The Broken Friendship
Updated: Sep 28
By Kim Golubev
We are the past men
We are the present men
we are lost men.
We are men who lost their merit
instead of past and present times.
We are the ones who talk post-modern
like its linguistic basis measures lives.
Here is a little fellow.
He waits for summer,
knows his rights.
“Last time you wrote me,
you signed as Mary,
so I decided to ignore the tact;
I’ve got rid of the formal customs;
I address you now as a friend.
Sometimes I have to set reminders
to call you not my sister, but
those who craft the kinships,
must have had learned the bureaucratic art.
They are mistaken. Bonds are a glimpse.
Unless we want them to re-form the meaning.
Formality and all.
The autumn is getting older. It is confused
because it ages inappropriately.
Its elder formidability causes its enigmatic confusion:
the autumn sometimes thinks it is summer.
But the mountain slopes that face you
most certainly agreed –
the winter is upon us.
Beware of colds and fever.
The gardens here proclaim the right
for the thought that the autumn keeps imposing.
The roses flourish, flourish, flourish,
like a sound of an Italian opera song. Senza di te languisce il cor.
They enjoy the sun and
the bliss of being
Da-sein Da-rain Dah-брен Duh.
Since we’ve arrived here,
I do nothing.
I talk, I eat, I look and sleep.
I gained some weight,
I gained some rigor,
I gained some powers
and some vigor—
you might not see to recognize.
Today we, like some English tourists,
had a picnic on a lost crossroad.
The view here worth a silent bow.
I have enjoyed it, lying down
and hiding my head in a lavender bush,
with my hat on my nose.
They think I slept.
I have, but later
I will proclaim I listened to the lark.
Now, I sit on the edgy rock above the road above the sky
above the people
The only cloud clouding my mood
is a little puff, produced by a sudden farmer.
I think she is a farmer,
but she as well might be
a mere recipient of the farming goods.
She’s old, she’s wrinkled, she has a load
covered by an ancient fabric
over her little bogie cart
behind her donkey.
I want to bet that all she has is onions.
I want to believe that she has ambrosia and nectar,
but onions, I bet, is all she has.
On such a flourishing day
she has to have the nectar and ambrosia.
(at least some grapes and peaches)
So the cloud, bursting by the wheels
of the bogie cart,
can make some sense.
But we are honest men:
she only has some onions.
The dust settles down.
We are at the present.
The present shows:
We are at the crossroad
at the center of tweeting mountains.
Behind us is England,
France and Europe are at the right,
Russia and Asia are at the left,
In front of us — the Ocean of Peace.
And above us is a dome of sapphire.
And all five are in such proximity,
so I can reach my hand and
pluck any of them to send you
as a gift.
Even if the postal service
won’t obstruct my gift,
citing some regulations
that prohibit us from sense and peace,
the beauty of any of these five
will cease to mean a thing
while in transit.
They will become terrifying,
awful, daunting, fierce, and false.
Instead, I better send you
a branch of rosemary
and a fragrant twig of lavender.
I am still angry with the old owner of the onion cart.
She interrupted my thought right in the middle of a tale
I had come up with.
Have you ever
told a tale
to your sad self?
Have you ever,
a thought you felt?
Are you too old?
My tale looks like a fresco
made by Benozzo Gozzoli:
a little king,
overly dressed and superficially gallant,
accordingly to the noble domain,
goes over the hills
and over the bills,
through a thoughtful and
as the jagged crown
shines over his head.
I love the old masters
because they were crafters
that never refused real gold.
They never were fooling
their respectable public
with the yellow shadows and lights
like post-modern wits do.
My kings are more real
and their ordeal
would refuse even the plainest golden crest.
Their clothes’ appeal
with a fanciful zeal
was restoring the path of oppressed.
But this is only but a tale,
and a rosemary dale
has enough branches to start a blaze.
Or a little campfire
our picnic’s preoccupied aim.
We need to start one
before the onion farmer and the kings reach their lands.
We are the lost men
We are the present men
we are gilded men.
Sometimes I have to set reminders
to call you not my sister.
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
fed the same flock; by fountain, shade, and rill.”
We are singing,
as did the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills.
While the onion cart went out with the dust of gray;
we’ve touched the gilded crowns of selfish quills,
with eager thought warbling our modern lay;
and now the sun has stretched out all the mountain hills,
and now was dropped into the western bay;
at last, I rose and twitched my tale and dream in lieu
of tomorrow fresh thoughts and pastures new.
Kim Golubev is a teaching associate at California State University, Sacramento. The focus of Kim’s academic study is the Long 18th Century, and his thesis paper topic explored a connection between humanist ideas in Alexander Pope's works and posthuman ideological shift of the contemporary speculative fiction. Kim is a recipient of Patrick Michael Ewing Memorial Scholarship for his academic excellence and commitment to the department of English, CSUS, over the past several years. In the past, Kim was a poetry editor of the Calaveras Station Arts & Literary Journal, CSUS. He is a poet and an emerging writer. Being multilingual, he writes prose and poetry in English, French, Ukrainian, and Russian. Kim’s academic strives aim for a Ph.D. in English Literature that he plans to obtain in the nearest future.