Елена Ионова

Поэт, художник, перформер.

«Подборка стихов»


If I eat this mushroom, will it fulfill the desire?

Will I become more than a world or less than one straw?

Soon the forest will swallows sun and the bloodletting

In the sky, and here on the ground there are gardens and houses.

Work with your hands in the little beds — is the sorrel’s alphabet.

What did you read there? Tale of death and birth.

The first gardener who fertilized the stones by Abel

Was just an apple from the apple tree of the Fall.

Brown droplets of rusty valve are drip,

Hose for irrigation as snakes near the house on a leash.

And beyond the gate is the terrible street of Brueghel,

Out of the darkness, someone whispers to me, «My dear, take me out.»

I answer, I’m sorry, I’m not local here,

I was going to disappear before twelve,

Only I’m thirty already, above me the universe,

But I am only amusing myself with a garden and dancing.



Just listen, what amazing pretty outcries,

It’s similar for me of seagulls crying,

Where in the streams the kids are freezing snivel,

Are garlands of t-shirts and pants not drying —

As my own flags slow washing in the wind blow

By viewless laundresses of sunny March days.

And not on merit, given me by faith, now

I kneel by God, so clumsy on the sideway,

And breaking knees on ice with spring reflections.

It’s a blatant lie, I don’t believe at over,

That we don’t have enough of resurrections,

That we don’t be much glad by all latecomers.



Let’s open window, and draw in our living

From our places, it’s so hard to leave it.

Where on the wrists are scars or friendship bracelets

Have girls that prop up walls and there’s no outlet.

Where forest, valley, Summertime, and Andy,

A neighbor who has left the world on Monday,

The spider hangs like angel under lampshade,

Above the earth no sun and snow so fast wade.

There two of us, the light still here, in native,

Where hands are cut, as if this is incentive,

Behind the window afterglow and rising,

And at the gate I hear how teeth are gnashing.

There are no icons, but our room is sacral,

And we decided, not in vain it at all

God blinded us, as if by carbon paper

And tied a tag on tightened hand forever.



The lightweight sun without bothering rises and falls,

We are reflected in mirror from disk of the moon.

You are like Boreas caught in the bottle, milk sol,

We are like vessels – so closed inside and so full.

And it’s so easy to communicating my rhythms,

Communicating to you summer, grasses, and mead.

Now, I became an adult, so you must envy me,

But it’s a pity that I did not know this indeed.

Then I should have been start littered town with straw,

Bandaged my legs and chest, to prevent grow up,

You see, the pupil narrows to size of sky,

Maybe we’ll fit in it and stay there somehow.



— Oh, mother, will it be nice warm

In this world ever?

Look, how it clouded – I observe,

Comes raining weather.

But weather forecast says: it’s snow,

Hail knocks on muzzle,

But everyone thought: life goes on,

… so,  tell me mother…

But everyone feels sharp tonight

Their mortal bodies,

Without the anchors they are tied

In land of fathers.

— Wear firewood, burned the fires,

And God will bless you —

The drying heat is coming here

So deadly dusty.


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