A Journal of Contemporary Arts 






(Translation by: Steven Duplij}

   Poetry, a supernova of feelings. Physics, a supernova
of ideas. A new string of letters, a new string of
mathematical symbols, which are the two sides of
the moon, an alien binary.
    Behind my soul, they form a sphinx. I do not put apart
the ideas of physics and the metaphors of poetry. The
uncontrollable cold fusion is necessary for my heart to
create them. The newer the fuel, the farther the shot into
the future will be.
    I believe poetry cannot be constructed as a formula.
Outer rules are transparent for Her, and only the inner
ones are alive. The only rule is true: without a critical mass,
the reaction of creativity will not start. Feelings and ideas
are collapsed to densities so large, that independent of my
desire, there is an explosion into infinity.
    They are all-penetrating. Simply, I am not able to avoid
them, and I am not afraid anymore that somebody will be
grinning over my weakness, my sufferings, my complexes,
and my minuses.
    Poephysics lets me elevate myself over
them, over the way of life, and over time.

Original Russian:  https://proza.ru/2012/09/18/562

Declaimed in Russian professionally and musically by poetess Olga Akhmetova:



   (Translation by: Steven Duplij)

He is Time. Trying to deceive yourself. To fill
yourself, if only, with anything. Not with a look
into yourself. Over there, it is not OK.
    The intercourse is in vain, with the void. By the void.
I am quiet alone. I am all by myself. In the compulsory
presence, there is a vacuum. Around me. Inside me. I am
struggling in my search of Him.
    But what for? And what of Him?
    Well, there is the abundance of Him. The whole day.
And what is it then? What is inside? Where is the
motion of myself? Where am I? Where is my ego?
    Nothing but the torments of the Nothingness.
Life is boiling outside the window. It is the pseudo-life.
They are also trying to annihilate Him without feelings.
    There are dozens of imaginary businesses. To read
everything. What for? To feel everything? What for? Not to
know His inexorable rhythm.
    There is the hope, not for the present. She is like the
straw, dragging you to the bottom. There is no way
backwards. Till you hope.

Original Russian: https://proza.ru/2012/01/21/1857


Declaimed in Russian professionally and musically by poetess Olga Akhmetova:



   (Translation by: Steven Duplij)

    The Night is the slave of Death. Day after day, dying in
the hopes of turning out different the next morning.
Seemingly different.
   Dream, it’s the swallower of our aspirations.
   I hate it. But where am I to go?
   The Sheet is the scope of the unvoiced.
   Who needs it? Before whom? And what for?
   There is this clot of excuses. For the undone.
    Vice and virtue, where are they? In deeds? In ideas? In
    In the understanding of the essence. In the touch of
the integrity. In the flow of life.
    Does a man smoke? Who has swallowed smoke under
the whooping of the crowd?
    “And you are sinful, too?”
    Perhaps, he laughs at the joy of the primitive
understanding that is over the misunderstanding of it all.
    Vice is a power over a human. It does not matter what this
power is. Any power is already a vice. The circle has been

Original Russian: https://proza.ru/2012/03/31/1624
Declaimed in Russian professionally and musically by poetess Olga Akhmetova:







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