Saturday, May 1, 2021





Winter Depression


The word combination “winter depression”

Doesn’t work on me like a red rag on a bull.

Doesn’t arouse any special worry or fear.

This state is known to me in all its symptoms and nuances.

I was born and have lived in Siberia for half a century.

I had an intention to do away with this theme quickly,

By claiming that


Depression, including the winter one,

Is the product of idleness,

Intellectual deficiency,

Overwhelming infantilism and so on…


And that

if existence during winter period does not imply

Pure physical survival

(struggle with cold (warm accommodation, warm clothes,

fuel, physical activity)),

consequences of undercooling and chilblain,

Plain unhealthy food,

Poor in quality and quantity

(preserves, pickles, lack of fresh vegetables and fruit),

Then it is a banal inability or unwillingness

To organize your leisure time and fill you head

With something worthy.


But I suddenly remembered February 2012.

Ten hopeless nasty days one by one,

Monotonously, cold-booldedly, maniacally, consistently

Sucked the sap from me,

Deprived me of will, made me fall into slumber,

Strong hypnosis, dull despair.

It is minus 35 - 40 degrees Centigrade outside.

Traditional heating devices –

Tea and vodka – warmed up, but did not rescue me

From my depressed and melancholy state.

Painting, reading, music, communication

Seemed to only postpone some

Inevitable tragic outcome.

All those were half-measures.

I seldom remember about it.

Such a condition is not rare.

There is no universal medicine to overcome,

To cope with this bad condition.

But I clearly remember how suddenly and auspiciously

It was all over.

On Saturday around midday I looked out of the window

And saw through the frosty mist three bright spots on the snow.

I could hardly discern them at a glance,

But curiosity did not leave me…

Finally, in about an hour,

When it got brighter outside

I saw three balloons,

Blue, red and yellow, tied up with a bow.

They were lying on the white snow, hooked

By brunches, fragile from frost.

It meant only one thing.

Not all people suffer from depression, including the winter one.

«People meet, people fall in love, people get married…»

Life goes on.




Three Poetic Texts

About Time, Beauty, But Not Only...


Part One

(Epigraph Included)


27 So God created man in his own image,

in the image of God created he him;

male and female created he them.

The Holy Bible. Genesis 1 (King James Version)

7 And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground,

and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life;

and man became a living soul.


The Holy Bible. Genesis 2 (King James Version)


God created man in one day.

In the image of God He created him.

We can only guess,

How aesthetically perfect

Was that man, created by God,

Before his fall, I mean.

In the Old Testament, Genesis, Chapter 1, there is a verse:


31 And God saw everything that he had made,

and, behold, it was very good.

And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.


We believe it.

And there is nothing to be added.


As for the time, we must note,

That astronomical time of the Old Testament,

Especially concerning creation of visible world,

Does not correspond to modern time.

To sum it up:


Dust of the ground,

One day,

Perfect man.



Part Two


Times not that old.

The very beginning of XVI century.

Renaissance. Florence.

Michelangelo Buonarroti begins and,

In about four years,

Finishes his “David”.

Marble sculpture of King David of the Old Testament,

Believed to be a culmination of human genius.

To sum it up:



Four years,

Marble copy of man.



Part Three


In this case it is all too plain and trivial.

Though there is, without any doubt,

Some private pathos of this event,

Mystery of impregnation, mystery of birth,

Joy of fatherhood, joy of motherhood and stuff.

Just like it is today.

But still.

Second half of XX century.

The USSR, already not Russia.

A big industrial city…

(there can be further details to infinity).

But let’s be brief…

A boy is born in a natural way,

As hundreds of billions of men before him,

Descendants of those, Old Testament Adam and Eve,

Expelled from the Garden of Eden.

To sum it up:

A couple of heterogeneous humans,

In a natural way,

Nine months,

Not David,



Facts only, nothing personal.




Did The Little Boy Exist?


Who was that little boy

In a frill from magpie fluff?

Who was that little boy

whose fingers are tenderer than tarragon?

Who was that little boy

in a cloak from the tears of Harlequin?

Who was that little boy

with a look of a work-worn scaffold?

Who was that little boy whose thoughts...

But what do we know?

Precipitated into a hellhole

(for the next to feel shame)

‘cause he couldn’t bear

in his haggard body

the gift of God –

a beautiful soul?

An immortal soul.


Did that little boy exist?

It seems that all this is rubbish

and cowardice.




I am alive


On the edge of a caramel circle or, perhaps, of an abyss.

Sliding with my right sponge foot, when going left and…

Sliding with my left shortcrust foot, when going right.


I’m discovery.

I slowly comprehend.

I hurriedly clamber.

I get back.

I clamber.

I butt.

I shift my feet.

I catch up.

I’m concealment.


I step with my knees on my own unremarkable hands.

Vanilla stick crust…

I am alive.






It’s predestined

blood-coloured sunset

it’s predestined

bleak cold day

it’s predestined

gulp of poison

to my lips

you brought

it has come true

I’m the past

I’m the shadow

all over

and all is…





Two Fists





to breast.





as ice.


Two fists…


revived in them –





Truisms In Marengo



Man is powerless over time.

Man wastes time.


Man is powerless over destiny.

Man creates his own destiny.


Man is powerless over happiness.

Man searches and finds happiness.


Man is powerless over inspiration.

Man works very hard and gains it.


Man is powerless over death.

Death searches and finds man.




In The Belly Of The Whale



It's well known what was the outcome

of Jonah's being in the whale's belly.


It's unclear what will be the outcome

of my living in the belly of a block of flats.


But it looks like nothing good

will come out of it.


Its gastric juices are digesting me every second

Is it time to burry hope?

...or to wait a little more?




ALEXANDER LIMAREV, freelance artist, mail art artist, poet and curator from Russia. Participated in more than 900 international projects and exhibitions. His artworks are part of private and museum collections of 67 countries. His artworks as well as poetry have been featured in various online publications including BOEK861, TIP OF THE KNIFE, UNDERGROUNDBOOKS.ORG, BUKOWSKI ERASURE POETRY ANTHOLOGY (Silver Birch Press), BRILLER MAGAZINE, BRAVE NEW WORD MAGAZINE, SIMULACRO, ZOOMOOZOPHONE REWIEW, ICONIC LIT, CARAVEL LITERARY ARTS JOURNAL, THE BROKEN PLATE, THE GAMBLER MAG, THE WHITE RAVEN, LA VOLPE, DEGENERATE LITERATURE, TUCK MAGAZINE, EKPHRASTIC REVIEW, MUSH/MUM MAG, UTSANGA, BATEAU IVRE, KILLER WHALE JOURNAL, ANGRY OLD MAN MAGAZINE, MAINTENANT etc.

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