My verses

Альбина Кумирова
My verses appear archaic
but why they, like mosaic,
themselves rearrange and rhyme? –
an audio-visual crime
in poetry nowadays.

So what? Do I care about
not blending again with the stream,
when lines inside me spout
and rhymes inside them teem -
I’m only breathing them out.
It’s almost an ecstasy scream.

No, no, I am not in a hurry
to bond with the general mass,
Why should I so fretfully flurry? -
when naturally, like some grass,
my verses, with rhythm and with rhyme,
thrust forward and, soothing me, spurt
like jets of cascades sublime
and heal my incurable hurt.

1-4 November 2011