Оглавление
Ne'er Cast a Clout
My first six years
Passed in Belarus,
A land of bogs and lakes,
And songs, and legends,
In our village houses
Had no locks
And anyone could come
Just for a chat
And humbly stood aside
Refusing food or drink.
When offered to sit down
They sometimes said
'I've sat this week'.
They didn't mince words:
You've grown as thin as rail.
What's eating you?
They used to starve and need,
So being fat meant good health.
The saying goes:
By the time a fat man grows thin,
A thin one will die.
I grew up among the people
of unsurpassed hospitality:
Everything that’s best is for the guest.
To show respect a guest had to
Eat and drink a lot.
How often in my youth
My 'respect' turned into a hangover.
I grew up among the people
Each fourth of whom
Perished in World War II
Who stood in joy and grief as one
And I am grateful and proud
To be a tiny sprout
From this mighty land.
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Darning
Soft woolen
socks with a pattern
and holes in the heels
are my dearest
the knitter, my sister
is no longer
in this world
and the socks
warm us all
her big family
after she's gone
the infallible pattern
can't reveal what
she was thinking about
sitting alone during
long winter nights
casting on loops
pulling and tightening
woolen threads
creating the fabric
of warmth and love
that envelops us now
I wish I could darn
an empty space
she left behind
as easily as
a hole in a sock
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Candle in the wind
When I light a candle
On mum's tomb
It flickers in the wind
And I feel as if
Mum is greeting me.
When grief was hard to bear
This thought warmed my heart.
Lilies-of-the-valley
She liked to look at
Popped up around her gravesite.
Nobody planted them.
When her heart stopped
Petals dropped off a rose
By her bedside table.
Her soft voice singing a prayer
Sounded in my ears
Long after she was gone.
There is no fear of death,
She told me.
While you are alive,
it is not there.
You are not there
when it comes.
A branch on a family tree,
I live fearlessly
For her and for myself
Tending the roots.
I remember her stories,
Her hugs and her smile.
And I seem to remember
What happened
Before I was born.
Today I light a candle
Far away from her resting place.
Warmth and light fill my soul.
I am a link between
mum and daughters.
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Sweet surrender
Two shiny chocolate candies
Stretched out to me?!
Should I pinch myself?
Two glittering candies - red and blue
Now in my hand.
A woman, whose face
I don't remember, gave them.
Her hand was rough and
Wrinkled. It gave me happiness.
I never saw such treasures,
Nor touched or tasted.
Unwrap and swallow? I couldn't dare.
In awe and raptures
I tossed and stroked them.
I wished the bliss lasted forever.
Four years old, I thought, perhaps,
I could eat and have them.
My bliss smelled sweet and spicy
The wrappers rustled like music.
They felt hard, then softer... softer...
Then started melting. I licked them off.
It was a sweet surrender.
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April is the cruellest month
"April is the cruellest month"
To pass away. Amidst the bloom
Of apple-trees and cherries,
Chestnut bursting buds,
Daisy freckles on the face of lawns,
Amidst the feast of scents,
And shapes, and colours
To vanish is unfair.
So did my dad. On April 25th.
He might have sensed his end
For long he sat among the trees
Absorbing their fleeting beauty
With every cell, with every pore,
He wished to take a mental picture:
Inhaled the fragrance,
Touched soft silk petals
Basked in the setting sun
Listened to the silence
And smiled with bliss.
Now, forty-seven years since,
His image engraved in my heart
My sorrow is light and deep.
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Chanterelles
Chilly morning
mushroom hunt
in quiet we hear
falling leaves
mum walks stooped
gently pushes
away fallen leaves
and there we see
hiding beneath
dying leaves
golden cup-shaped
chanterelles
they grow under
trees not one by one
in clusters - like us
in families
mum says, and I
step softly
peeping through
the crisp soft carpet
of dying leaves
golden chanterelles
like dandelions
brighten my way
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It's Christmas
It's Christmas,
i am four
i open the door and
disappear in a snowdrift
soft as a quilt
snow chills my cheeks
frost-glazed windows
tucked in snow
reveal majestic leaves
and quaint flowers
tempting to be tasted
no licking windows
mum mildly pulls me
away, we walk
towards the shed
two baby lambs
meekly gaze at us
their curls prick a bit
and tender tongues
tickle my fingers
mum takes some hay
white crisp cover
hay underneath
our Christmas table
is like a snowfield
- hills and dishes
self-made paper
garlands, smell
of pine, hay
and candles
mum's prayer
the dim light of the
only lamp shines my
way, the snow
of my first Christmas
reminds me who I am
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Magic of whisper
Mum could cure
erysipelas
bending over
the infected
red skin swelling
she would whisper
some words or chants
that made sense
to her alone
soon the swelling
would disappear
i saw the magic
in the making
it caused no surprise
i thought everybody's
mum could do it
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Moonshine
Once a fortnight, mother poured
garelka (homemade vodka)
into two hot water bottles
and slipped these
into the extra-big pockets
she’d sewn inside a coat
broad enough to conceal her crime
from police and neighbours.
She knew - if caught
She'd have to go to prison.
No fear - she had us five
To feed and clothe.
So she put on her coat –
heavy as hell, sloshing
with five litres of garelka,
And her usual warm smile
she opened the door and walked
into the freezing night,
the moon guiding her
across the snowfields
to a town seven miles away.
There, the liquor was traded
for old clothes, matches, soap,
nails, chains, rope –
things needed on the farm.
No time to sit down
and take a break – the coat
less heavy perhaps, though still
weighing on her –
she re-entered the night
following her own tracks,
the moon keeping her company.
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Moonshine (bel.)
Раз у два тыдни
Маци наливала гарэлку
У дзве грэлки
Хавала их у глыбокия
Кишани, прышытыя
Знутры аграмаднага
Кажуха и ийшла
Адна у райцэнтр
Праз ноч-пауноч,
У сцюжу и буру
Хаваючысь ад палицыи
Бо гнаць и прадаваць
Гарэлку было забаронена.
И гэдак ишла яна
Заужды з прыветливым
Тварам дзесяць верст.
Каб яе схапили -
Пасадзили б у турму.
Але страху яна ня ведала,
Бо дома нас пяць
Прасили есци.
У вушах свистэу ветер
У грэлках булькала гарэлка
А мая маладая маци
Ишла и ишла
Праз снегам завеянае поле
И месяц свяциу ей
У райцэнтрэ яна меняла
Свой забаронены тавар
На ношаную адзежу
Спички, мыла, цвяки,
Ланцуги и вяроуки
Усе, что у весцэ патрэбна.
И ни прысеушы,
Ни маковай расинки у рот
Не узяушы, зноу надевала
Троху лягчэйшы цяпер
Кажух и паузла па снегу
Няблизки шлях назад
и тольки месяц ей
Спадаражничау зноу.
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***
Mum was dying.
I knew it; she didn’t.
Where can I get the strength
To share news and jokes
And pretend to be happy?
On my way to the hospital
I saw a legless man on the street.
He was singing, his eyes smiling.
Where does he get the strength?
*****
My mum passed away at dawn
Three days ago
Stepped out as lightly as she breathed
Leaving not a single soul she knew
Unappreciated
Walked out - peaceful and grateful.
The hollows in her armchair
Empty my heart.
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Mum's Lessons
Careful, my love,
It's slippery today
Keep your balance
Put on a hat, my love,
The wind is sweeping snow
Breathe through your nose
Careful, my love,
Too much honey
Leaves a bitter aftertaste
Careful, my love,
Beasts are loose at night
Get home before dark
Careful, my love,
Passion burns, love heals
Find a true one. Hold tight
Slow down, my love,
Smell flowers, look at stars
Share a meal and a laugh
Be brave, my love
I’ll always stay with you
Even when I'm gone.
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Mum’s Potato Medals
Waking up to the smell of
Just fried potatoes has been
My favourite since childhood.
Mum sliced them into
Coins, put into a pan
With yellow butter bubbles
Playing and coating them
With a golden crust underneath.
We used to call them medals.
Mum knew exactly when to flip
Each little one on the other side.
To peel, slice and fry
Potato medals enough for us,
Three daughters,
Took a lot of time.
Mum never rushed it.
She was singing, blissful,
Lavishing her love upon us.
Crusty, hot, hissing with
Butter bubbles on them
Mum's potato medals are
The best food I ever tasted -
Given to us for no special merit,
They are my best reward,
Pot luck and the luck of my life.
I take my time when cooking
To give my love to my dears.
I wish I could give it to you…
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No place like home
Like a snail,
I carry along
The home in which
I grew up.
In my memory I store
The attic treasures -
Old photos and books.
The simple handmade furniture:
Benches and a table.
The stove in which the fire
Was mesmerizing.
The only lamp and us at table,
And simple dinner: boiled potatoes.
Then reading aloud, and
Imagining faraway lands.
The scent of jasmine and freshly
Washed wooden floor.
The smell and taste of Mum's
baked bread on Sundays.
No place like
my childhood home
It is a place where I got
immunity of love
To bumps and bruises
Of the Big World.
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Spring clean
Every Easter mum gave the kitchen
A good scrub-down: the cabinets,
The big roundtable,
The benches cracked from age,
And, finally, the floor.
It was filthy. Mud and
Breadcrumbs stuck on it.
I swept up dust and litter,
Struggling with the last bits.
Splash!
A pail of water on the kitchen's
Unpainted wooden floor.
A besom broom pressed to the floor,
She scrubbed it on her knees inch by inch
Singing about the love broken by war,
Scrubbing away her sorrow.
Her first true love, her husband,
Perished in the war, three months
After they married. She never found out
When and how, and where he was buried.
Another splash!
A pail of water on the scrubbed floor,
Made it golden.
The finishing dance with a mop ...
In a blink I saw her dancing with
Her beloved soldier.
Nothing compares to the smell
Of jasmine and freshly washed unpainted
wooden floor.
It takes me to my childhood land -
A little cabin in the field near the woods.
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The place where I was born
The branches of a willow
Kiss the pond where
Geese and ducks dive for food
Jiggling their bottoms funnily
Then waddle out and bask
In the sun.
The log house with a straw roof.
Pink hollyhock
Peeps into the window.
Turf bricks piled up against the wall
Of a clay-and-straw shed,
To keep us warm in winter.
I wake up, all alone, and walk along
The trail. It takes me to the bog
Where mum and dad are digging turf
Slicing it like bread and laying it to dry.
Little lakes left by their spades
Mirror the sky, the clouds and the sun.
Long ago the place was transformed
Into a plain field as huge as an aerodrome.
It's all is just a dream now, and yet
It lives in my memory
The place where I was born
The place where I belong.
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Under lock and key
When clouds blot the sun
And hope is under lock
My soul takes flight
Through a magic door
That opens without a key
To the land where
The sky is cloudless
New shoes - exciting.
I inhale the scents of lilac,
Look for a five-petal luck.
And mum and dad alive
Tuck in my blanket
And kiss good night.
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