A Moving Estimate

Historical Tours of Cambridge for the Discerning

Poetry in Motion

Poetry in Motion

A text… Some words connected (collected, disconnected, shattered!) …

An image, an expression, or, may be, just a fleeting thought…

A thing to share, to remember, to preserve…

To cherish, to incite and to inspire…

To forge ahead, or, may be, to retire

In quiet contemplation by yourself

With a few words, or, may be, not so few,

Into your world, where only you can delve,

A text, a string of words, or sounds — clock strikes twelve —

Who shall show up, a raven, or yourself,

Still staring at the mirror, burned-out fire,

A text is all that’s left of the desire…

That is how it goes with me, I try to conceptualize what poetry is, and then, the words flow into my mind, and on the screen, and all the concepts are left behind, and I just keep on mumbling, or Muse!, or what’s the use!





Back from the Eesti/Sakartvelo/Svaneti tour.   Soon to hit 60 yo.  Time to concentrate.  60 was the age my father decided to leave at, stepping out of the window of his office in Jersey City, NJ.  I ended up publishing his book.  No one will be publishing mine.  Of five carriers of my DNA, I see no one who will continue Pavlenkov’s legacy.  Hence, it will have to be this one, a mover, a child support player, a poet, a wonderer and a wanderer.


Anyway, the recent poem was caused by the failed negotiations with a museum of Juhan Liiv, a crazy poor semi-homeless man, whose simple Estonian language poems considered foolish and worthless by his contemporaries, now constitute an Estonian treasure.  Alas, the same type of contemporaries run the museum now.  The poetry is not of their interest. Not a poet’s lifestyle, either.  Boring inconsequential bureaucrats, the vultures of poet’s soul.  At one point I felt that Juhan Liiv was resisting, calling me to his grave, away from the same people who would put him in a psycho ward during his life.  And put him out of the train because he did not have a ticket, causing him to walk back through the snowstorm, get pneumonia, and to die shortly…


No poetry for now
It clearly does not work
The proper words weren’t found
The wine shall stay uncorked
And once again a poet
Shall sing his verse to skies
To forests, to the roads,
And to the passers-by
The wind again my partner,
It tells me not to grieve
In darkness shines a lantern
Once lit by Juhan Liiv
By his imagination
In snowstorm one night.
And at his final station
One night I shall recite
Under the elms and maples
Under pig iron’s cast
He lies.  In death — enabler,
In life — an outcast.
A king, a crazy dreamer,
A wanderer of the world
His nation a redeemer,
A pauper and a Lord.
I shall uncork my bottle
And pour some on his grave
True poet joins the battle
Alone. And — come what may.