Wings are swords
Legs are spears.
Flies.
V
Before dying
Wriggling soil
Asked the children
Would you give
The leafy eyes
Only to see me?
Before the fall
Writhing earth
Entreated the
children
would you give
The ears of green
trees
Only to hear me?
To the world of the
matured
Went the little ones
Searching leafy eyes
and ears.
Will they return?
If return
Will the soil and
earth remain?
VASILY ZAYTSEV
As nature took me back into times,
To witness sadden and heroic events filled with cries, It was very soul engulfing that I couldn’t stand to witness,
But was compelled by purpose to attend.
Old time landed me safely at STARLINGARD
I beheld a sniper riffle upon a raised platform,
The shooter as I approached diminished,
And I couldn’t say something to him,
I followed my way from starlingard,
Up to YELENINSKOYE ORENBURG, There the story began.
Songs were heard in a family,
A son came into the cosmo,
With a saddened task facing him,
Unknown was it to him,
Destiny and fate moulded him in,
That was VASILY ZAYTSEV The hero of Starlingard.
Gradually he grew into a finetaker,
Tracked down a wolf with only a bullet as a kid he was satisfied, Without a view of his role in Starlingard,
Due to Hitler's territorial conquest.
Troops marching out in thousands,
Outnumbering the alluvial sands,
The hope of the world was towards Starlingard,
Since the soviet union subdued by Hitler.
Starlingard became a stronghold,
Because of the undying spirit of men in the patriotic war.
Assigned to the 1047th Riffle Regiment,
Vasily was the pride of the company which later was named 62nd army at Starlingard,
That was on 17th September 1942,
Vasily started shooting around the axis
Zealous as he was on the battlefield,
A sniper concealing his locations,
Covering a large area from three positions, Known as the "sixies" up till today.
Killing 11 scores plus armed men including 11 snipers. Making It 32 axis killings.
Undiluted spirit of enthusiasm,
Towards conquering enemies at the gates,
Manifested by his perfect shootings,
Calculating the bearings of directions of his sniper,
Diminishing enemies until he conquered,
To him there was no land beyond the ''VOLGA''
ANYABOLU IFEANYI GENTLE
ON THE TOUR BUS IN SAN MAR-ANDORRA-STEIN
“We are older than your George Washington;
We have the tallest fields of cotton
West of the Volga; and our castles are small
But all guaranteed to enthrall.......”
It appears this swing-a-cat country
With its pipsqueak army
Of skirt-swinging, fur-slippered,
Medieval-style soldiers carrying a halbard
Has a National Income less, if you please,
Than most big western companies.
Oil comes not in a pipelines, but a tube’ll do
(Costing many hundreds of roubles too.)
“McDonalds came here five years ago -
Their first restaurant east of the Po.
KFC will be coming next year -
It will be a national holiday here......”
I climb wearily back aboard
Our tour bus here abroad.
I don’t wish to seem quirky
But I’d rather be home in Albuquerque.
.....................................................................................
Note
Verses in quotes are the tour guide voice. Other verses are the tourist’s
thoughts.
Stars were winking on the sky
and it was a surreal night
spring was caressing the sweet air
the aura was in flair.
We walked a few furlongs side by side
said everything in silence as we did stride
then time came to say goodbye
again we said nothing but only smiled.
My heart was beating high, and bosom was uptight
I bet you felt that vibes right
Was it crush or love? hard to opine
but my feeling was peerless,
like a child playing with snowflakes in early sunshine.
I wish you all the best my friend
hoping this is not the end
and we would meet again, may be on the bank of the Volga
or in a forest where the wind blows away leaves from aspens.
Vostok 1
Within the time allotted
of eighty-nine minutes,
to orbit the planet Earth
at 17,500 miles per hour,
the Russian cosmonaut
inside the Vostok capsule
espies the distinctive
features of Earth,
from two hundred miles above
its surface.
And reflects upon
the physical violence
of energetic movement
that formed terra firma;
then watches the sun’s rays
penetrate the atmosphere
and thinks of the warmth
inside the magnetic shield.
He sees the beauty of the blues
deposited from frozen comets.
Out here, it’s so tranquil,
thinks Yuri Gagarin,
the first person in space.
“Cedar to Dawn,
I see Earth. The visibility is excellent, over!”
His message relays
to the Soviet command station.
Then, the Vostok retros fire over Africa
for gravity to force re-entry,
and readies himself for ejection
four miles above the Volga River
basin drainage system.
***
Notes:
On April 12, 1961, Yuri Gagarin (1934–1968), aboard Vostok 1, launched from Baikonur Cosmodrome, Kazakhstan, USSR, at 6:07 am local time. The total mission lasted 108 minutes. He was the first person in space and the first person to orbit the Earth.
In order to escape gravity, the capsule needs to hit 7.9 km/s or 17,500 miles per hour, which is orbital velocity (approximately 20 times the speed of sound).
Vostok: “Vostok” means “east” in Russian.
Cedar (Kedr-Russian pine): Gagarin’s call sign.
Dawn (Zarya): Launch facility call sign.
On May 5, 1961, Alan Shepard (1923–1998) was the first American astronaut launched into space, and John Glenn (1921–2016) became the first American astronaut to orbit the Earth on Feb. 20, 1962.
Vienna, soft music, young wine and
a handsome, young stranger.
A small, cozy Grinzing Café
with candlelight
and a table for two,
blue violets, white roses for me.
He asked the gypsy to play our song
and spoke softly,
"You're lovely. Let’s dance."
A soldier from a far away country
and a girl without a passport
to cross the border for home
were listening to violins crying the song of the Volga
" Alone once more, so alone."
The last streetcar passed
We walked hand in hand.
Lanterns cast their light upon
two strangers dreaming of peace
in the botanical garden by night
In a horse-drawn carriage he rode to the airport.
With blue violets, white roses, I waved good-bye
and at early dawn the plane disappeared,
into the limitless sky.
Time has mended the scars of a war.
A bond never broken, love for truth
and compassion for mankind remain.
In seasons to come, when life prevails over death,
blue violets, white roses,
will bloom in my garden again.
Night is hanging a kerchief with stars
above the sleeping Earth
above her sadnesses, passions,
above her restless head.
And only a lunar path
tells dreams to dark Volga.
A Romany fire burns
on the bank of this great Russian river.
Romany lass dances,
bracelets ring on wrists
skirts and curls of hair
fly up in dance.
She is the most beautiful lass in the world now!
That is why the wind is laughing
and night plays with tambourine
of moon and stars.
THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY
We often gazed at the island, she and I.
In the broad Volga, it
Looked like one island in summer,
But boats entered its leaves never coming back.
In fall the view cleared it into two islands,
Separate, but too close to be separable.
An undiscovered land seen
From afar at first, then up close and so wonderful
And seen again from afar,
Shows a new hill or bay,
Not obvious from close-in.
A lovely added dimension, she said.
Unknown Venus
In the frosty blue early spring sky
Shimmering and alone, except for us.
Every morning freshly welcome
Like a drink of cold water
Always new, untouched.
She is the undiscovered country.
A fresh world of life, where memories are created
Always new, moment to moment, living
With no plan, no history, unimagined new
Ideas spring from her reality.
My boat will never come back.