Стихи и эссе

At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,
The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend;
Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire;
Still waters run deep, my dear, there's never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,

Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,
Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh
There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up on the cement wall,

The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,
The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.

The Chimney Sweepers

The chimney sweepers
    Wash their faces and forget to wash the neck;
The lighthouse keepers
   Let the lamps go out and leave the ships to wreck;
The prosperous baker
   Leaves the rolls in hundreds in the oven to burn;
The undertaker
   Puts a small note on the coffin saying: "Wait till I return,
I've got a date with Love!"

And deep-sea divers

   Cut their boots off and come bubbling to the top;
And engine drivers
   Bring expresses in the tunnel to a stop;
The village rector
   Dashes down the side-aisle half-way through a psalm;
The sanitary inspector
   Runs off with the cover of the cesspool on his arm —
To  keep his date with Love!

"What's in Your Mind, My Dove, My Coney…"

What's in your mind, my dove, my coney;
Do thoughts grow like feathers, the dead end of life;
Is it making of love or counting of money,
Or raid on the jewels, the plans of a thief?

Open your eyes, my dearest dallier;

Let hunt with your hands for escaping me;
Go through the motions of exploring the familiar
Stand on the brink of the warm white day.

Rise with the wind, my great big serpent;

Silence the birds and darken the air;
Change me with terror, alive in a moment;
Strike for the heart and have me there.

Happy Ending

The silly fool, the silly fool
Was sillier in school
But beat the bully as a rule

The youngest son, the youngest son

Was certainly no wise one
Yet could surprise one.

Or rather, or rather,

To be posh, we gather
One should have no father.

Simple to prove

That deeds indeed
In life succeed,
But love in love,
And tales in tales
Where no one fails.

Foxtrot from a Play