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» A History lesson   » Дайте спросить, что такое любовь...
» A missed chance   » Малевич и Супрематизм
» A steer to Sen. Joseph Biden (D)   » Немного о Свободе по-Русски
» A tango’s sobbing...   » О Любви ?
» About European Friends   » Подражая Алексею Даену
» Affirmative action and arts   » Семейная дуэль
» Alphabet   » Утреннее открытие
» Americans, I need your
   friendly hand!
» Epitaph on the own
   sepulchral stone
» Bill as a mirror    
» Boundless Liberty Domain   » About Israel
» Brevity versus Poetry Contest   » Об Израиле
» Britney Spears and Sex   » But if it's inescapable to die
» Christmas in New Jersey   » Но если уж придется
   насильно умирать
» Chronology of Islamic expansion   » Ориентир
» Crayfish, Swan, and Pike
   (Krylov's fable translation)
  » Guidance
» Cry of Soul (acrostic)   » Порт Вашингтон
» Déscartes, are you wrong?
   (Spenserian Stanza)
  » Port Washington
» Extinct words stubs   » Признание
» How to write poems   » Confession
» If First Amendment…   » Talking to Déscartes
» Letter to Mel Gibson   » Разговор с Декартом
» My jokey speech   » Commission Report
» No Nightingales Around   » Заключение экспертизы
» Oh English, my Step-Mother
  » The International Day of Love to Jews
» People with dissembled thoughts   » Международный День Любви
   к Евреям
» Rap mumbling    
» Remark 1    
» Remark 2    
» Remark 3: Bob Beckel, Demstrat   SECTION 4: THIS, THAT, AND THE OTHER
» Self-portrait    
» Tell me how many words I need   » 21 Haiku |二十一句の俳句
   (Japanese, English, Russian)
» The bigger grief
   (imitating Selvinsky)
» The Happy childhood    
» To my readers    
» We two are in my room    
» Why I like poetry
  (Spenserian Stanza)
» Why I like poetry, No.2    
» Why I like rap    
» Wildfire    
» An Eclogue to Samik    

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... but Schubert's songs are still being sung already 200 years…
Forgive me, you who feel that rhymes are flat
abundance of the waggling chimes.
Do not reject a verse right off the bat;
I'm still a slave of my viola paradigms.
Constantine Ivanov: "The Etched", New York 2005        
Who's Brevity a sister of?
You know the answer – "Talent".
So, if my verse is long enough,
Should I be deadly silent?
Okay, I rather would prefer
To join a group of morons,
Who inter skills, but cause a stir
By using oxymorons.
The sense of humor should prevail
Among contesting people.
I beg: release me please on bail!
Not guilty am I, cripple!
The only purpose brought me here –
To get a sack of money….
Is there something I couldn't hear?
Oh, sentence: it's not funny?!
The sense of humor should prevail
Among contesting people.
I beg: release me please on bail!
Not guilty am I, cripple!
Surprise, surprise: I've got a prize!
The only question is its price
My limerick was just a delusion,
Which brought me to a sad conclusion:
I shouldn't contest, or must think twice!
November 29, 2003
Constantine Ivanov: "The Etched", New York 2005        
What can I say? I'm really very happy!
Your prize just shows I wrote it not in vain
My verses content isn't completely crappy,

While English grammar's sparkling like Champaign,

And TOEFL also showed I'm not in rein.
Of course, you'll find my English still has problems,
Which I can not immediately remove.

I'll take a credit that my nearest pub lends,

And take the "courses" I can truly groove.

Then you'll decide if I have skills to prove.
This jockey speech is not an impromptú*
I spent already minimum five minutes;

It's not just finding rhymes, right and prompt, too,

But, say, a flight of soul beyond all limits,

Of which destructive might reminds us that of Nimitz**.
* 'mpromptu' - to be pronounced as in French, with the last syllable stressed.
Nimitz, Chester W. (1885–1966) - American admiral of the Pacific fleet
during World War II who halted Japanese expansion and ultimately

destroyed the Japanese fleet with a strategy based largely on the use of

aircraft carriers.
January 31, 2004
Constantine Ivanov: "The Etched", New York 2005        
CRY OF SOUL (acrostic*)
May my feelings be expressed,
Clearly said, and not suppressed?
If I talk about the vogue,
What back punch my views provoke?
If I say words on the Rap,
Will it hit me back, that crap?
Do I have my Free-Speech Right,
Or am I a bit too white?
Can I just say some things
On issues so important?
No freaky bell yet rings,
Séjour might be so torpid.

The points I want to raise

Attract not many people,

Nor do the people praise

Those whom they treat as cripple.

I  truly realize:

Not fun to be a duffer,

Exposing truth that cries

Needs makes you often suffer.

I  swim against the stream:

Veracity verboten!

Abolished all but scream,

No natty sounds are gotten.

Obstreperous punks brought

Vile noise to our stages.

Thence it became my ought

Outcropping their outrages.

My soul yearns for the bright,

Yet truly high emotions,

Beyond that constant spite

Enclosed with hatred notions.

Lithe joggling with no end

On endless lilting tapping;

Vile tongue drives round the bend,

Extreme offense is trapping.

Does Music play like this?

With lousy tuneless clatter?

Instead of bringing peace

Fills everything with clutter?

Each time I lose my hope

Jerks jeer me, rappers witching

Unlikely crowd will stop

Lewd words they use while twitching.

I  can't withstand their rights

Acrasia still takes over.

Rap started from the slights,

But grows into a drover.

Endorsing dirt amusing,

Rap took from me my rights

Enjoying real music…

Kitsch wins, no hope for knights!

No voice, no tune, no art, –

Obnoxiousness required.

Voilà, René Déscartes, –

Egalité, of which I'm tired!

My music I have learned –

Beyond an apprehension.

Each tune I love is spurned;

Romantics – out of mention.

Tough-based pure drumming move

Will soon bring us nowhere.

Obtrusive trivial groove

Thus shall fill out the air.

Hog-wrestle people won,

Omnipotence is scary;

Utopia sine qua non,

Sic! Coup d'état in scurry!

A  dulcet melodist

No more enjoys crowd's favor:

Drum reigns. No tunes exist.

The other-worldly flavor.

Hordes need no real arts:

Remember Rome disruption!

Exposing private parts –

Egad, a Brawn eruption!

*Reading vertically, one first letter from each line, gives the following:
"Constantine N Ivanov to my beloved wife Julia R Berek November Two Thousand Three"
Constantine Ivanov: "The Etched", New York 2005        
(A frolic sketch as a Birthday gift to myself)
An author, poet, and musician,
As DBA* got recognition,

I worked a lot as essayist,

(My wife nags – like a masochist.)

Collection agent, columnist,

Composer, fervent journalist;

Producer, and entrepreneur

(The last was short, like just a blur.)

An agent in a Real Estate,

As programmer had also weight.
What's missing?
One would not believe, –

Another tale in Christmas Eve!

But trust me – all of said above

Is proved by her, my ladylove.
* DBA – DataBase Administrator
Constantine Ivanov, New York, December 2003        
(Asking "music" guests of Bill O'Reilly's "No Spin Zone")
If First Amendment serves the "music" people
Allowing them to say "I want the Leader dead",
Will then the same Amendment cover and defend)
A slogan like, let say, "Heil Hitler!" *,
Or, say, "A punk named Eminem's a moral cripple"?
* Heil Hitler (German) – Long live Hitler; NEVER mix up with English "Hail"
(as it happens pretty often), since it has completely different meaning and feeling.
Constantine Ivanov, New York, December 25, 2003        
Britney Spears, and Paris Hilton,
Bunch of others, sex-addicted, –
What the heck is going on?
Fall from Grace by great John Milton?
Crazy media afflicted?
Time to lay a penance on?
I believe this is a matter
Of the public moral values,
Which results in our fate.
Wouldn't it be a long way better
If we shy away the shameless
Sex of kind we should abate?
Why I raise my voice against them?
Maybe I should sing an anthem
Praising Pagan sex return?
I just see they caused a mayhem,
Which is growing like a cancer
Killing culture that I earn.
Please don't tell me I am sexless,
Sanctimonious scout-master,
Neuter bigot, hypocrite…
I am far from Comstock1, trust me,
Nor am I a stupid reckless
Preacher's pug-dog, – not a whit!
Spreading sex on public stages
Might slow traffic by congestions…
Like in that one hoary joke:
'Can one have a girl in public?'
'No! A crowd plagues with suggestions,
Thus, his death can be provoked.'
I'm against such First Amendment
That allows us self-destruction,
Faking Liberty of Speech.
Don't forget: Rome Culture End meant
Hundred years of Life disruption,
Normal human thinking breach.
A romantic notion 'Freedom'
Should not darken that the orders
Are a wish expressed by WORDS!
Let's say, Lenin's craving "Kill them!",
Followed then by all his warders,
Didn't it cede the Earth to hordes?
I'm afraid the sex, which casts off
All restraints and moral borders,
Is a sign that dikes have burst;
A "virginity to dust off",
I would say, belongs to "boarders"2,
And in fact is of no worth.
We don't want to learn from blunders,
Neither made by many others,
Nor we made in our past.
I expect a lot of thunders
Caused by freedom-loving "brothers",
Whom my words could make aghast.
You, who heard me up to here!
Am I mixing motley issues –
Sex and Right of any Speech?
'He that hath his ears to hear,
Let him hear!' Or let him eschew!
You just listen, I beseech!
I have chosen these two matters
Just because they are related
Closely to a moral theme:
Do we have to follow Nature?
Will be Moral abrogated?
Shall we do up self-esteem?
I could say I reached an age when
I have questions more than answers.
Let me ask you three or four.
For example, what did Heavens
Give the sexual resources
To a human being for?
Now they say: not Reproduction,
(Which I treated as a purpose),
Just a Pleasure is the goal!
Such belief raised an instruction
To convert Celestial Corpus
To a body with no soul.
What particularly galls me, –
Woman's image is deprived of
An enigma that I liked.
Hawking women means a soul smear,
Body parts for public idol…
No one has to be a knight!
Why respond to calls of Nature
On TV-screens and in public?
What's the purpose? What I miss?
Sure, you think I am a hatcher
Crying fie upon the Stars lick…
Yes, I hate when Stars hack Kiss.
Vulgarizing kisses essence,
Making sex in public presence,
Handling women as a beef…
What a saleable idea:
Handle Sex as diarrhea,
Which doesn't stop but gives relief!
They are building what, our stardom?
Lavatory? Dormitory?
Madhouse breakdown epilogue?
Now we have False Mirrors Kingdom:
No – romantic 'West Side Story',
Yes – 'Vagina Monologue'!?
Sexualizing kids for purpose
By repainted pop-biz "workers"
Is acclaimed by many fans…
No Saint Claus, no Feast of Corpus,
But whole bunch of rape tear-jerkers,
And disputing youth on cans...3
Do I have a lot to choose from
On the countless TV channels?
Sorry, I forgot the guns,
And maelstrom of freaky sitcoms
With a lot of witty danglers…
And all this goes month-by-month.
Am I blind? No, I don't think so.
I am perfectly aware
Of depravity of folks.
What afflicts me, cuts my heart, though, –
Spreading lewdness through the air,
Tromping ethics till it chokes.
Yes, I know, we have Amendments
That allow to be a moron.
Question's: what to use them for?
Free speech used to oust Commandments
Was applied to take the Moral
Out of public sight and core.
Morbid mind of drug-addicted
Surfeited with orgy pleasures
Makers of the public shows
Heroizes those convicted
Who shape dongs in their cages,4
Loathing the Allegiance Oath.
Did they think, the country Founders,
That their chivalrous ideas
Would disgracefully be spurned?
Well, expounded by the bounders
So that even donkey ears
Are ashamed and red like burned.
With no shame it's called "the Freedom",
Civil Liberties Expression,
Man-Boy Love Alliance trend…
Oh, false mirrors, let me be numb
To resist the apes aggression
That oppresses with no end!
We are threatened with bereavement:
Dusk of culture spreads its umbra,
And to me, all things look blue.
Strike me dead, such an achievement!
That I'd live to see "Heil5 NAMBLA!",
"Es lebe hoch6 ACLU!"
1 Comstock, Anthony, 1844-1915, American reformer; led crusades against obscenity.
2 boarders - inhabitants of brothels.
3 disputing youth on cans. – for instance, significant part of 'Ellie McBeal'
series runs on toilet bowls in bi-sexual W.C. "Toilet theme" is being now
widely spread, becoming more and more bi-sexual, naked, and detailed.
There is a chance to get even more details soon from a camera installed inside of a toilet bowl, I assume.
4 those convicted who shape dongs in their cages – remember the "concerts"
(organized, supported, and promoted by HBO) of convicted murders.
5 Heil (German) – Long live
6 Es lebe hoch (German) – Long live
Constantine Ivanov, January 24, 2004, NY        
(Spenserian stanza)
I know it's many years as I am dead.
I mean my soul lost linkage with my mind.

Of course, my body is still far from end:

I’m even doing something, but as blind,

Because my brain already has declined.

It doesn't think, and thus confutes Déscartes:

It works, but by itself is not opined,

It is unable generating art,

It does exist, but very far from broken heart.
January 17, 2004
Constantine Ivanov: "The Etched", New York 2005        
Cogito ergo sum1, told us a thinker,
So, then I don't exist because I cannot think:

I am exhausted; I am deadly tired…

I have no power, which is still required

To clasp by thoughts my deeply frozen feelings

Without approaching closer to the brink.
My poor Descartes! Why were you so naïve?
You couldn't predict, most likely, what would happen

In some few hundred years long after you had lived…

I'm sure to you this was just out of question -

The way of life folks have accepted here.

Today, to talk of mind is nothing but bad gesture.
René, you raised the mind and body problem
The "I" of the "I think" is mind that can exist,

And can in principle survive the death of body…

Believe me, my Cartesi2, I am not a toady,

But this is what I too was taking as a gist

Despite the atheists who've gotten so much pablum3.
René, I'm catching your concern: you have been thinking
Of human mind per se in very abstract terms

The thing is, though, that now whoever's speaking

Neglects the very essence, just politely squirms

The mind itself has grounded in its meanings…

We now cannot discuss without yet being hurt.
Déscartes, I say, old boy! You look like d'Artagnán4,
(OK, he's younger, rather – vice versa…)

with your regardant eyes, with sassy roguish smile!

I'll bet my shirt that you've been full of guile!
What on the Earth could make you stooge? - Un rien5!
Except, maybe, Eternal Ice and Ursa…
Meanwhile, a northern icy land brought to the world –
The bona fide6 Snow Queen named Christina7,

Whose habit drawing tangents sharp at five o'clock

Turned suddenly to be a forceful magic stroke,

That made you toil before dawns to the Palace,

To get pneumonia, and die still far from old.
You see what happened then? It's so amazing!
René, you are alive while I am almost dead…

Cartesian method, tensor, rule, Cartesian net,

And tons of philosophical conceptions

Evoking incompatible perceptions…

René, you drive me absolutely crazy!
Can I apply your understanding of the mind
To shreds and scraps of thoughts that overswell me?

I don't believe: a set of snippets undefined

Is what is cutting out the thinking process

All my reflections look like cockamamie,

And I just can’t get rid of galling nonsense.
Few minutes of the news while drinking coffee,
Then trudging, just like you, to my obnoxious work,

In stupid torpor see thought scraps across my head,

Completely losing any Ariadne's8 thread,

And as a boxer who has caught a deadly knock,

I feel myself just like a walking coffin.
Lord, gracious me! I cannot find the power
To gather shreds of thoughts into a worthy piece…

My bad presentiments cause me to cower.

It shocks me, and I'm freezing in a rigor.

How can I sharply cease this fleetingness caprice?

My final bower's being made by digger.
René, you know, my brain is doing nothing:
It generates no one well-shaped important thought;

Oh, my! Can it be true my time is passing?

Whatever I have made is brought today to naught!

So, whom then on the Earth should I be cursing?

There is no one to blame that I became an ought.
My trivial round leaves me no time to think.
My thoughts are focusing on daily cares:

I'm wriggling stubbornly but to no purpose,

And sense of life is being lost in prayers.

How to become a true Celestial Corpus

If constant struggle forces me to sink?
You see, René, it's not what life is meaning –
To be like animals whose only cark is meal.

What really could make one a human being

Is sublimated thoughts that force his brain to peal.

You are "res nullius communis usus"9

Because you lived for work, not worked to live, with zeal.
And maybe, God forbid, I'm mad as hatter,
A very strange belief came to my mind today;

Some weird impression starts to grow and flutter:

One has to die; and the more young the better:

This is the term to get eternal life!

No immortality while one is still alive!

How can I throw such strong belief away?
1 Cogito ergo sum (Latin) – I think, therefore I am; Pronunciation: koh-GIH-toh EHR-goh suum
2 Cartesi (from Latin form of Descartes, Cartesius; pronunciation: car-TE-see).
3 pablum – from Pablum, a trademark for an infant cereal; same as pabulum: intellectual sustenance; something (as writing or speech) that is insipid, simplistic, or bland.
4 D'Artagnán - a real historical person (1615-1673), the hero of A. Dumas' novels. Pronunciation: dar-tan-NIAN.
5 Un rien (French) – A mere nothing. Pronunciation: Ã rĵą (if anybody knows what the heck is this; anyway, should be close to the ending of
bona fide (Latin) – here: pure, genuine; pronunciation: BO-n&-FI-de.
Christina, Queen of Sweden (1626-1689) – being 24-years old, invited Déscartes to teach her math and geometry.
8 Ariadne - daughter of Minos who helps Theseus escape from a labyrinth.
9 res nullius communis usus (Latin, legal term) – Nobody's thing of common use.
Constantine Ivanov, December 2003, New York        
Cogito ergo sum*, сказал мыслитель...
Выходит, нет меня, раз я не мыслю...
Я истощён, я до смерти устал,
Мне не хватает сил, я неспособен стал
Схватить словами мертвенные чувства,
Не приближая пропасть, над которой висну.
Декарт, родной! Какой же ты наивный!
Наверняка, не мог вообразить ты,
Как измельчает жизнь чрез сотни лет, увы...
Рене, ты был бы поражён, что люди как от ливня
Бегут от всех мыслительных усилий...
Всё, что не хлеб насущный, им противно.
Рене, в твоём биноме "мысль и тело"
Местоименье "Я" в "Я мыслю" – разум,
Что существует и способен пережить
Смерть тела самого... Декарт, ты смог ожить...
Не льщу, но для меня он тоже самый важный,
Хоть атеистов это, может быть, задело.
Рене, я начал понимать, о чём ты мыслил:
О разуме per se в понятиях абстрактных...
Сейчас – другое: все страшатся истин,
Бегут от сути, странно выражаясь как-то,
И разум сразу приземлился в смыслах...
И рта открыть нельзя, не вызвав чей-то гнев.
Декарт, послушай, друг! Ты словно д'Артаньян
(Ну, хорошо, пусть, óн – как ты: ты старше):
Лукавый взгляд, надменная усмешка,
Подвижные черты, ты вечно в спешке...
Кого слуги ты роль мог взять? – De rien!**
Не ведал ты ещё, что там на марше.
Тем временем, в стране чужой недаром
Принцесса до рассвета уж садилась
За формулы...Её привычка стала
Злым роком, что тебя врасплох застала,
Заставив по ночам брести в её Дворец,
Чтоб ты простыл и умер далеко не старым.
Ты знаешь, что потом случилось? Странно....
Рене, ты всё живой, а я почти уж мёртв...
Декартов метод, сеть, сам чёрт не разберёт,
И тонны философских рассуждений,
Что и сейчас рождают сонмы мнений...
Рене, ну как тут не сойти с ума нам?
Твою трактовку разума как приложить
К обрывкам мыслей, я которых полон?
Не мыслей даже, а клочков – как с ними жить?
Весь этот мусор череп заполняет:
Как ни старайся, застревает колом,
И не могу избавить мозг от дряни.
За кофе слушаю известий теле-дробь,
Потом тащусь, как ты, в постылый офис,
И забредаю в мыслей теней лабиринт,
Где я совсем теряю Ариадны нить...
Невидимый боксёр стучит в гипофиз,
И ощущаю: я – бредущий гроб.
О, Боже! Ну, откуда ж силам взяться,
Чтоб вытянуть себя на свет из-за кулис?
Плохое чувство заставляет сжаться,
Оно вгоняет в мертвенный озноб...
Как прекратить той мимолётности каприз?
А мне приют уж роет землекоп.
Рене, ты видишь, мозг мой обездвижен,
И он не производит больше ничего.
Неужто правда, что мой час приближен?
Всему, что сделал я, цена – швырнуть в окно...
Ну, на кого могу я быть обижен?
Кто ж виноват, что я теперь – никто!
Рутина дробит мысли в крошки-ноты,
Погряз я в повседневных мелочах,
Безрезультатно всё мой разум тщится,
И жизни смысл теряется в речах
Молитвенных...Как к небу причаститься,
Когда с борьбой уходишь в глубь болота?
Рене, мой друг, неужто жизнь – всего лишь
Жить, как животное, что жадно только ест?
Нет, ясно: человека званья стоишь,
Когда оркестра мыслей слышен благовест.
Ты потому "res nullius communis usus",***
Что для тебя работа – жизни страсть и крест.
Помилуй, Бог! Со мной – тяжёлый случай?
В мозгу вдруг резко ощущаю жженье!
Чувств странных заволакивают тучи:
Ты должен умереть, и раньше – лучше,
Жизнь вечную со смертью только обретёшь!
И нет бессмертия, пока ещё живёшь!
Как я отрину это наважденье?
* Я мыслю, следовательно я существую (лат.)
** Никого (фр.)
*** Ничейная вещь общего пользования (юр. лат.)
Константин Иванов, Февраль 18, 2004, New York        
(written in Spenserian stanza* style)
A fellow asked me if I like the Prose
I said the Poetry attracts me more.

I started thinking if I should disclose

What I abhor, and things that I adore…

I could envision: Love, Deep Night, Ashore,

Of course, engrossing passions ardent swirl

But who didn't limn poetical Amor?

And who will read such "literature pearl"?

Thus, in the end my doubts have made my feelings curl.
This issue touched my soul, and jogged my brain
To answer many questions to myself.

I have to grasp what good can I attain,

What is beyond my skills, what's on the shelf…

Shall I remain a spiritual elf,

A gremlin yielding nothing but bad luck?

Should learn my own inside or coolly shelve?

Am I a buck, or I can run amuck?

Shall I pass life's exam, or wait for spin and pluck?
To make my choice of style, in which to write,
Is similar to having thrown the dice:

What stripe a zebra starts from black or white?

But how to find from where the verses rise?

They say the prose is easier for lies

Because there are no rhymes to set constraints.

You still can look into the people eyes,

And be not blushing for your crazy paints

You might be using with no ethical restraints
Because of Right of Speech, you're free to spin
The truth, the facts, whatever you prefer.

You may completely fill your prose with sin,

And still, despite all dirt, meet no demur.

Or you can choose some neutral themes to purr.

I spent a lot of time to make my choice

From many styles that can create a stir,

Attract the public to my tone of voice:

From now, the verses are the style I might rejoice.
Do verses mean poetic love? Of course!
But should they be romantic only? No!

They'd be politicized with no remorse,

Or word-paint summer rain and winter snow.

The strings of words let me apply my bow

To play the tunes more rich than you'd expect.

Oh, such prodigious range – from wow to woe!

I hope there are no themes my tunes neglect.

But if I fail, can then my heart be deeper wrecked?
The poems are a mix of art and craft.
If they miss art, then craft just hammers out

The lines of verse with rhymes a brush-like daft.

I know my piece sounds not like Schubert's "Trout",

But hopefully it's yet above a flout.

I tell you: writing stanzas is a cloak

To hide the fact I'm sour like sauerkraut.

What kind of feelings can my tongue evoke?

Don't blame me, this my verse is nothing but a joke!
* Nine-lines verse with rhyme scheme "ababbcbcc"
Constantine Ivanov, January 21-30, 2004, New York        
Anapaest, iambus, trochee,
Amphibrach, dactylic rhythm, -
Are you mad? Such words are choky…
Who can sip this "show-off-ism"?
Who can mention things like Stanza,
Rondeau, Sonnet, Villanelle?
Only those who gripped bonanza,
Whom the poor folks just don't ail.
Surfeited with rust and batten,
They excel in verbiage.
They can not be our pattern,
Let them write for baronage.
All such things as oxymoron,
Ballad, Couplet, Serenade…
Do they think I am a moron?
Who can like this bull charade?!
Synecdoche is also part of
Crazy things like Paradox…
Damn your Homer, damn your Dante!
Give us freedom, you, an ox!
All we want - to count the money,
And should not take all your crap.
In your staff, there's nothing funny;
Our idol is the Rap!
Constantine Ivanov, February 1, 2004, NY        
My dear Senator, you were accused
Of plagiary you used in public speech.
Believe me, I am stunned, I am confused,
Am on my knees…just listen, I beseech.
You think you really need what someone said?
How wonderful! It means you read a lot;
It also means that you aren't the bighead.
Just never let your colleagues hit your blot!
Remember: cites you use in your outreach
Are an expression of your own thoughts;
And nobody should blame you for a breach!
Just learn one trick, and you'll stem all onslaughts.
You understand? Let say, you have to quote.
Don't mention it! Say something in reverse:
"Sir Kinnock happily expressed my thought,"
And then just quote. It's simple, nice, and terse.
Constantine Ivanov, February 10, 2004, New York        
First, you have to spend some money:
Buy a disk, a lexicon…
Next, sit down on your tatami,
Take a breath, and start to learn.
You should read a lot of verses,
Learn the structure of the rhymes,
Try them straight and vice versa,
Let your brain be dinned like chimes.
When you feel you are now ready,
Start composing by yourself:
Using rhymes like 'ready-eddy',
Write a story "Puck and Elf".
Your last step: to take precaution,
And compare that what you wrote
With a famous poems ocean,
Which your first grade teacher taught.
                                 (Aside: I wish…)
Don't be stunned if you discover
All you wrote is old or bad.
Let it be a cooling shower
Right upon your heated head.
What you asked? Oh, skills and talent?
I am sorry, I forgot.
You like verses? Don't be silent!
For the rest - rely on God!
Constantine Ivanov, February 10, 2004, New York        
(imitating, almost translating Ilya Selvinsky)
If I'd be forced to make a sad decision
Forsaking you forever, then my grief
Would be that I'd have no more vision
Of lids of yours, your tender charming lips.
But even bigger grief I have to wait for
Is that if you would ask me for the trysts,
I should refuse them just to keep the core,
Preserving thus your love from heists.
Constantine Ivanov, February 18, 2004, NY        
My Dear Mel, I'm proud of your existence!
Not that I am a Christian, or a Jew,
Nor that I worship your fantastic art persistence,
But I'm offended by, and sick of people
Who're spreading words of "controversy"
About your "Passion" full of mercy,
Who never turn their eyes to any steeple,
But always to their wallet, and to what they chew.
While having sex and violence spread widely,
We hear the "moralists" indignant voice,
Who suddenly awoke, and rushed condemning blindly
Your movie for the violence promotion…
Prosthetic chastity paraded,
The essence of the film is faded…
In fact, your movie sharply put a caution
About the crowd that showed how blood makes them rejoice.
Oh, crowd…how often have you showed your power!
From Gods of Greece thru Babylon to Christ…
You joyfully sent people to the stake's last hour,
You lifted up that Lenin, Hitler, Castro;
You may persist in hounding Ainu1,
Or make an anus a vagina…
And now we all are facing a disaster
Of losing moral core. That's why He sacrificed.
My thanks to you, my dear human Gibson!
The problem that you raised beyond the frame -
The throng's origin does not matter: Gaul or Gypsy,
Chinese, or Jew, or any other nation…
Pilátus2 washed his hands, and moochers,
Led by the shams, determined future.
That's how we start the conscience abrogation.
So WE decide our soul to be in flame or fame.
1 Ainu - indigenous people of Japan, now inhabiting parts of
Hokkaido, Sakhalin, and the Kuril Islands.
2 Pilatus (in English - Pilate) - Pronounce as in Latin: pE-'lä-tus
Constantine Ivanov, February 28, 2004, NY        
Дайте спросить, что такое любовь...
Те, кто смелее и понахальней,
Тут же – про клитор, влагалище, кровь,
Сперму, и рёбра на секс-наковальне.
Есть поэтессы, горючая смесь,
Им любовь – сходка мартовских кошек,
А мужики, чтоб с нас матом сбить спесь,
Кучу дерьма, как укроп, нам накрошат.
Те, кто на Пушкине прочно застрял,
"Стоп" знак Мгновенью, как полицейский.
А модернист тут такого напрял,
Хоть посылай в грязьлечебницу в Ейске.
Нет, ребятишки, не знаете вы...
Вовсе любовь – не секс вместе с матом.
Жизнь всю ползти сквозь ухабы и рвы,
Бок о бок выжить, и так – до заката.
Constantine Ivanov, March 7, 2004, NY        
Secluded from the finest words
By English as my Second language,
I am coerced to swallow girds,
Exchanging pennies for a sandwich.
It would be stupid me to think
About creating English poems.
My only task is not to sink
Into the day-by-day annoyance.
And still, I'm dreaming all the time,
I give a free range to my fancy:
My art became a paradigm,
My course is straight, my mood is dancy…
I see I'm tanning on a bay,
My hammock swings, the sun shines lazy,
My wineglass sparkles, my girl's like jay,
And lotus-eating drives me crazy.
Bang! boss knocked me, and I awoke…
No girls, no hammock, sun is crazy,
Back to the basement where I work;
From there my future does look hazy.
Of course, my fancy is worth zilch:
Although some strangers wrote in Russian,
Nabokov's fame is not to filch,
My vision's just a brain concussion.
So, I am back to my routine:
I'm calling, calling, calling, calling,
Suppressed by boss, like a machine,
And all my life's extremely boring.
But no! I shall not stay with this!
I want to write my English verses!
You might think: this is a caprice…
You're wrong! I'll show my universes!
Constantine Ivanov, March 10, 2004, NY        
(Dear Mr. Howard Stern, I am so thankful that it
was not you who wrote my English Textbook!
Tell me how many words I need
To properly express my feelings?
Of course, I want to get a meed
By showing where are human ceilings.
How to decide how many words?
Let us pretend: each word's a "pinger".
How many pingers point the roads?
You know, just one: it's index finger.
So, what we have? One finger-word
Expresses pretty simple notion.
But wait: recall that guy in court?
You flipped the bird - he's got commotion.
So, it's the proof - we don't need words,
Shakespeare's a laughable exception:
TV, presenting famous hordes,
Has proved: word loads lead to deception.
That's why the talk-star Howard Stern
Has chosen two-three most effective,
Which Hollywood has made us learn,
But - look! - the Court found as defective.
Thus, human ceiling is one word,
Which can embrace all the emotions;
But those Republicans on board
Kill truly real freedom options.
Oh my! Where is my Right of Speech?
Republicans deny my freedom!
Why can't I "f" them, all and each?
My faith's the Whoredom and the free Damn.
Constantine Ivanov, March 13, 2004, NY        
Квадрат, черта, ленивый круг,
Немного светло-черной краски...
Так создан образ, враз и вдруг, –
Цветочница в немецкой каске.
Малевич (ясно, это – он)
Своим густым геометризмом,
Как опъяневший фанфарон,
Справляет по искусству тризну.
Он поднимает свой бокал
За упокой всего искусства.
Всем мастерам он доказал,
Что век – иной: слепых, но шустрых.
Свою теорию подвел
Под неизбежность разрушенья
Всего, что мир пред ним обрел,
Чтоб было ясно, что Он – гений.
...Реальность – бред, сознанья нет,
Есть только Чувства превосходство,
Всем надоел любви портрет,
И нет нужды в объекта сходстве.
Творцов картин усохших рать
Протухла жалким реализмом,
И что за радость украшать
Дома бордюром или фризом!
Зачем годами создавать
Тончайший образ в красок кладке?
Куда как проще наклепать
Таких картин – как сельдей в кадке.
На деле, ребусы с картин
Взывают к Ханжеству, не к чувству.
Обман толпы – супрематизм:
"На белом – белым"..., чтоб вам пусто...
Пусть на холсте всего пять черт,
Аукционы не пропустят:
Всегда найдется дурень-ферт,
Что за мазню все деньги спустит.
Художник ясно доказал:
Когда пижон искусство судит,
Неважно – кисть или вокал,
Искусства больше уж не будет.
(В Мае 2005 на аукционе Сотби впервые не продалась картина В. Кандинского.
Не знаю, как Вам, а мне, бывшему активному проповеднику модернизма, это говорит о многом)
Constantine Ivanov, March 14, 2004, NY        
(Помните? "Служил Гаврила хлебопеком, Гаврила булки выпекал...")
Я встал сегодня с думою о песне,
Которую собрался написать.
Я к славе путь – локтями, если тесно,
Всего-то дел – чуть-чуть порифмовать.
Я думал – просто взял одну статейку,
Немножко повертел ее в руках,
И как последний массовик-затейник, –
Раз плюнуть, – изложил ее в стихах.
Но оказалось вдруг – их не читают,
Таких стихов – завал, хоть пруд пруди,
Друзья услышат – крепко отругают...
Но все равно рука писать зудит.
Мне объяснили: к рифмам нужен образ,
Стихи без образов – как мотылек.
А где ж их взять, коль образ вам – не вобла?

Выходит, к славе путь еще далек.
Constantine Ivanov, March 15, 2004, NY        
(dedicated to my own memory)
…otium cum dignitate*!
What a fragrant word!
Your clarion-like sound, a pure one, clear and joyful…
You called a Muse, and she agreed to come to my internal world
In order to amuse…but I was fool,
And nothing left to mend:
I didn't realize what truly my Muse meant.
* merited repose
Constantine Ivanov, March 18, 2004, NY        
(To my schoolmate I. Volgin, to his teenage love, to my youth times)
Dear Igor, remember? You've been in a glow of love, but she ignored you, and you would write this:
Extinct word stubs…lulled pain…
You played a blindman's bluff with me, and with yourself…
The Sun's been laughing festively, and dazzling us by joy,
But you have taken it away from me, that joy, you've taken it, and only for yourself.
It is so natural for you that if you write then you don't stop, you never stop up to the dot;
Oh yes, it is your nature: if you love, - up to the tears…
But if you want to get a star, star from the sky, - you can't,
You cannot do, you just can't do alone…
We both felt in love with the same girl-schoolmate, remember?
Constantine Ivanov, March 24, 2004, NY        
(To the memory of my dear elder brother who joined me
and our mom in Pyatigorsk in August 1953, being so excited...
A tango's sobbing in the distance;
A chain of lights is being stretched away;
Glowworms are soaring in the spicy air,
As well as chirping of cicadas.
The hush is seeable, it is so tense, and sheer;
The air is dense, so mellow, velvet, plushy...
And I assume: perhaps the sense of smell
is here the major one of all the feelings...
Constantine Ivanov, March 24, 2004, NY        
Oh, happy faces of Iraqi kids!
All what they need to be so happy -
to watch how an American, just deadly wounded, bleeds,
to drag his corps along the streets,
to crow with daddies, and rejoice
while burning bodies, like old toys,
of "the Americans so crappy"!
Fallújah, Mósul, Gáza, Ramalláh,
You all are similar twin brothers
Bound by consanguineous relation by Alláh!
But all those victim bodies, too,
Are also bounded by the blood,
Their death, though, did not put a dot:
Their souls effulge through any smothers!
* You might want to take a look at some photos I've got a chance to gather from the Internet
  Our dear world-widely spread Political Correctness made those photos disappear since they
  make ACLU and some of our Senators very unhappy because these latter entities are a lot 
  more worried about how terrorists feel as if hiding atrocities committed by enemies, will make
  them friends.
Constantine Ivanov, March 31, 2004, NY        
(What our 2003 invasion of Iraq means for the Civilization)
My dear readers, listeners, and friends!
Please realize: this verse is not a lesson,
Although I've tried to trace historic trends,
There is some stuff I have been forced to lessen.
Dark clouds, dark coastline, and dark times
Encouraged Berber's leader
Defeating Spanish Christian chimes,
And be Islamic feeder.
Muézzins screech has overturned
Short-life Rodrigo's kingdom;
Eight hundred years the Culture burned,
Suppressed by Moors, and dwindled.
The Muslim conquerors have ruled
Until the Middle Ages.
Then, they surrendered, wooed and fooled:
Granada was courageous.
What Europe earned, what Europe learned
From life of Spanish people?
Alhambra has been raised, and World
Became a moral cripple.
Another Moors achievement was
They gave Shakespeare "Othello".
But else…what else can win applause?
An Arab playing cello?
Moroccans, Arabs, and so forth, -
They taught historic lesson;
That's why again Islamic hordes
Replaced the soul by crescent.
They took all Europe, Middle East,
Constantinople's fallen.
By Ottoman Empire's fist
The Freedom has been stolen.
New danger from the Eastern world:
The Golden Horde's been settled.
Long years, until the yoke's been hurled,
The continent was nettled.
The Suras swot led by imams;
Like mortars, aiming asses;
They learn to kill, forgetting moms,
But moms themselves take classes.
Traditions of Assassins schools
Are spread by propaganda;
Oh World! Wake up! They nurture ghouls.
We see pro-pagan gun's dawn.
Regain your consciousness, my friends!
Digest the gloomy lesson!
Islam is not a peaceful trend:
Since birth, it was aggressive.
Please find me any Holy text
That teaches killing kuffar*!
Vedanta? Bible? Zen? What next?
Come on, don't spin a cuffer!
I wonder: what "peace lovers" miss?
Their fathers lost poor Europe:
Those did not hear the Nazis hiss,
These hope for parley syrup?
Naivety has never helped
To solve a major problem;
Don't spend your time for having whelped
Just Hollywood freak pablum.
We want to live? We have to fight
To save Civilization.
Against us - rabid Moslems' might,
And we are on probation.
* infidels
Constantine Ivanov, March 20, 2004, NY        
(Think of this poem as if it is a Classroom Billboard)
My dear readers, listeners, and friends!
Please realize: this verse is not a lesson,
Although I've tried to trace historic trends,
There still is stuff I have been forced to lessen.
A calendar-like table would make sense
To prove the facts and make perception easy.
Some people treat my poems as offence,
But I don't want to make the story pleasing.
610 A.D.1- Mohámmed has been taught
By God's command "to preach the true religion".
622 A.D.2 - for sake of God
To fight the foes of Moslems was his vision.
628 A.D.3 - by his allies,
A war against the Christians has been started.
632 A.D.4 - Mohámmed dies;
Arabia became by Islam charted.
6355 - the Moslem forces jumped
the Persian land in bloody Háfir battle.
6366- al-Kháttab has now thumped
Byzantium*; then Palestine was rattled.7
Next year - Mesopotamia was seized,
The land of nations first civilization.
6408 - Syria and Egypt fell to beast:
al-Kháttab kept Islam colonization.
6989 - North Africa's turn came:
a launching pad for further occupations.
More thirteen years - and Europe is in flame:
Rodrigo's Kingdom's worst anticipations.
The next year was the end of Visigoths:
Rodrigo was defeated by the Muslims.
82710 - Moors brought Arabs God
To Sicily and Rome with their customs.
125811 - Hulágu, Mongol Khan,
Kills Abdulláh, the last Abbásids Caliph.
Instead, Islamic Mamluks Turkic clan
Enforces Ottoman Empire's value.
The Seljuk Turks expansion has provoked
A sharp response from Christian Western Europe:
109712 - part of West unyoked;
Crusaders did not want the Turks to gallop.
120413 - The Forth Crusade conquered
Constantinople, Eastern Christians sire.
Seljukian successors still have sprawled;
For hundreds years the world was set afire.
123614 - now Russia is subdued
By Khan Batú, another Mongol Leader.
Next, Génghis Khan's grandson, with promptitude,
Invaded Europe, Muslims throne big feeder!
From China to the Adriatic Sea
The "Tartar" conqueror's Empire's swollen.
Now the entire Western world can see:
The normal life of culture has been stolen.
The Golden Horde has ruled two hundred years
Until the Khánate has become a vassal:
Almighty Ottoman Empire spears
Put all Islamic branches in a hassle.
Five hundred sixty years ago - the Turks**
Have nearly crushed the Coalition Army.
Southeastern Europe's stabbed by Turkish dirks;
Obsessed-by-squabbles Europe's doleful karma!
In 145315, the Ottomans
Established Anatolia Empire;
About five hundred years those Ahrimans
Made southern Europe and Mideast bemire.
There is much more what one can tell about:
The Cáliph ar-Rashíd, and Marco Polo…
But our task is different this bout,
And we still have the main point yet to follow.
Eighth century - a new religious sect,
Which took the name ad-Dáwa al-Jadéda,
Was actually a group of brigands "wrecked",
Who used a dagger as a "fair-hairéda"***.
Those Shia Nízaris, called fedayéen,
Which means, in fact, "a person who is ready
To sacrifice his life for his sect dean",
Put the entire world into an eddy.
They set the brisk Afghanistan Silk Road
Into a trap to plant Islamic Order.
109016- they established an abode
In fortress Álamut for teaching murder.
Hassán-i Sábbah, founder of the sect,
The charismatic leader of Hashsháshin,
Devised some tricks he put into effect
To make each member wish to train in bashing.
By training, they're subjected to the rites
As those in which a member got a feeling
Of looming danger of a death and fights,
But wakes by Heaven feast with virgins kneeling.
Such mystery hallucination stemmed
From drugging supplicants, which makes them willing
To see again those Heaven Houris gemmed,
And follow Sábbah's orders, simply killing.
My tour into the history is done.
So, who they are, those sectaries Hashsháshin?
From Marco Polo to the recent dawn,
We know them now quite simply as Assassins.
* You might want to take a look at pictures I gathered on the Internet
All Arabic names have accent sign ´ conveniently showing the stress required.
The dates should be read as a natural part of verses!
Reading instruction (numbers), and tips (asterisks)
1 Six ten A.D. (Six hundred ten)
2 Six twenty two A.D. (Six hundred twenty two)
3 Six twenty eight A.D. (Six hundred twenty eight)
4 Six thirty two A.D. (Six hundred thirty two)
5 Six thirty five
6 Six thirty six
7 Byzantine (Eastern Roman) Emperor Heraclius (610-641)
8 Six forty
9 Six ninety eight
10 Eight twenty seven
11 Twelve fifty eight
12 Ten ninety seven
13 Twelve hundred four
14 Twelve thirty six
** In 1444
15 Fourteen fifty three
*** (informal) favorite
16 Ten ninety
Constantine Ivanov, April 9, 2004, NY        
(Translation of I. Krylov*'s fable, July 2003)
Let crayfish, swan and pike
Draw heavy loaded cart,
Each being just a part
Of harness they dislike.
They try a lot, and everyone
Starts pulling it with zeal;
The problem is that each of them
With his path wants to deal!
The swan makes upward for a cloud,
The crayfish falls behind;
The pike dives sharply in the deep,
And cart moves not from site.
The moral of the verse is that
Accordance should prevail
Amid the people who have plans
To work but not in vain.
* Ivan Krylov – Russian fables writer (1769-1844).
It's pretty much obvious that this fable was  written specifically about our
Administration, Pentagon, and State Department under
Colin L. Powell, Secretary of State, Term of Appointment: 01/20/2001 to 01/26/2005
Constantine Ivanov, July 2003, NY        
Why prose is easier for lies?
No rhymes to pose any restrictions;
You still can look quite straight in eyes
Without a blushing for your fictions.
And squabbling also is allowed
When you express yourself through notions,
Which you outspeak so strong and loud
That they start serving you as potions.
That is why I have made my choice:
Defining thoughts of mine in verses;
It gives a chance to well rejoice
At being clean of any curses.
Of course, don't take what I just said
As sacred cow, or final judgment:
We always have to look ahead…
Cross swords, and get a crossword pungent!
Constantine Ivanov, April 11, 2004, New York        
(From a series "Naïve questions of a friendly alien")
Americans, I need your friendly hand!
With all your perfect Right of Speech and Conscience,
I still should be advised, which words are banned,
Since some of them still may provoke rough motions.
To me, it happened like a brain concussion:
I came to you with English that I studied hard
By books translated closely into Russian,
But my vocabulary soon proved to be barred.
Please don't forget: it is my Second language,
I don't pretend to be an expert in the speech;
I should confess: it still may cause my lungs glitch.
In point of fact, my goal indeed is not to preach.
Well, let me ask, and you then will decide
What you can answer, what should be abandoned.
I can assume you'll put a lot aside;
Your silence, too, can help me to get hardened.
Before I start, I want to give a warning:
Political correctness is beyond my strengths.
Aside from that, my quiz will not be boring
Because its straightness may, in fact, affect its length.
OK, let's start! Assume, as an example,
I saw a swastika that marred a synagogue;
The flower beds and graves are also trampled,
And slogans written by a Nazi demagogue.
So what I do? Start damning? Sounding off?
Or call police to have them all arrested?
But who to blame? Police will simply scoff!
Now, tell me what for Jews are so detested?
We know that from the dawn of our era
Anti-Semitic bashings have been widely spread.
"The conscience is not more than a chimera", -
Hey, trashers! It's exactly what your Hitler said.
And when I hear some absolutely madmen
Unblushing lawyers ardently defending thugs,
I feel the Fathers of the First Amendment
Didn't think their purity'll be used by dirty bugs.
"A swastika is simply an expression;
As such, it is protected by the Right of Speech", -
Aren't words like these supporting an aggression?
So, don't you think such words become a Moral's breach?
The freedom-lovers - that's what they pretend,
As if they love it more than all the others.
Result? It's killers' rights what they defend,
And for such "freedom" they can kill their mothers.
Apparently I'm not yet freedom-ready:
My understanding of the rights is conscience-based.
To me, the Moral should be always steady,
And all the court decisions shouldn't be heady:
The freedom we adhere should not be poison-laced.
Who deems the rights of thugs we are defending
Are more important than the rights of decent folks?
Oh Lord, just tell me where we shall be ending
With such Democracy resembling ghastly jokes!
…In gloomy darkness of a gloomy street
You have been lucky to disarm a gangster.
Then you released him, saying "Be discreet!"
But what he's done? He killed you, such a prankster!
Next, I attend your obsequies in sorrow…
"Say nothing of the dead but only what is good" -
This is the rule I still would like to follow…
My Goodness! Human rights in hands of such a coot?
OK, you aren't a coot but a decedent…
And even better: you, my friend, are still alive.
Your action's, though, as stupid as transcendent,
And if we do the same, I doubt we could survive.
You follow me? It's good, but I am done:
I cannot put all questions in one session.
There are some rules that I have overrun…
And I'm afraid I'll face now an oppression.
Constantine Ivanov, February 13, 2004, NY        
I've shuddered - an explosion banged nearby,
Exactly - in my heart, my lungs, my head...
All round - leftovers, toing and froing, screaming...
whistles, klaxons, sobbing, tears, and crying...
Tomorrow - more new funeral procedures,
And dust - on all the heads, the shoulders, eyelids…
The mighty army rigid, adamantine squadrons
Will strain again, again will shoot, will pass,
And from the face of Earth erase few empty shelters
Surrounded by the hoots of dudgeon of unbridled,
Embittered cubs, and lads,
Those who're playing with human skulls like soccer,
And throw the bottles of a damn concoction
With playful, waggish Jeroboamish title...
Meanwhile the articles are ready of round-up,
The pillory's awaiting the aggressor.
I have to read and read again that crap
Until I feel my thoughts are getting messy:
The shameless and obeisant inksters lie
Insists that we ourselves are guilty,
And we are worth of nothing but be killed Since this is
Their Land... And when I'll see who usually is signing,
I will - no doubt! - recall my dentist:
My teeth are sickeningly cramping
From sticky mint in pigeon feathers ...
But suddenly I caught a brutal Truth:
our lefty Liberals are simply masochists -
They're capable to finalize the action,
which was begun by Energumen, but not finished…
Constantine Ivanov, May 26, 2004, NY        
Я вздрогнул – взрыв раздался рядом,
Точнее – в сердце, легких, голове...
Вокруг – останки, суетня, и крики...
Свистки, клаксоны, всхлипы, слезы, плач...
А завтра – снова похорон обряды,
И пыль на голове, плечах, и вéках,
И мощной армии суровые отряды
Вновь напрягутся, выстрелят, пройдут,
Сотрут с лица земли пяток пустых сараев
Под крики возмущения разнузданных,
Озлóбленных мальцов,
Тех, что в футбол играют черепами,
Швыряющих бутылки адской смеси
С игривым винно-водочным названьем...
Но уж статьи готовы обозренья,
гвоздящие агрессора к столбу...
И мне читать до омерзенья
Шедевры лжи услужливых писак
Внушающих, что сами мы виновны,
Что нас давно всех надо перебить,
Коль отняли мы их родную Землю...
Увижу подпись под таким подвалом,
И вспомню сразу я дантиста своего:
Мне зубы сводит тошнотворно
От в голубиных перьях липкой мяты...
Вдруг грубая реальность мне открылась:
Все наши борзописцы-либералы –
Всего-то навсего простые мазохисты:
Они способны дело завершить,
Что Бесноватый начал, но не кончил...
Constantine Ivanov, May 26, 2004, NY        
... but Schubert's songs are still being sung already 200 years…
Forgive me, you who feel the rhymes as flat,
Abundance of the waggling rhymes.
Do not reject my verse right off the bat;
I'm still a slave of my viola paradigms.
A sea caressing slick,
And slicking sea caresses:
Port Washington blue creek
In front of me fluoresces.
Afar - a feeble drone
Of motor yachts and speedboats;
Here Aeolus has just blown, -
And air in my old lungs floats.
The water like harp strings
Entrains my soul by ripples,
The soul then sings and dings,
Away from daily prickles.
The silence croons around
By magic scale of sounds:
One hears an auto now,
And then - a mirth of grandsons.
I'm sitting on the shore;
The water plays by sparkles.
I'm drowsing, my thoughts pour,
Like that fish seeing plunkers.
The masts have set the port
With garlands like a bird nest,
Reminding me a torte
I found once on my school-desk.
The sun has warmed my brow,
I do not notice hours.
I'm full of Cretan chow -
Fiesta for all lovers!
I'd sit here till the dawn
To watch the waves and wallow,
But suddenly my wife
Dropped me from sky to hollow:
"You overate this bay…
Please pardon my allusion…"
But I don't want to say
Goodbye to my seclusion.
And if I'll spend in rest
Another five-six minutes,
Don't blame I left my nest,
And worth no more than peanuts.
Of course, let's go, my boots,
Do I have broad selection?
Siberian backwoods
Would be my best election.
I don't want going home.
In fact, tomorrow's Monday:
From basement catacomb,
Not staring at Mrs. Grundy,
Till Friday, I shall phone,
While giving warning coughing,
Insurance no-fault zone,
Extorting payments, bluffing.
Oh, God! I do not want
To gift my years to cellar,
Where even if I'm gaunt -
None saves from that impeller.
I want to write my works,
And revel in my good rhymes;
I wish my sins are quirks
Not graver than a few dimes.
I want the rest of life
To bathe in all my savings…
But due to my bad luck,
It's nothing more than cravings.
While kissing hopes goodbye,
I'll dive into my basement:
I'm forced to step outbye
and bear with life's defacement.
As thus the life will pass,
Attempting to earn money.
My spider-cell, alas,
Is making me a phoney.
Forgot Port Washington,
Amated and dejected,
On sand I draw a throne, -
Me in a tomb erected.
Obeyingly, I plod
Toward my car on parking.
I'm somewhere, I am yawed,
Perhaps, I'm catafalque king.
Constantine Ivanov, June 17, 2004, NY        
...а песни Шуберта – уже 200 лет поют...
Простите мне, кто судит строго,
Обилие качальных рифм.
Не отвергайте от порога
То, что напел альтовый гриф.
Ласкающая гладь
И гладящая ласка:
Порт Вашингтон опять
Передо мной как в сказке.
Из дáли – слабый гул
Моторных яхт и лодок,
А здесь Эол подул, -
И воздух в легких лёгок.
Вода как струны арф
Вибрирующей зябью
Уносит душу вплавь
От повседневной хляби.
И тишина кругом
Волшебной гаммы звуков:
То чудится автó,
То смех далекий внуков.
У бéрега сижу,
Смотрю как скачут блестки,
И грежу наяву,
Как рыба, видя блёсны.
Лес мачт, утыкав порт
Гирляндой строк на карте,
Мне вдруг напомнил торт
На детской школьной парте.
Пригрело солнцем лоб,
Часы не замечаю.
О, этот критский плов, -
Я в нем души не чаю!
Сидел бы до утра
На лавке у причала,
Но тут моя жена
Над ухом закричала:
"Поедем-ка домой,
Пора нам возвращаться!"…
Но со своей скамьей
Я не хочу прощаться.
И если пять минут
Я посижу в покое,
Не ставьте мне в вину,
Что я опять не в строе.
Конечно, я пойду,
Куда же мне деваться!
В сибирскую тайгу
Мне хочется забраться.
Я не хочу домой,
Ведь завтра – понедельник,
И мне опять с тоской
В своей подвальной келье
До пятницы звонить
По страховым компаньям
И выплаты доить
Не затаив дыханье.
О, Боже! Не хочу
Дарить подвалу годы!
Где даже закричу, -
Не вынут из породы.
Хочу писать стихи
И рифмой упиваться,
Хочу в своих грехах
Попутно разобраться.
Хочу остатки лет
Купаться в сбереженьях.
Но у меня их нет, -
Все то же невезенье.
На все махнув рукой,
Спущусь опять в подвал я,
Где годы чередой
Я провожу в изгнаньи.
Вот так и жизнь пройдет
В попытке заработать:
Подвал-паук прядёт
Мне сеть по фене ботать.
В унынье и в тоске,
Забыв о Вашинтоне,
Рисую на песке:
В могиле – я на троне.
Послушно я бреду
К машине на стоянке.
Я – где-то, я – в бреду,
Наверно – в катафалке.
Constantine Ivanov, May 15, 2004, Port Washington, NY        
Мне нужно нравиться, мне очень нужно нравиться:
Грызет неполноценности тоска...
Мой мозг горит, его спасет лишь славица...
Но уж земли пригоршней брошенной над ним стучит доска.
Constantine Ivanov, May 16, 2004, NY        
I want to be pleasing, I want to – indeed! – have appeal:
An anguish of a worthlessness is gnawing…
My brain is burning; and a eulogy would be the only salvage.
But alas, a coffin-lid above is clattering already by a thrown handful of the cloggy earth…
Constantine Ivanov, April 21, 2005, NY        
Мне было сказано – достичь могу всего,
Лишь только заряжусь могучим оптимизмом,
Которым полнится, лучится каждое лицо
На телевидении, в зданиях, в метро...
И если я, как пианист, настроюсь
Гонять арпеджио мажорные в Allegro
То поневоле все, что выйдет из-под пальцев,
Все будет красочно, светло, победно.
Успех программно в этом заключен
Психологическом настрое неустанном,
А все, что отличается, то странно...
И пусть Американский оптимизм,
Что стал второй натурой множества сограждан,
мне путеводною звездой послужит
в метаниях моих по необъятным
просторам джунглей иммигрантских.
И я поверил, я воспрял, я принял,
Решился снова жизнь начать,
И начал я с нуля, но вскоре
Я стал в ознобе замечать,
что открывать всю жизнь с начала -
не то, что сандвич из обертки доставать.
Тот съел иль бросил – нет печали,
А жить надкушенным куском,
Родных терпение теряя,
Любви иссохшей подбирая крошки,
И ощущая безнадежность
всех дерганий прекраснодушных?
Ну, где взять сил для завершенья?
Начав, не кончить, не осуществить,
Не реализовать то, для чего ты начал...
И громко слышны голоса – "не надо было начинать..."
Так в доме у меня, так – в штате, так – в стране,
И вдалеке, на языке библейском...
Но почему же все кончается плебейски?
Ах, чертов оптимизм! Позвольте мне
Опять все тем же пессимистом пребывать...
Constantine Ivanov, May 25, 2004, NY        
It has been said to me - I can achieve it all,
But I should arm myself with mighty optimism,
With which the every face is filled, and shines so brightly
All over: on TV, in buildings, in the subway;
And if I tune myself, just like a piano player,
Who bangs on sonorous arpeggios Allegro,
Then willy-nilly all what leaves from under fingers,
All will be colorful, and bright, and winning;
The actual success is programmatically seated
In such a constant psychological pulsebeat.
Don't be a fly in milk, it would be strange…
And let the vital mighty optimism,
which has become the second nature of our landsmen,
to serve me as a guiding star
in my exhausting evagation
through the immense unfriendly immigrant harsh jungle.
And I've believed, I've risen, I've accepted,
I have agreed to start my life from scratch.
And I've begun from zilch; but shortly
I started noticing in a depressive fever
That to begin the life anew is not the same
as taking a new sandwich out of wrapper...
The latter one: You may have eaten it, or may have thrown out - no grief, who cares...
But life…which's like a nibbled piece,
While losing all the patience of your loved ones,
And scooping up the crumbs of their withered love,
And feeling hopelessness of all my rousing rushes?
Well, where to take some forces for completion?
To start does not yet mean to finish, to accomplish,
To follow out what you have started for…
A flunk…
Loud voices are surrounding me:
"it was not worth to start it…"
So - in my house, and in my state, in the entire country,
And even overseas, in the eternal tongue of Bible...
The best intentions are resulting in a sluggish babble.
Ah, devil's optimism! Let me remain
A boring circumspective pessimist…
Constantine Ivanov, May 25, 2004, NY        
an experts commissioN REPORT
The cause of death – the ruptured pacifism.
Constantine Ivanov, May 31, 2004, NY        
Причина смерти – острый пацифизм.
Constantine Ivanov, May 31, 2004, NY        
(A response to an Evening of the Arab-American Writers and Friends
in 29 Cornelia Street Café on May 1, 2004, where a very skillful
Arab poetess has been reading a professionally very nice, tearful,
heartbreaking Elegy on the Death of a 16-years old Arab boy)
This slogan has to be written in Hebrew, placed all over in Israel, and be addressed to Israelis:
Let's blow up all of us, and make the blast in public!
It will be such great pleasure to the Friends!
A Global Day of Love to Jews will be established,
Et voilà – the hate to Israelis ends! *
This "bright" desire has enlightened
My brain reposing in a bar,
As a response to loathsome groaning
an Arab poetess has tarred.
Oh, my! You know all these wine cellars!
They're always bringing me to bay.
It's over there the life is sucking
The refuse of a trifling day.
* In principle, the same approach can be recommended for satisfaction of Friends of many other kinds: for instance, those who put the UN and Rights of terrorists in Guantanamo and other places above the interests of the own country and the Rights of own citizens.
Constantine Ivanov, May 1, 2004, NY        
(Ответ на Вечер арабо-американских Авторов и Друзей в
Кафе на 29 Cornelia Street 1 мая 2004, где очень способная
арабская поэтесса читала профессионально очень хорошую,
слезную, душераздирающую Элегию на смерть
16-летнего арабского мальчика)
Предлагаю написать на иврите, разместить по всему Израилю и
адресовать всем Израильтянам такой плакат:
Давайте-ка мы все взорвемся разом...
Вот будет радости-то всем Друзьям!
И День ведь будет установлен сразу
Любви Международной к евре'ям! *
Мне это светлое желанье
Пришло на ум в глуби кафе
В ответ на тошные стенанья
Арабской чтицы в галифе.
О, эти винные подвалы,
Они преследуют меня.
В них жизнь иссасывает вяло
Охлопье тлеющего дня.

* Такой же, в принципе, подход может быть рекомендован для удовлетворения всех Друзей другого рода: тех, кто ставит ООН и права террористов в Гуантанамо и других местах выше интересов собственной страны и прав собственных граждан.

Constantine Ivanov, May 1,2004, NY        
Burnt at the stake…
My name is Joan of Arc, Sir William Wallace,
Giordano Bruno, William Tyndale, Thomas Becket,
Lucilio Vanini, Thomas Cranmer,
Hugh Latimer, Tommaso Campanella,
And Ridley, Nicholas, and Galileo…
To tell the truth, I had an invitation
To join a growing Club,
The Club of hedonists, peace-lovers…
I would be happy to, oh my Epicureans!
How sweet, how perfect your idea is!
There was a problem, though,
A tiny, tiny problem:
Those who have burnt me did not share my vision
Of peaceful, joyful life…
That's why I've chosen not the Club of Stragglers:
The Club of Strugglers has become my home.
You see my tomb? Don't mix it with my grave:
I am alive, and will be such forever.
I doubt those who have fled my Club
Will also be alive.
Constantine Ivanov, July 13, 2004, NY        
I have dried out, I'm like a withered small stalk.
No bees, no dragonflies around…
I am cast off by every living creature,
And only wildfire's ready
to amorously lick my cernuous head…
Constantine Ivanov, July 14, 2004, NY        
No Nightingales around, just Birds of Hate* –
A gloomy era of a thwacking Rap.
Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, –
It makes me feel embedded in a wrap –
A boring shroud of Death that doesn't wait.
* Long time ago, I heard that a cuckoo is a Bird of Hate.
Where did I hear this? I don't remember. Since I also dislike
cuckoos, I wrote my poem you just finished reading.
Suddenly, almost one year later, I met a Sonnet by John Milton
"O Nightingale". Surprisingly, it happened to be so much similar
in many respects. Is it good or bad? I don't know. Read the Sonnet.
Anyway, just to avoid any resemblance with Sen. Joseph Biden (D)
in any respect, including his infamous plagiarism, I openly recommend
reading this: John Milton's Sonnet 1.
In my perception, Rap associates with a Russian word far from a decorous one,
a role of which is being played here by my "Cuckoo".
Constantine Ivanov, June 20, 2004, Queens, NY        
(Thoughts about the First Amendment, Right of Free Speech)
Fists and stones can break our bones,
But words may break our hearts…
Constantine Ivanov, October 7, 2004, NY        
My dear Sir, or Madam, or Whoever,
You read this letter since I need your help.
And apropos this way is the most clever
To see who gives a hand, and who will start to yelp.
Constantine Ivanov, October 19, 2004, NY        
Bob Beckel, why have you produced
A strange but pretty firm impression:
When talking in disputes with Reps,
You always show ‘V’ictorious two fingers
But you cannot suppress your voice-o-face,
Which clearly proves you’ve shown just one, you swinger.
Constantine Ivanov, October 20, 2004, NY        
(From a letter: "Oh these people: not without a hidden thought that perhaps you can take a look…")
Oh those arrière-pensées, ("dissembled thoughts", in English),
How much delusive they might always be!
But even being such, they wouldn't destroy your image,
They bite, of course, but lighter than a bee.
Constantine Ivanov, November 15, 2004, NY        
Прямая речь пряма как штык,
Слова – как пули, неизбежны...
Я – без надежды, я – над бездной,
Я – как Грушницкий, взгляд на небо,
В ушах – лишь свист, уж слов не слышу,
Ты – как души со смертью стык.
Constantine Ivanov, November 28, 2004, NY        
If I would teach my kids what Beauty means,
Wouldn't I be breaking rules established by your Party?
You might ask "Why?"; the answer lies right here:
My kids then might dislike what you obtrude upon.
Constantine Ivanov, November 28, 2004, NY        
распутывать строфы
облегченным вниз
быть бесплодием
и вирши выскребать
и слоги выцарапывать
в плиссе мозгов
иссохших вдрызг в безалкоголье
и робко с дрожью
то в жар то в холод
то свитер натянуть
то скинуть и остаться в футболке
за пару баксов
метаясь по комнатам
выпутываясь из вериг
крючков монахов-братьев македонских
и прясть мелодии и ритмов узелки
то отгоняя прочь то застрочить на клавишах
как попало, в волненье
Той что рядом с недавних пор
для всех
и тех кто ближе
и тех кто в чувствах далеко
от нас с Тобой.
(Нажмите здесь, чтобы прочитать стихотворение Алексея Даена)
Constantine Ivanov, November 28, 2004, NY        
How I know that Beauty exists?
What gives me a charming feeling
When I touch a statue
made in ancient Greece?
What makes me drink in
Brahm's dazzling tunes?
Bach's polyphonic wefts?
Or Händel's royal splendor?
R-R-R-Rap, rap, rap,
Ugly, nasty, dirty, filthy
Rap, rap, rap,
Rap, rap, rap...
Oh Raphael, Oh Mozart, Oh Beethoven!
R-R-R-Rap, rap, rap,
Rap, rap, ra..
Oh Vinci, Oh Shemyakin, Palestrina!
R-R-R-Rap, rap, rap,
Rap, rap, ra...
Shagal, and Gershvin!
Glück, and Shostakovich!
R-R-R-Rap, rap, rap,
Rap, rap, ra...
Stravinsky, Copland, and Prokofiev!
R-R-R-Rap, rap, rap,
Rap, rap, ra...
And Barber, Berg, and many others,
R-R-R-Rap, ra –
I know now: Rap is what has educated me –
The Beauty DOES exist and NEVER dies
despite the fact that still
the Filth and Scum prevail and rumble.
Constantine Ivanov, November 29, 2004, NY        
"Tell me who's your friend and I'll tell you who you are" – a proverb widely spread among Russian people.
(Who is still seeking the "mutual consent" with Jacques-de-SadeDamn Ch. Iraq*?)
Oh, Cheesy Vichy Country!
Thy loyalty is worth
A lot of silver pieces…
And myriads of lives.
* I am still not sure if "Sh. Iraq" wouldn't be a more suitable spelling…
Constantine Ivanov, November 29, 2004, NY        
(To Political Correctness)
So, what I do?
Thou have deplumed my feelings
I've been imbued with from my very childhood…
Thou lied, Political Correctness,
Thou lied about thy people-loving wishes…
Hey, sirrah, why,
Why don't thou like me?
Why hast thou just excluded
what I have had enjoyed?
Thou took away from me
My rights for Carols music;
And sawn down Trees
That symbolize my hopes.
Where is thy tolerance?
Diversity Acceptance?
Thou hast insulted kids:
My kids have none to play with…
So, what's been raised?
What hast thou fed like Moslems?
A powerful destruction
Is what thou hast begot!
Constantine Ivanov, November 29, 2004, NY        
Alas, my thoughts are pretty gloomy:
The streets are dead, just Rap drubs very loud.
No sounds of Carols, Trees are not allowed…
No Christmas – Darkness, sluggish, looming…
My grandchild's school is strung up by a suit
my neighbor filed, disliking the Allegiance…
I met a teacher fired to uproot
the wearing of a cross. Result? A vengeance…
A Judge addicted to the "Freedom",
Released a yob who raped a girl again…
Unbottled genies... Who can lead them?
Girl's rights? Forget! The punk is one to gain.
My car is marred because of stickers,
Which you don't like while faking "open mind".
You're open? To the sexy flickers!
But to my right of life, you're dammit blind.
You, scratching genitalia on stages!
Is this your Culture, or just pubic lice?
Is spraying sperm in churches so courageous?
Oh yeah, your Liberty is really "nice"!
Along the Park a crowd is moving,
Unshaven mugs of busty buggers crowd.
Their slogans say they all are very proud…
A coitus through an ass is groovy?
Oh bloody Robespierres, extreme left wingers!
I'm sick of snoots romanticizing dirt.
Is Lewdness all your Freedom idol, swingers?
To see the country as one big invert?
You who promote so ardently that guck!
Do what you want. Don't touch, though, my Commandments!
Don't force me using words like "freaking schmuck";
I also have my right for all Amendments!
Constantine Ivanov, December 12, 2004, NY        
Я не могу про шорохи писать,
Про дождь, про листики...
Мой мир – из кирпичей,
Врачей, блядей, рвачей...
Совсем без мистики...
И если вдруг – гроза, мне образ не придет
О молниях узлом;
Я выключу компьютер и плюхнусь почитать,
Считая Яху злом.
Совсем без мистики..
Полным полно людей
вокруг меня,
ну как назло.
А пар любовных нет.
Совсем без мистики...
Усохшая старуха в черном ящике
Преподает минет...*
Рекламный секс царит
Любовь – на слом!
Совсем без мистики...
Мне чувства выскребли
Любители абортов
С упорством искренним.
Романтика – за бортом.
Совсем без мистики...
Расчесывая срáмные места,
Команды рэперов,
Ни Муз, ни Бога, ни креста,
Грозят всех застрелить.
Совсем без мистики...
Я не могу про шорохи писать
Про дождь, про листики...
Какая там любовь! Энигма женская!
С ума вы что ль сошли?
Какое таинство, какая к черту мистика!
* Думаете, я шучу? Нисколько. Посмотрите сами.
Constantine Ivanov, December 14, 2004, NY        
If there is nothing to reflect
In your quite tricky way
of being fair and balanced,
What shall I then be looking at
In your glib napless surface?
* Bill O'Reilly
Constantine Ivanov, January 22, 2005, NY        
We two are in my room – you Bill, and I…
You make me happy by your guests
when I agree;
Benighted pinheads make me sick and angry;
My soul and mouth are working with no rest…
I'm not a monk – bad words escape my lips,
And I apply them, –
no P.C. surveillance, –
to guests, but not to you:
you are above the lexis
the Hollywood and Stern are so much proud of…
Ah, it's a pity that the school of my grandchild
Does not promote your "Kids"*!
* Drawing any parallel between this poem and Mayakovsky's
"There are two people in the room - I and Lenin as a portrait on a white wall"
would be absolutely inappropriate
not only because it's absolutely accidental,

but also because of these two is reasons:
1. I hate being together with Lenin anywhere.

2. It's not my fault that Bill is in my room: I'm deadly tired of the hatred
    Democratic channels are manifesting with no break.
** I highly recommend reading
"The O'Reilly Factor for Kids: A Survival Guide for America's Families"
Constantine Ivanov, January 27, 2005, NY        
But if it's inescapable to die
By way of force,
one has to choose – a lion or a turkey.
Constantine Ivanov, January 28, 2005, NY        
Но если уж придется
насильно умирать,
Как лев или индейка – надо выбрать.
Constantine Ivanov, January 28, 2005, NY        
(...Что нового на Кавказе со времен Лермонтова?)
Хороша ль она, свобода?
Ну, конечно, хороша!

Мне осклабился комвзвода,
Труп ребенка потроша.
Constantine Ivanov, Febuary 1, 2005, NY        
A thought has come to me
Like an unbidden guest…
Parole of honor: I dislike such visits!
Habiliments of things instead of things themselves…
                               Haul ass, you headache house!
Am I so stupid to consume your garbage?
Bacterium of madness is what's spread around,
                              bad breath of libertines, and bad behavior…
Enigma of the Beauty has been murdered, and I don't want to think…
The crowd heaps flowers on mad idols…or drags a person to the stake…
Constantine Ivanov, January 28, 2005, NY        


(he is playful; so is the poem, which is based
on an idea of a 2-way acrostic as well as on
a tanka-like pattern of 5-7-5-7-7 with a stress
always on odd syllables.
Thus, it's still pretty far from my beloved


Samik, how much bliss!
all my sadness simply fades,
merry samurai.
i enjoy you, my all-heal,
knight of pampers, my rehab!

how you sing, my finch:
offbeat tunes of Zodiac!
will it stay with you,
matchless charm of toddler's chirm?
ups and downs ahead, my flow,
challenging you, too.
hanker for a sleigh? drag sleigh!

be prepared for work!
let's be always - you and i.
is it just my dream?
sing, my marvel, do-si-la.
Samik, how much bliss!

Constantine Ivanov, January 26, 2006, NY        

a a a
These haiku wouldn't appear without my dear wife, were ignited by her,
and are devoted to her…
Azuma kimi,
  Impressed by Japan…
ai-hireki shi-wa
  How not to put my feeling
koku-de nai to...
  In classic verses?
January 28, 2005, NY
*When I had been reading Rainer Maria Rilke's poems he wrote in Russian, I neither laughed nor cried: I did realize that Rilke did not pretend to be a Russian. (He just kept being a great Poet.) Wouldn't you mind to treat my Japanese haiku in the same way - don't laugh, don't cry? (You may hold me in esteem, though)
**If you read this Note, it means that you forgot to click on the shakuhachi (kind of bamboo flute you see above) or the "HAIKU" title itself in order to read my Haiku.
Copyright © 2005 Constantine Ivanov

This site was last updated 01/26/06