letters

A word… lines, curves, circles
inked into the virgin body
smudged at the edges…
fading, molecule by molecule,
into an abyss of time.

A name… an electric shock
through the synaptic gaps,
vanishing immortality of the moment.
… echoes… whispers…

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments(The Owl)

She stays longer when the lights are on,
even so it should be irritating
for her nocturnal eyes...
I talked with her last night
briefly, when the glass of the window melted
under the pressure of the winter cold
and then we flew in silence, until
she dropped me into the dark waters.
I didn’t swim out this time.
I drowned.

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments (more fragments)

in the darkest hour of the night
i gaze at the stars.
i look at the puddle
under the street light.
…i see your eyes
that never blink.

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya



cold… stable, persistent…
all that is warm is destined to perish,
burn alive in agony, know the flesh,
be an object…
subject in an experiment, discarded,
disposed when purpose served…
cries contained,
frozen into the filaments of light,
erased by the darkness…
cold… dark…

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments(trapped)

Trapped by the peaks and valleys:
restriction, structure, limit, sinfulness…

The gates of dreams
shrouded by the breath of the moment,
free and invisible. One step to exit…

I left them behind,
children of the draft and flames,
prowling shadows, guards…

one more step and a touch…
bare feet, cold grass, the bride…
the sun outlines the silhouette.
Swarming bees carry the nectar of the memory
drop by drop to the amber castle.

A distant call short circuit.
At first, sweet and soft, but then
loud and destructive…
fine structure shatters, falls down,
touching the ground with loud
ding-ding-ding….melts, flow…

where there is a river, there are river banks…

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments (far away in time)

Almost every summer there are periods of heavy rains. The better summers saw three day stretches of rain and the worst ones drenched for nine days in lukewarm water, steadily falling from the broken sky. I used to love those long stretches.

As a child, I suffered frequent migraines, but never on the rainy days, as if the water washed my clogged brain. During those days, the usual boredom would get swollen into timeless lethargy, compared to the peacefulness of the grave.

My father, a chain-smoker, would open the front door, take my baby chair, light a cigar of his own making and own growing and sat there, watching the wall of rain. I would sit next to him, on the floor, leaning on his leg, copying his action, trying to singulate a droplet and follow its fall. We sat there for hours without saying a word. I felt incredibly safe and comfortable at those times, safe like never again.

Eventually I would fall asleep and he would carry me to my bed. Upon awakening I would recall the rain-gazing. It would be entangled with my dreams, blurred by the fragile memory, absorbed by the new day and forgotten.

I had never smoked, but each time when someone lit a cigar and as soon as the smoke would touch my nostrils, I smell the monsoon, mixed with black dirt of the Steppe. And I feel safer, I feel home…
© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

letters (the last drop)

All sore from the self-inflicted bruises
of painful events, a product
of entangled imagination.
…’suppose to’, never have happened…
I sat and laughed when you said
I was the last drop to overflow the cup.
And I thought that I was a Golden Fish,
I thought I could grant a wish, if caught.
I swam carefully around all baits,
behind the glass of a cup,
famished, fearful of being trapped.
… where I was just a spark of light,
broken over the glass,
distorted by the prism of water,
trapped in a drop…
But, at last, I caused a flood.

© 2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya

fragments ('Dead End')

Homeless dog curled under the street sign,
black bones of a ‘Dead End’
over the dirty-yellow body,
empty eyes drown in the insanity
of never-ending Now.
Ticks, flies, fleas, death – ran away
from the furry island of Nirvana.
I walk by fast, avoiding eye contact…
the blissfulness of nothing is familiar… contagious
and survival doesn’t assure immunity.

©  2011 by Nina K Orlovskaya