Saturday, May 2, 2015

Nadia Gerassimenko: Poetry


The chamber was filled with gloom:
She lay on the bed like dead Lucretia -
Pale, mortified, and numb.
Blood slowly trickled from her thighs
Unto her ivory legs.
"I've lost myself, my innocence,"
She whispered weakly and closed her eyes
To pray.

Jupiter heard her little prayer,
And sent hope her way -
Light and Truth named Apollo.
He came into the room charging it with brightness.
Her fragile body, he took into his arms
And softly kissed every inch that ached.
He said, "The truth is that you're pure.
In my eyes, you'll always be.
I will aid you in regaining your view of yourself,
Your view of the world.
Give life and love another chance."

Tender passion

It's not possessive domination,
Nor hysterical suspicion,
Harm or manipulation
It's tender passion
When he looks into your eyes
Warmly with a gentle flame
When he kisses you so softly
On your forehead
Like you are his little one

He runs his fingers along your neck
Which is as delicate as porcelain
And it feels ticklish like a feather
On your velvet skin
As the honey-butterfly effect
Absorbs your whole being
He would wrap his arms around you
So you wouldn't have to be afraid
Of any danger, of any hurt

It's simply tender passion
It's simply gentle love

The woman with the child in her eyes

It is so easy to mock and condemn
When cynicism strikes fate,
And one is affected ever forever.
But inside there is a pungent feeling
Of jealous admiration.

Wow! Unbelievable! How does she do it?
To be a woman with the child in her eyes.
Unabashed of her sensual sexuality,
Yet remaining so down-to-earth in life -
Treating all with simplicity and love,
Always offering them a cup of tea.
To have a clear head throughout
And overflowing inspiration to create,
Even with a bit of tasteful weed.
While the press criticizes her art-form
For not conforming at that time
And overanalyzes her weirdness,
Not truly understanding her at her core.

Wow! Amazing! How does she do it?
To be a woman with the child in her eyes.
To own herself and have control over her life,
While some may be puppets at someone’s mercy.
To write, sing, dance, and have it materialize charmingly
Not for the sake of numbers, quantity,
But for the sake of offering beautiful quality -
To crush the lily in someone’s soul,
To hit them at their soft spot,
To show them December can be magic again.
To not be tempted by the glory of stardom
And more insignificant hits and draining tours.
To preserve integrity in her art and self.

You can find herself retreating
From outer conditions and loud parties
To her secret garden of her childlike self.
Under the Ivy, there she is.
It’s her, Cathy…Bush.

Moonchild dreams

Night is when I daydream
And sleep throughout the day
My afternoons are for society
And evenings I am waiting
For my moon beneath the clouds

I am a daughter of the Night
My mother is the Moon
The Stars are my muses
And Night Creatures, my allies
They know well to give me space

To dance unruly to my avant-garde
To break the box of common thinking
To dream of passion and love divine
To write my deepest longings
As I become the Lady of the Moon

You can bend me as you please
To get to the heart of the matter
But I am the Moonchild, and I dream
The night is mine to keep
When you cannot tame me.