Category: Gleb Shulpyakov

by Gleb Shulpyakov

 

These people taught me everything—

the alphabet, how to count, Russian;

how to hold a pencil or plane.

Which leaves one question: why?—no response.

And then there’s no one between us, a void.

“When you departed . . . All the sounds of the universe . . .”—

Roasted meat, a picnic in full swing.

I move closer, peer down at the faces.

I ask: “Aren’t we all friends here?!”

They laugh in response.

Jangling guitars and soaring kites.

As the music fades, I

take a step. A breath.

Old snow crunches in the woods, crumbles.

My heart pounds, ready to burst.

And then nothing, quiet.

The forest resembles an unfnished cathedral.

The scent of damp wood chips.

 

A stream glimmers beyond the columns.

from Letters to YakubFind more by Gleb Shulpyakov at the library

Copyright © 2014 Gleb Shulpyakov
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

by Gleb Shulpyakov

 

my inner wall keeps silent;

a shadeless window or lamp

burns at the very edge—

from here it’s hard to make out,

I can just hear creaking stones

brick muttering to brick

pull me closer

—my wall keeps silent, and I am still

from Letters to YakubFind more by Gleb Shulpyakov at the library

Copyright © 2014 Gleb Shulpyakov
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

by Gleb Shulpyakov

 

now that a million hands

have polished to a sheen

that sculpture of a dog

at station revolution square—

it’s fnally time to name the dog,

conjure a pedigree,

adorn it in fowers and fruit,

set out a cashbox for donations—

 

god will protect the blue line

along your subterranean path!

 

—and if it does not come to pass,

it simply means your donation

was included in the price

of the ride

from Letters to YakubFind more by Gleb Shulpyakov at the library

Copyright © 2014 Gleb Shulpyakov
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.