“Шторм надвигается!” – глухо шипят волны прилива, разбиваясь о скалы и разбрызгивая свои яростные объятия по стонущему берегу. Среди подступающей воды в неподвижном ожидании замер мрачный силуэт. Юная девушка с тёмными глазами, устремлёнными на край Земли, поёт, а её волосы цвета воронова крыла развеваются в мощных порывах ледяного океанического воздуха…
Continue reading “Бесконечность Судеб”I am profoundly delighted that my kind friend, Kevin Morris, whose imaginative poetry inspires me with its wittiness and creativity, has composed a guest post for my site. Please, do not hesitate to follow his excellent blog: K Morris – Poet
My sincere thanks to Veronica for her kindness in allowing me to write a guest post for The Waves of Poetry. I am an admirer of Veronica’s work, and I’m delighted to be hosted on her excellent blog.
In August 2019, I published my “Selected Poems,” https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07WW8WXPP/.
“The Selected Poems of K Morris” comprises a selection of poems composed by me between 2013-2019, most of which deal with serious matters of life, the passage of time and nature.
In contrast, my soon to be released collection, “Light and Shade: Serious (and Not so Serious) Poems” does, as the title suggests, contain both serious and humorous verses.
Continue reading ““Light and Shade: Serious (and Not so Serious) Poems” – a Guest Post by Kevin Morris”
― Ovid, Metamorphoses.
Myriads of evocative images permeate the debut novel of the most influential Irish modernist, conveying the entire spectrum of feelings ranging from religious fervour to the ardour of lust. A master of intertextuality, Joyce intermingles philosophical discussions (unfortunately, often one-sided, despite their doubtless intellectual splendour) with “scraps of poetry and madness” – playful allusions to ancient myths and historical events. Nevertheless, a vivid combination of excessive naturalism and vague surrealism may be exhausting for the reader, as the rigorous author does not attempt to ease the acute transitions from one state of consciousness into another. It is only for the literary adventurers themselves to decide whether this egocentric coming-of-age journey is worth the effervescent, yet turbulent ride.
Continue reading ““A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” by James Joyce (1916) ★★★★”
“The higher we soar, the smaller we appear to those who cannot fly.“
~ Friedrich Nietzsche, “Thus Spoke Zarathustra“
***
You were too lazy to get dressed,
Too lazy to rise from the armchair.
- Although Your next day could be blessed
With my pure gaiety and laughter.
You were embarrassed most of all
To walk at night amid the snowfall.
- Although Your hours could be bold
With my excitement - jolly, youthful.
My darling, You have meant no harm,
So irreversibly benign.
- You were all innocence and charm,
I was the youth that passed You by.
October 25, 1914
***
I’ve spent all day beside the window,
The snow was melting everywhere.
My mind was sober, bosom - tender,
Again I live without care.
I don’t know why. It must be languor,
The mere exhaustion of the soul,
I simply couldn’t bear to handle
My pencil - riotous and bold.
And so I stood - the foggy valance -
Concealed both evil and caress,
My finger gently broke the silence
By tapping on the fragile glass.
My spirit’s neither worse, nor better
Than any stranger - whom I’ve met, -
Than puddles of pearlescent glitter,
The mirrored sky above my head,
Than bird in flight, so free and dauntless,
Than racing dog with fluffy ears,
And even the impoverished songstress
No longer can bring me to tears.
The charming art of sweet oblivion
I’ve memorized from the start.
Today a feeling worth a million
Was slowly melting in my heart.
October 24, 1914
***
Under the plush plaid's tender softness
I lie, remembering last night.
Was it a dream? - Who broke the fortress? -
Who lost the fight?
Again comes bitter rumination,
And suffering hits me anew.
Words can't define this revelation -
Do I love you?
Who was the hunter? - Who - the victim?
The devil has reversed it all!
What purring, wise Siberian kitten
May now recall?
In that self-willed and fervent duel,
Who held the shield, and who - the sword?
Whose heartbeat - Yours or mine - was cruel,
And raced, and soared?
What - after all - was our story?
What do I long for and regret?
Still wondering: was this my glory?
Or my death-bed?
October 23, 1914
The Waves of Poetry 