Зимородок - Яна Кане

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choices make you.

      Then you make choices.

      Always a spiral – upwards or downwards – it's your choice.

Anastasya Shepherd

      Having circumnavigated our world,

      I realize that it is not a sphere,

      But a spiral.

      I am back where I started from.

      The path ahead is as unknown

      As it was before the journey.

      But you, my friend,

      Who steadfastly stayed here

      At the origin,

      How did you find out?

      Or was it clear?

      Was it clear all along?

      Theological Questions

      Circling the pulsing center of their universe

      The fish are passing through sunlight and shadow.

      Their existence is framed, circumscribed, and protected

      By the carved marble rim of the fountain’s basin.

      Do they fear or worship the hand that feeds them,

      Removes their dead, repairs the stonework;

      The hand that brought their ancestors here

      From another world in a wooden bucket?

      Can they see that the hand moves more slowly now,

      That the bony fingers have grown stiff with age?

      Portrait of a room

      Now, as a human life in this room

      Is ebbing,

      The attitudes of the objects

      Become apparent.

      The rocking chair

      Stretches forth its arm-rests,

      Ready to embrace, to lull,

      To enthrall with the stories

      Of a long life-time.

      The mirror turns a blind eye

      To all that is happening here,

      Gazing intently

      Into its own distant dreams.

      The hospital bed knows

      That it is seen as ugly,

      Unwanted in every room that it enters.

      Yet it goes about its work

      Reliably and with care,

      Keeping the patient

      As comfortable as it is able.

      It does its best to be unobtrusive.

      The edge of the crystal vase

      Glitters hard in the corner.

      Being confined to a sick-room,

      Enduring the dusty monotony

      Of pathetic fake flowers —

      This is not what it’s made for!

      The curtains hold back the darkness,

      Soften the mid-day light.

      Catching the slightest motion of the air,

      They stir like wings,

      Like the white sails of a ship,

      Sensing the wind, the space

      Of a great invisible world.

      Orbit

      The Earth falls towards the Sun.

      There are no elephants, no turtles,

      No hand of Providence

      For the world to rest on.

      What keeps the planet in orbit

      Is its unwavering observance

      Of “the laws of nature”.

      But what is inside those words?

      Dead force?

      A command backed by fear?

      A solemn promise given long ago?

      Or a bitter-sweet journey

      On a freely chosen path?

      Creation stories

      To Orna Greenberg

      In the story

      Of the first creation

      The Divine power

      Lifts the supple clay,

      To mold His image,

      To imprint Her likeness.

      The Divine breath

      Enters the human shape,

      Calls it to life.

      The potter’s hands

      Explore a lump of clay,

      Stroke, press in

      The hollow of the vessel,

      Form the plump lip,

      Extend the graceful neck.

      The artist dips the brush

      Now into paint, now into water.

      An image blossoms:

      Ocher and sienna blend;

      The colors thicken —

      Shadows outline the round rim,

      The colors thin —

      Light curves down the glazed flank.

      You

      Lift the clay jar,

      Gaze at the painting,

      Read these lines,

      You

      Have the power

      To breathe into a creation

      Awareness, thought, meaning,

      Life.

      Creation

      It is possible to escape,

      To hide from the darkness:

      Squeeze your eyes shut,

      Press hard on the eyelids.

      Circles of phantom fire

      Will blaze in front of your staring pupils.

      Let us trade: I would barter

      My past, my memory,

      For a handful of stars,

      For the dimmest of constellations…

      But you drive a hard bargain

      By simply refusing to exist.

      In a blind rage

      I splinter my heart into kindling,

      Pour gasoline,

      Set the whole mess aflame,

      Watch as it burns to ashes.

      But it keeps on beating,

      It keeps on beating in the darkness.

      There is nothing to do but sit.

      Stare into the void.

      Read the blanks on the empty page,

      Over and over,

      Till they form a pattern,

      Till the repetition yields a meaning:

      “Let there be darkness, for there is.”

      There

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