Monday 13 February 2023

Eight Short Poems and The Bus Travels - Flash Fiction Story - by Irina Tall (Novikova)





Pass the moments with the pain of words


Look at your feet, let the clouds wash them with rain

To remind you of the living

Heat your veins with steel

Be the sword

  Cut through the doubts of the past ...

  And don't kill yourself

More

Never…

 

 

In the abyss of fallen doubts


  in the fire of hope

in an effort to conquer yourself,

  I part with the past remains,

with leaves that withered in winter,

to sprout new buds

Bloom my flowers

  penetrate the sadness and tear it apart with your Love

   Let new life arise...

 

 

Heart pinched


in the depths of the vessel, a tin pick hits the temple with a stream,

  someone else's consciousness wants to break in

In me, inside

  Without knowing,

Nothing else can be known

  You're the only one and you don't have to lose yourself

  A sunbeam will go through the consciousness of longing,

  Painting the sky in the colours of bare nerves,

  So that the blackness does not close its eyes,

Take a breath and submerge

To fight yourself

There in the deep

And conquer your departed heart

Let a new scarlet flower grow there...

 

 

A couple of lines, face and eyes curled up like big snakes


  In the world where the socket is on the plane of the screen,

Sequins dotted the face

Waiting for a little forgetting about yourself

Nothing to say it exists

Sirens caught black spots on postcards

  They will soon be released in envelopes somewhere in other countries

Where we are not

 

The stain spreads like a wing,

White cuts into my heart

  Taking the leg out of the gap...

  Sit on the thin edge of a branch,

  Won't hurt what never was

  In reality, it is frozen in fantasy on

small scraps of paper

To create a miracle...

 

 

Heart in the last beat


It pumps difficult and unruly blood,

  To be able to live in another, to give

What is gone in the past

Consciousness has thinned like sand

Light translucent moments penetrated the curtain

You became a grey mouse

Retired into the slot of a dark hole,

To the world to run paws ...

 

 

There is a cup in your hand, and there is black water like the ocean,


Maybe she will absorb all the sorrows,

 Everything that happened before...

 My tears have dried

A transparent package is like a shroud,

 Thousands of white scarves are buried there, like birds.

They did not fly away, there was no wind

And only eyes in the distance, her gentle hands

Touching an almost dead tree

 A scarlet drop of blood on the trunk,

 As a sign of the death of my soul.

 

And rustles behind my back,

 Puts in a bunch of unnecessary thoughts, lost happiness,

 Alien, from another

 I would like to return, but I did not see the face of the lost

Only a mask, white as a plane of snow.

 

 

Shadows leave blue marks on the transparent curtain and window sill


I drink bitter tea

And the taste of orange, sweet and fragrant, remains on my gums and tongue,

 Someone is drilling in the house with a drill on the outside,

 Change the cover

But who will change my failed destiny?

 Sometimes I see the future that I want

 But I've lost it forever...

 

 

 blue mug,


 sea ​​for me

shells on a black and dead branch,

 A living thing that will also soon die...

Dogs skin their own soul in life

They are people in my eyes

I'll cry for the night to close the inaccessible door,

 That no one will open for me

I'll fly away from a dream like a bird

The warm and many-sided sun will shine behind the mountain of multi-storey mountains...

 


The Bus Travels

Flash Fiction Story

by Irina Tall (Novikova)


The bus travels along a muddy road covered with snow dots. The man in front of me has an unusual black moustache, grey short hair is knocked out from under a cap shifted to one side, in his hands is a dark package with a half-erased gold inscription, the fashion for such things was in the mid-nineties, it was a kind of prerogative attempt to become rich in poverty, like gypsies who wear unwashed clothes and at the same time have magnificent gold beads, necklaces and rings, an attempt by a poor but rich family not to lose face in public.

The man is wearing blue jeans, he moved from the window to another seat, dangled his legs, a lilac shirt and a chequered scarf are visible under a blue dark jacket, he shifted the package from hand to hand, straightened his cap, it hung even more on its side.

He tilted his head and the shadow of the cap hid his eyes, it seems that he fell asleep.

Behind him is the white face of a girl in round large glasses, she looks like a big black fly in them, silver and red dreadlocks on her head are intertwined with a white ribbon of forgiveness. She got up and walked to the exit, picked up a black backpack and hung it on her left shoulder, behind her an old woman in a brown coat and a grey beret, they went to an uncleaned stop. Everywhere there is some kind of secret decay and two children in front, a boy in blue and a girl in pink, everything is very traditional, the boy makes some strange inarticulate sounds, he cannot stop and constantly sways. The young man in the back seat looks up at the grey ceiling, the only clean seat on the dusty bus. I rise and exit the yellow fortress of reality.

The girl behind the transparent counter in a sky-blue T-shirt picks up my phone, her delicate white hands have long red bright nails with sharp tips, like a wild cat, she has dark long straight hair, silver weaves of wonderful plants and flowers on her ears.

Soft, inaudible pop music plays in the salon, it stops, howls, the bass guitar comes in and the performer screams and silence, her voice scares me, bright moments.

There is a silver ring on her finger, she is probably married, her slightly strained voice constantly explains something...Her face, like a fox, hides and turns around again, she believes that she is right all the time.

Boundless analogy of being.

I leave the salon, dark cars with headlights on, sedately large doves, go by me, in the bustle they are dark like crows.

The asphalt, wet from salt and snow, mixed into the mud, the pavement tiles became a single whole, where grey and white mixed.

Large shopping centre, moving accordion doors.

There, on the fourth floor, there is a shop named after the famous Italian artist. When I go upstairs, I see a lot of foreign people, but this is not the kind of city that would welcome them with open arms. Two guys with beautiful oriental black and curly hair.

They pass by the escalator, go around me and go down, where there are many stalls with delicious food.

A shop, a red entrance and an inscription, very small, as if it is hidden from visitors.

Inside are five cash registers, storage boxes and an information desk.

Behind the third racks are the materials I need, paints for the fabric, I need two colours red and black and an outline to stroke the details. But there is no black and instead I buy silver like stars. Let the eyes shine, covered with the brilliance of the past.

From the next shelf, I take a block of tinted grey paper, which I use for graphics. The first page is a little wrinkled in inept hands.

I go to the checkout, behind her is a completely middle-aged girl, the lenses of her glasses cover her eyes from the world, they reflect thousands of fragments with brilliance. While punching the goods, her hands slide over the cover of the folder, and the paints, the only question: "Do you need a package?", crumble in the colliding reality.

What is lost can no longer be returned, like my past.

Shop, revolving doors below, the ghost will not leave this house, the glass will grab it and swallow it forever.

There, many faces and souls crashed against the walls of soulless stone masks...

Heavenly creatures left this world...




Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art, and also has a bachelor's degree in design.

The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. In her works, she raises themes of ecology, in 2005 she devoted a series of works to the Chernobyl disaster, draws on anti-war topics. The first big series she drew was The Red Book, dedicated to rare and endangered species of animals and birds. Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates short stories. She draws various fantastic creatures: unicorns, animals with human faces, she especially likes the image of a man - a bird - Siren. In 2020, she took part in Poznań Art Week.

Links to my social networks:

https://m.facebook.com/profile.php?v=photos&lst=100009868569…




 





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