Rebirth of a Soul 

Life had been empty when my faith was lacking. 
Years of seeking something that was empty within. 
Faith came to me earlier this season of Jesus’s death.

Daily praying to be saved from a world which held nothing. 
Listening to the gospels there was no recognition of death. 
Yet, death had me in a vice on me daily without ceasing. 

My emptiness repeated each year and tears continued to flow. 
Kneeling at the altar alone and crying alone praying for a life.
Finding that empty place within me without salvation coming.

Meaning meant life was a vacuum of suffering and pain. 
Jesus hanging with nails in his hands had meaning for me. 
It was a day in which a quietness blanketed me the first time. 

Walking with a wooden cross on his shoulders alone. 
It had meaning to walk to his death to suffer with meaning
Sitting there in an empty church alone changed that day.

Instead, it was an understanding of what death meant,
There was no flashing of lights or angels singing. 
It was a recognition that my life meant something. 

My life was given to me by God’s love for me to live. 
Somehow it all meant something to me that he died. 
Not for my sins but rather to save me from emptiness. 
God had given me my life and my life had meaning. 

Translation from the French by Michael Steffen

In a Nutshell

What is this foam in the mouth of the West since the invasion of Ukraine by Russia? Nearly everywhere around the world we’re writing Russian culture off.

Who has the authority to issue this order unjust as it is reprehensible? No need to cite examples. Everybody knows what’s going on here. I’m ashamed of these gravediggers 
who confuse Chekhov with Kalashnikov. Like that’s going to help save the Ukrainian people bravely facing bombs, missiles and torture. Are we going to throw Dostoyevsky in jail without a fair trial and have him executed? Trash Pushkin and 
Pasternak? They are also dictators who aim to erase artists by assassinating their thoughts. This is not Democracy and Liberty. Culture is international, it doesn’t have borders.

I’m still listening to Rachmaninov, Shostakovich, some days over and over. I’m still reading Anna Akhmatova and Marina Tsvetaeva, often with tears in my eyes.

I say No to the Thought-Police! Long live Russian culture!

Denis Emorine (original) 


нет !

Quelle folie s’empare de l’Occident depuis l’invasion de l’Ukraine par la Russie ? Partout dans le monde ou presque , on excommunie la culture russe et ses représentants ! Qui a lancé un mot d’ordre aussi injuste que méprisable ? Je ne donnerai pas d’ exemples : tout le monde les connaît. J’ai honte pour ces fossoyeurs qui confondent Tchekhov et la kalachnikov ! Qu’ espèrent-ils ainsi ? Sauver le peuple ukrainien qui affronte les bombes et autres missiles , les massacres et les viols avec courage ?  Faut-il emprisonner Dostoïevski avant de le juger puis de l’ exécuter ? Jeter aux ordures Pouchkine ou Pasternak ? Ce sont les dictateurs qui s’en prennent aux artistes en assassinant la pensée !  Pas les pays libres et démocratiques ! La culture est internationale, elle n’a pas de frontières !
J’ écoute toujours Rachmaninov, Chostakovitch  parfois plusieurs fois par jour ; je lis toujours Anna Akhmatova ou Marina Tsvetaïeva souvent les larmes aux yeux…
Non à la dictature de la pensée quelle qu’elle soit ! Vive la culture russe !
Denis EMORINE 

Translation from the French by Natacha Rostova

НЕТ!

Что за сумасшествие охватило Запад , когда Россия ввела войска на территорию Украины? Везде или почти везде  в мире выкидывают  русскую культуру и ее представителей! 
Кто отдал такой как
несправедливый, так и презираемый приказ? 
Не хочу приводить  тому примеры, их  все знают и так.
Мне стыдно за этих могильщиков, которые не видят разницы между именами  Чехов и Калашников
На что они рассчитывают? Спасти украинский народ, который смело противостоит бомбежкам, ракетам, массовым убийствам, изнасилованиям?
Нужно ли посадить Достоевского в тюрьму до суда и следствия, а потом его казнить? Выбросить Пушкина и Пастернака на помойку?
Диктаторы, убивая мысль, ведут наступление на представителей культуры.
Не только свободные и демократические страны!
Культура интернациональна, у нее нет границ!
Я люблю слушать Рахманинова, Шостаковича, иногда слушаю их несколько раз в день, всегда читаю Анну Ахматову или Марину Цветаеву, часто со слезами на глазах…

Нет диктатуре мысли, в любой форме!



Да здравствует русская культура!

Денис Еморин

i try not to think
 
did you ever think
the rain would end
 
did you ever think
love had an expiration
date
 
did you ever think
your dreams wouldn't
come true
 
did you ever think
your demons were
better than mine
 
did you ever think
this love would mean
more to someone
else
 
did you ever think
death was a good
conversation starter
 
did you ever think
how fast flowers
die
 
did you ever think
i was going to love
you this much
 
did you ever think
you would as well
 
did you ever think
we were suicide
lovers meant to
find each other
on the same
fucking cliff
only to jump
before anyone
could say no
------------------------------------------------------------------
supposedly still winter
 
it is around 60 degrees
today, supposedly still
winter
 
these are the days that
tease us just enough to
get everyone fucking
sick
 
a little collusion between
mother nature and the
fucking medical industry
 
two days from now it will
snow and then we'll all be
running to the pharmacies
to get our pills
 
rinse and repeat
 
death is quickest opt out
i can think of
----------------------------------------------------------------
yellow and blue for freedom
 
watching the bombing
right before i try to go
to sleep probably isn't
the best way to sleep
peacefully
 
but it does paint the
dreams in these vivid
colors
 
red for blood
 
black for death
 
yellow and blue
for freedom
 
there's always
a madman worried
about his legacy
 
more than the citizens
of his country or the
country he's trying
to destroy
 
and i know everyone
is worried about
world-war three
 
i'm more worried
about what happens
if freedom loses
---------------------------------------------------------------
like her life depended on it
 
remember when she said
she would love you forever
 
that every day without you
would ache more and more
as she got older
 
remember how she would
kiss you like her life depended
on it
 
how the sex was more amazing
each and every time
 
how you used to laugh on the
front porch of the farm while
talking about marriage, children,
what a future could possibly
look like
 
and then remember this is the
shit you wanted a relationship
to look like
 
reality is a cruel bitch
-----------------------------------------------------------
if we are alive
 
i had a doctor
tell me once
that pain is
often the only
way we can
tell if we are
alive or not
 
and as the
pinched nerves
provide the
waves of pain
for me to ride,
 
i guess this is
what the fuck
she was talking
about
 
yet another
fucking thing
i won't miss
when i'm dead

Spiritual Advance 
    Purple Heart 
for Freedom's Stance admits
         choices I've drawn from 
                    the  Well of
                       Endless Light ,
  Where Being is Laid
      in the presence of 
             GOOD 
Knowing all is Well. 

The moon is a damp alloy curdling 
with a blue snarl. Chilling ministries 

speed hearts on October nights, 
your sleeping face hammered with moon.  

A simple walk is all of my duende’s 
deep song. I will trek the Liberty Taxes, 

abandoned storefronts and dark arcades,
easy noir mosques, sober gas stations.

Brittle fangs grow in vacant craters,  
a stinking smog seals an astronaut’s 

scream. Night’s natal gnosis rings  
in dormant dilation, woolly syllables 

ring in the cicadas’ splitting aural assault,  
a discordia’s assonantal, atomic ablation.   

An ill choir doubles: You can stay here
when things get warm. You will only hold God’s 

hand to chew it off. A knee bends in the desert,
coptic scripts of lunar foil nicked with rotting stars. 

And where are you? You of retail revolt, 
misshapen hubris, pragmatic puppetry. 

A simple waltz of eloped faces, Slenderman elisions
and discarded industrial beer cans
are all of my days and nights.  

I’m sick of hearing about your condition.  
In a forest’s blue rot, fireflies will eat 

on the body of your poor person,
You’ll struggle in the dark, and only be found             

               as something witchy.

John Thomas Allen likes the slow unfurling of meditative poetry which is almost too much poetry to be poetry–Wallace Stevens, James Wright, and the early surrealists. 

The Beauty of Poetry

The beauty of poetry
String words together,
Make them look better,
It shows you,
How our fair lady is.

She is a honeycomb
dripping honey that tastes
biter sweet.

She is a bird 
sitting over a still pond,
Singing a tone to the fishes
swimming below
of the approaching fishermen.

She is a medicine for the heart,
A wind with hands to calm
the beasts that bellow
inhumane and immodest acts.

She is a wine that eases pain,
Therefore he who knows her name,
sit and dine with her,
and he has his fills.

She is a cup of solace,
Eases one of his melancholy,
She is a paint brush
tossed in a bucket of paint
and create a picture on an 
empty canvas.

She is enigmatic in form,
She is the peace that comes
after a breakup with the Devil,
She is the ring of the bride and groom,
she puts hearts together.

She is a blanket of cloud
that covers the cold, wandering
souls,
She is a lamp house on an 
island of where do I go,
Her commitment is beyond understanding.

Driving on a rainy day

Sloppy hills with muddy waters running down its sides,
Frostbite chills that runs deeply into your marrows,
That's how life is like a bitter today and sweeter tomorrow.
But you have to get your art together,
Stop gallivanting about be keen on her.

Like a driver drenched from the soaking beat of rain,
We sometimes become soak with rain of adversity,
Life sometimes becomes like riding on a rainy day,
Calamity splashes on your face like rain drops on sloppy hill in a thunderstorm.

After a while of intense rainfall,
Comes a bright and beautiful sun sitting at the face of the horizon,
In our ways tress fall,
But we have the will power to make our ride better,
Or to make it worst.

Riding on a rainy day,
Is like taking a trip into an ocean of the worst has happened to,
But if you prevail against its perils,
You come out vigilant,

The journey of life is like a day out in the thunderstorm that seems never ending,
The clouds of despair clapping their hands with frustration,
The lighting of fear drumming with the band of doubt, 
Playing along for defeat.

You have got to see yourself as victor,
And see them as victims,
But don't defeat yourself.
Drive without fear,
Move on with no dread.

Welcome to Hard Times

Under the hard stares of armed guards, the work parties dragged corpses to the ovens or simply threw them into the mass burial pit. Passersby couldn’t see over the fence, but they could hear what sounded like the tinny music of kiddie rides. Until you asked why I was smiling, I hadn’t even realized I was. Mysteries always ultimately seep to the surface. I’ve tried to learn to live with this, to not overly analyze or philosophize, and just observe. Out walking before dark, I saw today, amid the lingering grays and browns of winter, dead-looking trees beside the road just beginning to bud, gnarled, knobby fingers of fierce invalids.

A Cautionary Tale

My wife and I were sitting at a wobbly little table in the window of the bakery/café. As we waited for our superhot coffees to cool, the town’s orphans and foster children were paraded past in chains. Some of the people clustered on the sidewalk behind police barriers wore white arm bands or had white ribbons pinned to their coats, but whether a symbol of support or a silent form of protest, I don’t know. We could hear ripples of gunfire coming from the direction of the warehouses, the local militia shooting into alleys and cellars where they suspected fugitives from the dragnet might be hiding. The soul of man prevails, I remember my wife quoting, but only when moral struggle is present. Any wonder I love her? The gunfire sounded more intense now. I lifted the paper coffee cup to my lips and took a careful sip. 

A Whole New Ball Game

A massive glacier heads for home. The catcher tears off his hockey-style face mask and shockingly the top half of his face with it. In the visitors’ dugout, the manager is busy applying Kabbalistic numerology in an attempt to uncover a hidden message in the uniform numbers of the players still on the bench. Slowly a dirigible emblazoned with a death’s skull logo comes floating over the stadium. The first base umpire points up and signals for timeout and then flees the field as fast as his sizable bulk permits, setting off a general rush toward the exits. Women are knocked down and children trampled, but vendors in the stands just go on howling, Beer here! The next day’s sports pages carry no references to Marx or Lenin or the withering away of the state.

The Personal Is Political

My words echo before I can say or even formulate them. It’s been that way since you went in for tests and didn’t come back out. Now the Russians and Ukrainians are centerstage singing a tortured love duet. I’ve taken an oath against modernity, the sheer vacuousness of it, real people who base their identities on fictional characters. Rumor is that the North Koreans have a missile that can hit the West Coast. I’m no ornithologist or any other kind of -ologist, but the gulls flutter in the wind like dirty scraps of paper. 

Before the Fall

I was three years old, maybe four, lying on my stomach on the itchy wool carpet and filling with ecstatic scribbles the blank pages of an old business ledger my father had brought home from work, the future, with its mistakes and setbacks, the hot smell of scorched metal, still unscripted, undefined, formless, and my heart still a soft red peach without a savage bite taken out of it.