It is an ordinary afternoon. A bunch of workers in neon vests and corona masks are hammering pieces of timber into the neighbour’s deck. Their tools make teeth-clenching noises.

Jan is neither depressed nor otherwise disturbed. He simply no longer wishes to live. He had lived a good life and is ready to leave while it is still good.

It was a surprise indeed and not once but twice -:)! Actually, the whole Medium experience was/is one big surprise.

It has been a few mornings now that I found her first,
a young female blackbird.

A long time ago a famous American writer, whose name eventually got me in a sort of pickle, proclaimed that: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Indeed.

I can still see it. A square with its stern-looking sculpture — the bronze horseman, clad in long-forgotten military regalia, his sword raised permanently at the distance.

While years have gone by, and I have since listened to readings of Anna’s poetry in my first language and in Russian, I still return to English to read her exquisite verses.

I once knew a man with moonlight in his eyes.
He sat on the bench on top of a hillock behind my house.
Where I grew up in rooms furnished like cabins on ocean liners.

They always say you should go for a walk.
By the sea. To breathe the air. Stretch the limbs.

They wanted the strongest reaction. Something real. Visceral. As real as death. What could be more real?

Eventually, it happens. Usually after a poetry reading in some obscure venue.

As always …
Thank you for a visit,
the goodies,
the chat,

Sitting by a window in the shelter of an
unnamed winter evening,
I solicit words.

Rain hung in the air the whole morning,
like lights dangling from the ceiling of
a dancing hall, as musicians packed their instruments,
and the last dancers started to leave. 

Don’t be afraid,
it will be quick,
like when a leaf falls under a branch, or
the dew rises at dawn, or
the eagle circles the night.