At the Lennon Wall proudly presents a new project created by AAU poetic talents! Our students got a chance to share their poems with the community
Lost Wings — Anastasia Shishkina
To freedom we can find a way,
It’s far away, where there’s no war.
They cannot hunt us here today –
They cannot fly and we can soar.
The flesh of man is rough and dumb,
But flesh of wings is thin as haze.
The smallest dust we might become –
And vanish in a starry maze…
Let wind define and guard our path,
Let storm evolve in growing blunter –
Its walls will keep away the wrath
And arrows of a tired hunter.
Let’s fly and fall – it’s not a crime,
And touch the sun with flaming springs…
Then dawn will come – oh, bitter time…
Wake up in life
Unwanted Child — Karina Verigina
An unwanted child is crying
In the shadow of the world.
“I would better see you dying,”
That’s what he was always told.
Mist and bitterness surround him
While he drinks his lonely wine.
Only friend is lute’s to life hymn,
Last preventing his decline.
Years ago he had a mother,
Who as people of his class
Turned away, left nothing other:
Music, gun and empty glass.
The Beekeeper — An Nguyen
Counting wet stones up the path by the lily pond
Who shone, dull but glossy in the noon sun
And the crush of grass underfoot topped a low hum.
They darted about, fuzzy pebbles, head hunters,
Gatherers giving weight to petal chins’ acknowledging nods
In the direction of the monolith sending workers in droves.
The bumbled buzz of their pirouettes slowed the air
And I felt each thread in my gloves grasp the wood and paint
Lifting the warm, bronze roof exposing the waxy ladders inside.
Each long, low frame clung to the outer walls
In that slim fit embrace filled with honey crawlers,
The hive mind diligence in criss-crossed cells.
Slaves to the nest, whose labour basked sweet,
Content to write off each daily spot ticked and filled
Unquestioning to the matriarch growing fat in the dark.
And when the scent of smoke slipped heavy
Meandering through the slats in wisps
They numbed, timid, complicit to these hands.
In their simple apathy I ripped at the combs,
gold glistening in the open air.
I felt the warmth in the bellows through my gloves,
Busy-bodied brown tufts collecting in the wood.
A careful twist released and lifted the drawer,
The white panelled shelf grinding old wood
Whose sticky gloss now scraped pale returned to rest.
The Girl In White — Karina Verigina
She is standing on the corner of the street,
Uninterruptedly looking at me.
Right into my eyes.
She doesn’t breathe at all.
Or wait! She does,
But it’s so rare and heavy.
One step. The war. The scream.
The world, turning to ashes.
Meanwhile, she’s going faster.
Another. The fire burns me now alive.
Do you feel the smell? My flesh is stinking.
Barely seeing anything, I recognise only her.
She is smiling at me;
She is the girl in white.
Now I’m fearless, I’m dead.
January Sunrise — Kamila Suchomel
Snow-covered plains running on endless,
their winter blanket so flawless.
Rising, at the pace of a crawl,
from its slumber, a glowing orange fireball.
Washing over the land a glow of morning.
Each minuscule grain of ice adorning.
A shimmer of diamonds,
numbered by the thousands,
playing a jovial game with rays of light,
an ethereal feast for the sight.
A play by play of cantaloupe orange and rosebud pink,
illuminates the snow like splashes of ink.
Frost, a cheeky fellow,
did his mischief unto this land sow.
Nipping at each unsuspecting nose and finger,
on each leaf and branch never failing to linger.
Endowing each edge, crease, and seam,
with sparkling jewels of which some can only dream.
Beneath the hill a village lies,
snowy rooftops met the eyes,
the rising sun casting upon them a dainty caress,
one has never seen such finesse.
A Poet — Anastasia Shishkina
If I were a poet
I would be a good one.
Then I would die.
I wish I wouldn’t die entirely, though,
Because then I could be flying around
And sneaking into classrooms
To hear what they say about me.
I’d be sitting in the last row
While the professor dissolves
And digs deep into my words.
I would be laughing
And throwing my popcorn to his beard
So that it would get stuck in there
Because I never meant anything of what he’s saying.
After a couple of lectures
I’d realize I was a genius.
But only if I were a poet
The Soul — Karina Verigina
as old as world itself
is looking after me.
Guiding my actions
troubles and afflictions.
Whispering, sometimes screaming,
I’m grateful. Or,
at least, I should be,
But I’m not. There’s nothing for.
My life – the only thing I have!
So let me live it with mistakes,
That I’ll do myself.