Blesok no. 100, September, 2015

from So Yes poetry collection "Дека да"

Igor Isakovski


    I’m writing to you quickly, piled up:
    as it rains
    in this cold spring
    while the boughs are heavy
    under the sky cheeks. it’s pouring.
    I’m writing to you in a quiet room:
    only the noise of a sound check
    (playing for you in my head)
    rings. it’s somehow ruthless
    this music of dewy images and
    scents. (drops again, now the tiniest)
    my gentleness is a small hint:
    quieted tone in the whirlpool of the world.
    your noisy and strong wind
    slowly becomes silent before powerlessness.
    it’s raining outside, not inside me. a draught
    only breaks in my chest. striking
    its every angle, and I’m writing to you. while it pours,
    while the water rushes to all cracks.
    I’m writing to you as I am, trying to…
    I’m writing to you out of despair. the quietest.
    waiting for the sky water to get tired.
    I’m thirsty.

(when you wake up)

    I would ask you for two things only:
    listen to me when I speak
    don’t think about my past
    I’ve just thought:
    when you wake up
    how do you wake up
    do you think of me
    when you go to pee
    (your steps are soft on the floor,
    you turn me on while I’m still asleep)
    do you look at yourself in the mirror
    while you brush your teeth –
    I do, always, and I try
    to foresee my day –
    I always guess, even the worst ones
    (I’d trade all of those bad days in the week
    for just one of your smiles)
    I would ask you for two things only:
    tell me how much you like porn
    would you be jealous
    do you see your beauty
    in the mirror that is merciful
    for the age that has inscribed itself in you
    do you see your beauty
    pouring out of your eyes
    when you think of me


    I haven’t told you, yet I thought:
    I don’t like drunk people who don’t know
    how to keep their body straight.
    I don’t like drunk women and men
    who repeatedly and obsessively
    express their love.
    I feel sick with their need
    for pretence love.
    I haven’t told you, yet I think you know:
    I don’t like, not at all, people
    with dirty nails, people with
    trembling fingers (they always
    spill their drink on me,
    as if baptising me, crazy loons)
    I feel sick with their clumsiness
    their disrespect for themselves.
    I also haven’t told you this, I think:
    I don’t like women who think
    that after a good blowjob
    or after not calling
    one should fall on his
    knees, or unconscious.
    it feels, I haven’t told you
    because I shouldn’t have: you know.
    I haven’t told you what kind of women I like,
    and you know I like women:
    beauties with long legs,
    slim women with long hair,
    dolls with full lips,
    smartasses with succulent breasts…
    I haven’t told you, I think:
    I like women, but to me everything is singular: you.
    I’m telling you, yesterday, now, tomorrow:
    give me your face scarred with inn winds,
    give me your ankles swollen with sitting,
    give me your wondrous hips full with juices,
    give me your hair, give me your boobs, give me
    everything that you have: I whisper to you down on my knees.
    if you hear me, if you hear me a bit,
    your smile will make me happy. you know.
    I’ll shove between your legs, smiling.
    I’ve told you, I know that you know.


    your night letters are long gone –
    or, the yearning strengthens the grip
    of time… I don’t know, I like to read you
    with your words correct and smart, sometimes
    scribbled fast but important nevertheless,
    nevertheless… important… your words…
    our night intertwines are long gone –
    nocturnal cobweb has covered your
    window: I blow it away occasionally, occasionally
    I move it, as if brining the window to life…
    I set little fires, once in a while I look behind you,
    your traces through the space – long ago
    I only talked to myself in the nights, hoping
    that somehow, quietly, in the warm, you will hear me…
    so I start your day with a smile, a soft smile.


    I come to you. I rudely push in
    your every pore: I come to you on a spring
    of wine, on lavender clouds. I come
    to you with a fragrance of love and yearning.
    I approach slowly, I sniff you secretly,
    I break onto you loudly: a ray of sun
    passing through and thinned by all magnifying glasses
    and mirrors. I burn everything on my way,
    I think of nothing while I rush to you
    in a flood and fire, I haste like a natural
I whip like a mad wind
    which seeks your lips. and opens them. I enter
    through your eyes, I enter through your nostrils;
    full with smells and restlessness, full with peace and light.
    small specks of eternity. it’s inside us. you are.

(I love it that the night is a woman)

    I’ll sleep in my bed.
    while snowflakes howl outside
    and my hand quivers with indecisiveness.
    I’ll sleep in my bed. to spite
    all those premonitions: about my
    death, wars, disasters, everything
    that would go this or that way. I’ll sleep
    in my bed. through the high windows
    I’ll watch the snow piling up. I’ll
    tuck in my own warmth. I’ll be
    quiet and gentle, warm to the cold
    of the world. I’m worth more than that.
    I’ll sleep with a scent in my nostrils,
    full of love, full of peace. I’ll sleep
    in my bed, calm and warm.
    I won’t think of moving tonight:
    this is such a beautiful and strong night,
    that at times I wonder
    how on earth did I deserve it.


    we clean up the tree house
    and you come across
    my long lost courage
    “put it in the box with everything”
    I answer your querying eyes:
    “you protect me from the world anyway”
    we’re alone in the tree house,
    alone like a warm sunbeam.
    the world is perfectly far away from us.


    your scent: I keep it. deep
    inside me, even deeper in the house,
    until you come back.
    the tree started to freeze,
    the forest started to get wild…
    without your scent.
    I regularly air the house,
    to have you even when you’re gone.
    sometimes I shiver.

(while you’re asleep)

    I’m writing you letters
    from the depth of the night:
    the smell of bagels and octanes,
    the smell of memories and ice.
    I’m writing to you
    from the essence of the silence:
    I’m slowly sneaking in,
    I’m slowly gliding to the edge.
    (it’s OK, my dear, everything is OK.)
    I’m writing you letters
    form the core of the silent
    liver: drops of blood and remains
    of tears – a whirlpool embracing me.
    I’m writing to you as illiterate,
    I’m writing to you silently and crunchily,
    I’m writing to you dancing and yet bundled,
    I’m writing to you so I don’t jump.
    (it’s OK, my dream, sleep tight.)

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