LesiaDaria writer

Poetry

Was it something I said?

I showered them with affection.
They hit back with terrified silence.
How dare you tell me my worth?
That I matter on this earth,
Is it something you want now
That you’re talking of love,
Your respect, my value,
Why raise such garrulous ghosts?
It’s suspect to speak of great joy
You find in people,
It’s weird, okay?
But I only wanted to hold you, I didn’t say,
To give you all I have,
This love and respect and value,
And thanks – for being.

But I could no longer reach them
So I returned the silence.
Next time, don’t fret.
I’ll put it in your eulogy
(If I still remember)
Okay?

Lesia Daria, April 8, 2016

Trying to find life

I am allergic
To the sights and sounds of this computer
The antithesis of trees
And not only what they represent,
Family branches, horizontal
The vertical leaping into the sky
A map of programmes and sunbursts
From Descartes to Voronoi
Who defined and refined
Cells and subcells,
Improving subdivision
Avoiding similarities
Highly adaptable and something organic
You’d expect from a Ukrainian
Algorithms in real time,
Only the disease goes undiagnosed
Until a tree dies
Because after all the discombobulating,
Disseminating
There was only life
After all

Lesia Daria, February 10, 2015

My hurt unravels

My hurt unravels onto you,
A yarn of many threads
The last of which is picked apart,
Frizzed, a grey dead end.
Times we never had,
Stories we’ll never tell
The first of which is true, my love
The evening cast its spell
The night we met

Lesia Daria, August 8, 2013

In Delirium

Cherries too had been waiting,
now almost plum, by late afternoon,
still, heavy-hearted,
compressed in the heat,
the scorched hours crept,
and I, near delirious,
watched the baking of redness.
But wait –
A moment –
the wind’s quickened pulse
a spread of seared blue
and prickly chilled stars,
soft footsteps unnoticed
till inside the gate,
a glimpse –
and ah, the reflection by moonlight,
and I,
in the darkness,
thought then I could hear
a bristling of leaves and
the long cherished sigh.

Lesia Daria, sometime in the 1980s

The shell

You asked me to listen, but I gave you more
than my ear, when I whispered, I too am alone,
and you washed up my soul, tangled weed on the shore.

A first blanket night, winds could not have blown
any harder, we huddled, ice striking the core,
you asked me to listen, but I gave you more.

Secrets, like letters in varnished oak drawers
I stashed away, groping words opened them all one by one,
and you washed up my soul, tangled wood on the shore.

Forces outside, did I not hear, the stirred ocean roar,
or maybe you, all that remained in grey-weathered stones,
you asked me to listen, but I gave you more.

Perhaps I could lie, I no longer live for
this familiar ache, mistaken, how could I have known?

You asked me to listen, but I gave you more,
and you washed up my soul, tangled weed on the shore.

Lesia Daria, an imperfect villanelle, 1993

Surge

Kiss me
in the darkness of the train
as the lights spin out
over the water
in thin rippled shocks

my lips reach yours

Lesia Daria, time of writing unknown