BIO
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Born in 1984, Yelena Sapranova is a poet from Russia. She studied at Kuban State University and works in the field of linguistics and translation. She mostly writes in English and translates poetry from the Russian Silver Age (Annensky, Blok, Tsvetaeva..). She is inspired by nature and people she loves. Her activities include piano, dancing and discovering new places.
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Мне не больно
.
слова прекрасные
оставьте
я спокойна
здесь лишь дыхание
и млечность
нетронутая
нежность звезд
это все
что Есть
шепчу
в глаза
в моря
в цветущую
прибрежность
никто не знает
что нас ждет
святой ли дождь
или
покой вселенной
никто не знает
что нас ждет
когда наступит
бесконечность
.
i don’t feel pain
.
beautiful words,
leave me
i’m calm
here is only breath
and milky way soft sky
untouched
tenderness of stars
is all that
Is there
i whisper
into eyes
into seas
into blossoming
coasts
nobody knows
what awaits us
sacred rain
or
silence of the universe
nobody knows
what awaits us
when infinity
comes
.
tea house in winter
.
i
silver murmur of lowland mist
cloaks the dormant valley
as fragments of brooding frost
scatter crystal poems
along forest ways
muffled with peony snow.
blueberries ripen
adrift in the cloud’s reflection
as water runs pure
filtered through steamy light
and humming spirit of rooibos
knits a wild flower’s soliloquy
into the balm of lush liquid sun.
the door opens.
a solitary monk appears.
.
ii
fringed calligraphy
of a cascading lantern’s flame
deciphers incense wind from pagodas,
its voyaging scripture a witness
to the tangible and invisible
near the gates of midnight;
a distant train’s whistle
echoes in hills and shadows
mirrored on the saffron robe
as he fills an indigo cup
with old pu-erh
and particles of tiny osmanthus stars,
his heartbeat rippled
by elegy of stillness
like harp strings
plucked with tender skill.
a space between seconds
stirs the flow of centuries.
time stops.
[pu-erh is a type of black Chinese tea often traditionally blended
with osmanthus flowers for an earthy sweet taste/flavor]
.
iii
the sheen of ash moon
on the tip of a tiny green leaf
outshines the half-clouded mirage
finding nocturnal oblivion
within a sublime sencha’s aroma
soaring from the oasis of porcelain
to the frost-sewn window
adorned by paper fireflies.
a graceful pirouette of the watered petal
collides with vibrant storms of lime wildness
waving memory away towards april back-alleys
lit by the remote fireworks’ alchemy
folding blues into a remedy of pure dew-
and
homesick for the calm garden of past
he awaits the sunrise
to scatter remnants of chrysanthemums
on silent morning snow.
.
*****
