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Liana Margiva

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  Music
by Liana Margiva
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Rated "G" by the Author.

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Recent poems by Liana Margiva
•  Last drop of rain
•  I Wish I Knew
•  Why are you looking at me so sadly
•  Cry, Violin!
•  From this night on...
           >> View all 71


Poetry by Liana Margiva


The Spring arrived when everyone quit waiting,

But leaves are not in rush to sprout, hesitating,

They fail to comprehend impatience of the branches

That waited for so long oppressed by weight of snow.

The lovesick fog hangs out in the brush and hugs the trees,

Its love absorbed the Spring, obscured the way,

 

So nervous birds abandoned their prey

And lost the way to nests that held new life,

They joined the chorus of exited peers

In their plea to fog to ease their fears

And leave the hospitable woods

Where hungry offspring begged for food.

 

The rain came pouring from the cloudy sky:

The bliss of Spring made poor fellow cry.

The wind pried out of fair maiden’s hands

A flower which she used with no pretense

For fortune-telling purpose to inquire

If her Prince Charming had the same desire.

 

The flower with its remaining petal

Preserved the secret of her lover’s heart:

He loved her not and they would drift apart.

The bubbling brook took over from the wind

And carried wretched flower with its secret

Of love that never meant to be.

 

The music plays a cheerless sound

Ignoring gorgeous Spring around,

The flowers don’t smell and fell to ruin

The altar where love once reigned.

Worshipped in vain by the young and old

It was but lie by priests sold.

 

An orange bird on branch up there

Cries with the tune that harts does tear.

The leaves are pleading with the wind

To shake off tears of their skins.

They know not the reason why

In Spring someone would need to cry.

In their week-long, blissful lives

They knew no misery or strife.

 

Poor leaves assume that bliss is norm

Until they weather mighty storm

And get a whipping by the hail

And feel like heart that’s doomed to fail

Destroyed by cruel, spiteful love,

Like hail descending from above.

 

The tiny leaves on branches sway

Touched gently by the silver wind

To whom they pledged eternal love

But Fall will come and from above

The wind with vengeance will descend

And to their doom the leaves will send.

 

The music plays its mournful score,

The joy of Spring to be no more,

Reminds the trees: you now bloom

But very soon you’ll meet your doom.

For nothing’s lasting on this Earth

Except its own stone and dust.

 

Yet, branches fail to yield to gloom

With leaves that soon will meet their doom,

With slayer wind that harbors death.

They waltz to someone’s anguished tune.

Their older kin that rots in soil

Not far from carnival’s tinfoil

Aware fully that demise

Is what once was their paradise.

 

They know the pain, but yearn for Spring

When up on branches birds did sing

And leaves would flutter in the breeze

Convinced that life will never cease.

 

The tune bemoans the love long lost

That heart would not recall to host.

Presiding on the wake for love

Betrayal stares from above

While poor heart still weeps and mourns

By treason wounded, badly burnt.

 

Oh, music, why continue play?

Why paint Spring days in black and gray?

As green young leave in height of Spring

I joined this World of love to sing.

I sacrificed my heart and soul

On love’s altar like Sun to burn.

 

And though the Sun did brightly glare

Its shine had none of warmth to share,

And when its rays would touch my soul

They burned like hot and blazing coals.

 

My heart’s joy was a brief affair:

Pierced by apathy’s glum stare

It withered like a new spring leaf

That learned the spring storm’s brutal grief.

 

I was desired, haunted and adored

By those about whom I never cared,

But objects of my own desire

Would never light their hearts on fire.

Thus whispered fair maiden, chasing after

The flower that was carried by the stream.

 

And music plays on, cries of love

That longed to be Eternal Spring,

But never lasted through the Winter.

Destroyed by Treason, she is mourned

By sad strings’ tune and dismal song

On Spring’s May day when Earth delights

And basks in Sun’s eternal light.

 



By Liana Margiva

Translated from Russian by Anatol Kardiukov




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Reviewed by Jon Willey 8/9/2011
"Poor leaves assume that bliss is norm". This is the expert blend of melancholy and joy. As only your pen could conduct onto paper as you stir the soul with promise and reality staring each other in the face. Liana Margiva! You have again excelled with a rendering to sate the whims of human imagination. I just published my poem
"music" before reading yours! Too bad for me! Perhaps I should retract mine? I bid you love and peace my dear friend. Jon Michael
Reviewed by William Bonilla 7/18/2011
an excellent write
most enjoyable read
love & Peace be with you

William
Reviewed by Axilea MU 7/17/2011
Beauty and sadness, love and loss... What an amazing setting; nature plays such a striking role!

Axilea
Reviewed by Chip Bergeron 7/9/2011
Tank you Liana, that is beautiful...

Chip Bergeron
Reviewed by Regis Auffray 7/9/2011
Your kinship with and love of nature shine through your verses here, Liana. Thank you for sharing your gift. Love and best wishes to you,

Regis
Reviewed by La Belle Rouge Poetess Of The Heart 7/6/2011
Liana you are a true philosopher and incredible poetess.
Reviewed by Paul Judges 7/5/2011
Very good poem !
Reviewed by Vivian Dawson 7/4/2011
But the band played on
~Liana~
Music for the soul so
richly intertwined...
you have brought into
our view...a sign to
move on in tune with
our seasons of rebirth

Lady Vivian
Reviewed by Chantilly Lace (Reader) 6/30/2011
Breathtaking sweet lady..just like you...sighhh..Hugss..stay well ....stay safe...
Reviewed by Laura Fall 6/30/2011
Beautifully written indeed Laura
Reviewed by Micki Peluso 6/29/2011
Liana,

I love this!!!!!!!!!! It's so beautiful and the last stanza is perfectttttttttttttt!!! well done, my friend.

Hugs,

Micki
Reviewed by Christine Tsen 6/29/2011
Oh this is beautiful and wise, Liana, Bravo!
Blessings,
Christine
Reviewed by JMS Bell 6/29/2011
A MOST UNIQUE WORK THAT ENLIGHTENS AND GIVES WISDOM ON TWO VERY IMPORTANT ASPECTS OF LIFE; NUMBER ONE, THE WORLD DOES NOT STOP TURNING BECAUSE ONE IS HURTING AND IN PAIN...THUS...TIME AND TIDE WAITS FOR NO ONE. AND NUMBER TWO; THANK GOD FOR THE 'MUSIC', LIANA...FOR IT IS THIS VERY MUSIC WHICH, AT THE BEGINNING OF OUR PAIN, SEEMS TO CAUSE 'IRRITATION' OF OUR WOUNDS...THAT, AS WE LIVE ON, HEALS AND RENEWS AND BRINGS APPRECIATION FOR THE JOY OF THAT 'NEW' AND FAR BETTER LOVE THAT FINDS ITS WAY INTO ONES LIFE. 'MUSIC', FROM HEAVEN...THROUGH NATURE...TO US. THANK GOD FOR IT! A MOST ENJOYED AND SPLENDID WORK. TIME AFTER TIME YOU DISPLAY THAT WONDERFUL GIFT THAT RESIDES IN YOU BY BLESSING US WITH ABSOLUTE ARTISTIC BEAUTY. THANK YOU, LIANA, FOR SHARING THIS WORK. LOVE, BLESSINGS AND FAITH...JOYCE * HIS INSPIRATIONS.
Reviewed by Morgan Merriweather 6/29/2011
Great write....Liana. ~ Morgan
Reviewed by Christine Alwin 6/29/2011
Novel emotional poem that tugs at the heart!
Reviewed by Rose Rideout 6/29/2011
Absolutely beautiful Music to the ear are your words.

Newfie Hugs, Rose
Reviewed by TONY NERONE 6/29/2011
Beautifully written as always, Liana.
Peace
Tony
Reviewed by richard cederberg 6/29/2011
Intelligently conceptualized and beautifully written Liana. The music I hear in your poem is: aside from the ups and downs, the loss of youthfulness, the loss of those loved, and all those many things unrequited, that can haunt a mind and heart sometimes a lifetime, there are times when we can enter into magnificent seasons as we stop striving, and the wisdom and loveliness to be gleaned from them, and nature, is often a better school to learn from than mans. If we listen carefully we will hear mellifluent, healing, vitalizing harmonies of sound that permeate the whole of creation.
In admiration ... r
Reviewed by George Carroll 6/29/2011
A soulful mourning of a spring that never came. An outstanding grasp of an event I hope never can happen but we live with the instigators everyday waiting to crush our every Spring so that we may never bloom again, or give succor to our children of light.

George

Books by
Liana Margiva



REMEMBER ME, O LORD





Poor Folk by F. Dostoyevsky





Crazy

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