Monday, November 14, 2005

Colours by Yevgeny Yevtushenko

When your face
appeared over my crumpled life
at first I understood
only the poverty of what I have.
Then its particular light
on woods, on rivers, on the sea,
became my beginning in the coloured world
in which I had not yet had my beginning.
I am so frightened, I am so frightened,
of the unexpected sunrise finishing,
of revelations
and tears and the excitement finishing.
I don't fight it, my love is this fear,
I nourish it who can nourish nothing,
love's slipshod watchman.
Fear hems me in.
I am conscious that these minutes are short
and that the colours in my eyes will vanish
when your face sets.

[For my beloved, Pooty.]

11 comments:

innommable said...

I like this poem, and I cried (again...) when I read it.

patrick said...

This IS a great one, much worthier of tears than another you cried for, which was merely good.

Ergo Sum said...

Oh those Russians! Gotta love them!... Recently, I discovered a Russian who apparently works for my company on one of the floors below me... I had no clue until I had to meet with him the other day. Damn, these Russians are HOT!! ;) Yea... so, I began thinking... hmm, I've never really had an "encounter" with a Russian in my life... maybe it's time to seek one out! lol! ;)

innommable said...

Ergo said "Oh those Russians! Gotta love them!"

Yes, gotta.

Tyrel said...

I hate this poem...I fucking hate it.

innommable said...

That's the spirit! Right on Tyrel!

Now, would you mind saying why?

patrick said...

Egad, man! Yoinks! Gadzooks! Oh, the passion! I don't think I've ever hated a poem... I've certainly felt strongly indifferent, or even mildly nauseated... but...

Ah, but then again, I've never used as many exclamation points as I have just now. What does that say about me?

innommable said...

gotta love the passion though...

Ergo Sum said...

Ya know... writing the word "fuck" is a very peculiar thing, it seems to me. I mean, actually spelling that word out... expressing all that that word is supposed to carry in meaning for you... that's really a mighty deliberate thing! And it's all very strange to me.

I'm more comfortable saying "fuck" than writing it.

Also, I don't think any poems deserve such a word as a response. It's just not justified.

Tyrel said...

I hate the way it makes me feel.
I hate the things it makes me think.
I hate to think those thoughts
that make me feel
the way this poem does.
I hate to think
to feel
to cry
evoking emotions that...
that...
*becomes speechless*

Anonymous said...

I loved this poem once. The man I was in love with, lay on his back in the woods and recited it to me. Now he is gone and so are the colours. It made me feel less alone to read what Tyrel has written above. Thank you.