Alan Zhukovski’s Poetry


Who will ever notice a grain of sand
Riding the back of a falling leaf?
Who will ever study the peculiar geography
Of a narrow path between two pines?
Who will ever draw its map?
There is no scientific interest.
A man of common sense will never care.
But the world is made of yellow flowers
Never thought about…



Kill the paradigm,
The life you’ve lived.
The apricots of rhymes
Are falling from the net,
Which pierces paper.
Kill the paradigm.
The thaw will melt the ice.
Your breath is warmer
Than the walls of snow
Surrounding your thought.

My pillow was crying with dirty sweat.
I woke up in the night
And looked out of the window.
There was an intense outburst
Of organic life between two houses.
A slender moonlight woman
Was born to the gigantic birch.
Her dress was rhyming with my lamp.
I saw her wings of fragile oil.
Her eyes exploded with desire,
Burning the beak of a bird.
We met at the crossroads of energy,
But I shot the vista
With the curtain of my sleep.



The news of the oil spill
Has caught me unprepared,
Climbing the rock of electricity
Through the waterfall of daily troubles.

In my sleep,
I could see
The primordial night
Filling the lungs of my soul.
Wandering through space
I saw the oil spill.

Its face was moving,
Licking the skin of the gulf;
Its poisonous tongue
Was kissing the cozy carpet.
The venomous predator
Was biting the water.
Its features were ugly,
The eyes of evil.

Destroying the charm.
The demon of oil
Has come to devour the beauty.

The dragon was born
To the gusher.

Let’s fight him.
The body,
The limbs and the torso,
Prevent their growth.

No more spills of indifference…



the road to the centre of the village
the aberration of light in the lens of a transparent leaf
makes all contours lose their meanings
between the hammer of the sunlight
and the meat of clay delivered by the crack in the asphalt
the fracture of the road-bone



laughter shines in the abyss of darkness
fingers on the keyboard
the flowers are lighting my departure
the lake below the hill and above another hill
I will burn my vanity in the pyre of autumnal leaves
covering the water
while the trees in the haze are washing their heads in the river
in its remote and shadowy corners

you can absorb the visions of the shadows
who are sleeping below the bushes
until somebody touches them
who will notice your shadows in the bags of sunlight
they are hidden between the leaves
but the wind can unlock the envelope
and return the shadows to sender



we invent each day
the days we’ve abandoned
like dying ships
suffocated with the water
in their lungs
we swam away
but some pieces of our skin
remained there
like the coins you throw
to return to the fountain
at least in the night



The electric rain, gently tapping on our skin, caught us with the paws of his melodies. The music of the 50s caressed us in a tiny club. There was something in your eyes. There is something in this music, which can be explained easily, and still there is so much mystery. Wild, energetic melodies evolving into the academic shining of the famous guitar masters were the prototype of our relationship. It began as an outburst of vital energy and then became a philosophical union, retaining the primordial charm. Everybody has an aura of his innumerous (or often simply numerous) wishes, and sometimes two clouds of energy kiss each other, and their desires coincide. “Maybe once again?” We love to repeat our first evening, lighting us with its new emanations. Our older bodies burn; the smoke of our vanities dissolves in the wisdom of our first laughter. There is so much to desire and so much to remember. The future and the past. Our infinity.



the bees of the unseen
are crumbling
like a piece of poisonous bread
the venom of the future
has no taste
I smell the void
a river in Chicago
the coin of the sun
has died in the acid of love
my fingers are moving
like sleeping rockets
waiting for beautiful sunsets
with their exotic dances
touching the skin of my face
with the vivid gathers
on the roof of a star
there’s a breeze of leaves
on the floor of the park
filled with the beam fishes
no days
no waiting liars
in a queue
no future in the sunlight of the tired notes
my steps can be heard on the railway
leading to the shop of the night
the water on the melting sugar of the sand
the acute feeling of loneliness
my fingers on the pages of the book
are like fishes on the shore
licking the sand
let me out
I need light
I need electricity

*This page includes only previously published poems.