Eduard Harents

Eduard Harents

Van Gogh was relieved of his ear,
because he didn’t need it:
he had already heard Genius.

Al-Ma’arri actually saw as much,
that no longer
eyes were so important.

Charents had no grave,
he is not dead yet.

I greet people with my left hand,
because with my right hand
I have already greeted God…

Dreams… Dreams are the wings of the soul,
that fly upper than the soul.

Biography is only a shade of the destiny:
it appears when the lights are burned.

Confessions are the best plays of forgiveness,
which lasted longer than the play.

And… the worries are the children of the homecomings
who are born… before the parent…

There are such women,
after losing hymen
are staying more than virgins…
Such women are
all candles…

This poem,
which calls me father,
which eyes are full of endless laughters,
it chimes so in my moments of sadness,
like my smile
is it’s lost toy…
It always wins in every play,
is telling about it’s beloved girls,
and before sleeping
he orders,
me to tell the tales of
my childhood…
And me like a foolish autumn
crumble before my miracle…
And taken the yells of my child in my palms
I am whispering:
- You self are the fairytale dotty.-
… And of the delight,
that I can’t remember
any faiytale in no way,
he is laughing at me
all the night-
till dawn…
the mirth jingle kept between eyelids-
enters to a nap tabernacle.
If my song is sleeping,- open it’s eyes…

Let’s get acquainted.
My surname is Love,
and my name - Kiss.
I’ve eyes green
and moon blue
and universe-vein –
with mornlight blood.
And so I’m born on the beginning of Eternal century –
on the Instant month
of the Joyous year –
on the night of Secret of the
Mythical day –
on the love of Needy and Return,
with the body of the mystery…
Well, I’ll tell you one thing more,
I love those,
whose name is Love,
And surname – Kiss…
Let’s get acquainted.

On that red day
yet the pagan grandmothers of my muse,
with a closed secret ballot,
had decided that
after nine months
under the songs of Bakunts’ pheasants
should be born the poet of their granddaughter.
And as they were godfearing,
therefore decided-
the last apple of Heaven’s trees,
which wasn’t given to any physician’s windfall-
to hide it under my mothers lap with care…

In August of 1981-
my father was distilling mulberry vodka…

Summers are crumbling flushing,
as Rodin’s “Danaide’s” membranes of brain…

Autumns are weary untidy from fate,
out from their hue -
as painter’s bra- splitted in barocco style…

Winters are self-refute pistils’
pallid prolongation
from green dreams of angels …

But still I’m the spring
of unrequited love…

Under the window of poetry
from each end till the beginning of the century
I lavish serenades drunk…
And till around me membranes chewing
prostitute times,
for captivating my heart,
are changing the hues of
their die for barren underclothing,-
my beloved color in the world
Is the poetry…

              among your red oaths
the colours of the angels
are reluctantly raining;
the rain is punctuating squalls
on my soul’s pavement,
which you’re
                              as a crock-crow…

Now I piecemeally strip eaves of silence
and patch my prayer,
that burst in from the shades of word…
Now the hue is more than the voice…
And already
I enter the chapel of Hope barefooted,
that the steps of my fortune do not draw voices.
How many footprints were snap from clatters…
But my footprint is my prayer for my love,
that never ends,
because that does not tint with a word…
And now
the main color is
that the Love is poetry of feeling…
That muses do not recognize a woman…

Today more than ever
I begin to have a need of God’s existence.
And if he exists,
in this case,
today more than ever
I begin to believe step by step to the legend,
that his son was as simple man as I am,
though he could keep the waves of the sea
under his feet…
Because it’s still many years-
I was not only walking,
I was running
on the ocean
of Pain and Love…

I’m the biography of God’s regrets:
he often slipped my destiny’s traces.
The water-nymphs’ pain
was changed into birds
and pecked the oranges in my destiny’s syllables…

Then in my palms
holding with solemn the repentance glance
God was looking for apples;
my anniversary was celebrated in such way
cause I’m the biography of God’s regrets.

Apples didn’t fall from my branchy edges:
he bequeathed them to the snake, Eva and Adam,
whose he expelled from the Paradise then.
He has also forgotten to take some seeds…

As the vertical finish of meteorite
the trajectory of Fruit was disappeared out of Paradise…

As the angels couldn’t not to forgive the God
so they decided to forget me,
cause I’m the biography of his regrets.


Down to the cracky vertebra of centuries,
affluent from flaring breasts of Charites,
from the eye of Ma’arri,
from the ear of Beethoven,
from the fear of Dante,
from the voice of Callas
from the Chanents’ crazy brain,-
a merry cocktail…
Jubran Khalil Jubran
An Arabic heart of rococo style,
every day,
after each ninth wave of crazy sun,
makes Lebanese moles
on the heart of giant New York.

You are a woman-city with pyramid breasts,
leaned to the backbone of the millenniums.

You are a woman with arched cupola,
like a Muslim afternoon;
you are a woman with niqab,
like voice of Ibna-l-Qulsum;
you dream on looking into broken mirror of millennium,
like last hieroglyph.

You are a city having charms,
like Arabic round nights.
And you smile as big as your Egyptian pyramids,
dark and marked.

You plant a Fairuz-flower
within every day after noon,
like a Hookah smoke,
in your thin throat
as number and order of Koran’s pages,
like a Lullaby song.

You do not have the right, to have a short skirt on,
and go out, or to walk at home.
And especially lie on the side-bones of the centuries,
looking at the heaven.

You do not have the right,
but, even, you do not care,
that the wind of centuries
gives the birth
under your short skirt,-
from your moles of side.

You are so calm,
quiet like mummies,
that is going to give a blood for DNA
in the evenings…

Even, you are not shamed for your legs
white and blue.
For your legs, that lose their strength cause of wine, forever
like a snake - girl in that papyrus.