A Book

first posted on March something 2024

I’m Kafka’s mole, going mad in labyrinth
Of my own making

Then, I might be Thumbelina,
Whom mole could see and maybe fall in love with, 
If he was less preoccupied with life as is,
And more, with what it can be.
Only I’d despise 
The very notion of being next to him,
I’d rather die. But taking care of swallows 
Comes handy, and I’m taken far away
To land of blooming gardens where the elves
Are just like me. 
And I will get my wings and will become beloved princess.

Or maybe I’m a woman,
Who prayed for little daughter all her life,
And couldn’t have one.
 I’ll get magic seed 
From local witch. The seed and the instructions.
I’ll water seed each day, the magic flower
Appears at last, and here, my girl’s inside!
Joy’s overwhelming. I will make her bed,
From nutshell, make a little lake, in plate,
So she can take her boat rides,
Do everything for her. But girl is lost,
One day.
 I never hear again from her, 
About her, I go white from worry
And grief. And that’s about it,
Not once I’m even mentioned more in story.

Or maybe I’m that witch 
That knows primeval and other times
Like her own palm, its mysteries and trees
And seeds they drop, and what is which,
And how to get each to release its secret.
The day will come, and villagers arrive,
Suspicious and bitter, full of envy 
And terror.
No one that I helped before
Is now among them. I will say my chants,
And maybe stand a chance,
Or maybe not.

And just like that, now maybe I am a tree,
That grows where once the bonfire was.
I wave my bony hands-and new seeds drop
Off me to ground, all their secrets hidden stay,
For no one now is left to understand them. 
And other people go past the clearing,
And say, “The day is beautiful”, and sigh,
And hurry to avoid strange sense of longing, 
And guilt, and... there is something else,
That can’t be put to words.
There are only smells
Of leaves and grasses, new and ancient, like me,
For I am both.

And now, I’m the Earth myself.
Come, funny little mole, and run amok,
I welcome everyone, I’m deep and vast,
Not bothered more by much.  Just something hot,
Inside me always threatens to explode.
But there’s still time. And I continue my eternal spin
Around a star.
I’m never coming near,
But never going far. 

**********

Welcome, dear new subscribers, and thank you for bearing with me, dear old-er subscribers.

This is one of the very few poems of mine I do happen to like, not because of anything objective, but because it was written by a part of me I do like as it stays consistent with me for as long as I remember myself, and one needs to have some part like that, when lost in not knowing who the hell he is.

This part is a reader, -and when I hate myself as a writer( even though I don’t define myself as a writer, so doesn’t make much sense either), I remember that I am still that.

And it brings me joy. And joy doesn’t grow on trees, just like them cherries in Kiev, which might or might not be one of my future stories.

***

Here I wanted to apologize, in advance, for my incoherency, inconsistency, and total lack of something;

then remembered that my friends don’t understand why do I always apologize, and told me to refrain from;

then realized that trying not to apologize rended me somewhat paralyzed, it’s like I can normally communicate with people only with “sorry” in the end of the sentence,

then I thought I had somehat similar experience, long time ago…with whom? then I recalled he had a paranoid type of schyzophrenia.

Теперь опять не знаю, право, извиняться каждый раз или нет.

Yours, with love and squalor

Chen alias April

PS As usual, I wanted to post something else/delete all/repost this but not now.

Then though I read the latest poem by

Paul Wittenberger

, which sealed my fate, albeit temporarily. Thank you, Paul💫

And thank you, everybody who reads, and everybody who writes 🤍

PPS I discovered a website that allows to mix music and create songs, so it might be I’ll torture you with that. I’ll give a fair warning if it ever comes to me being so cruel.