Sequel

Submerged memories surfaced by a mnemonic exercise like a sleigh of hand recall of events by year. 1972 came   

easily to mind as birth year of youngest son but by 1976 life had unraveled, and by Summer was fraught with joy and conflict by turns as both our visiting children came

and went.  At end of the season in lieu of been given

recognition for my travails, he simply disappeared.

In Winter the one who had been his wife clambered

up my stairs and with tremulous hands held mine and

thanked me profusely for caring for her children. It did much to mitigate his ingratitude.

In Spring in those carefree Berkeley days when locking a door was still a choice, he came in through back stairs to lay in wait on my chaise longue.  I saw first his pharaonic profile outlined as shadow on wall. He launched into justifications immediately, as if in answer to my unvoiced questions. I barely listened. Now I can’t fathom what led me to consider continue a relationship based as it was on false premises.  And why? Can I credit myself with compassion or a sense I had met my match in perversity?  Other more convoluted reasons occurred to me…

In my circle it was not unusual to ‘drop’ acid before

contemplating an important decision, I partook as reverentially as previously receiving the Eucharist. Few relationships would have survived such scrutiny. I offered him a ‘hit’ to join me but predictably he declined.

In the moonlight as he fell asleep. I sat like a cat ready to pounce on edge of chair examined his face and said in ‘sotto voce’, “Does he imagine he can evade me again?” Not to mention the outrage of someone allowing one to be alone during a ‘trip.’ Perhaps unclear to older generation.

What followed was a silent battle that lasted for hours,

no worse, time seeped backwards into hourglass.

I stood my ground and finally close to dawn he began

to speak, and so cogently, as if he heard my thoughts

and was responding to my questions. A visiting friend , Dorian from Paris commented on my reluctance to leave with: “Even Christ paid his Karmic debt with only three days of agony!” The absurdity of such a grandiose comparison resonated in my ears and drove me into paroxysms of laughter!

This went on for days, nay years, until we grew weary…

As way of a parting gift I tore all the pages of my journal

that at all related to him, and slid them into his, to make certain nothing was left unsaid, nothing lost.

I did learn from him that suffering was not inevitable

but an act of volition. Perhaps I learned more from him than I now care to admit.

In the Fall we could go no further, there was no assignment of guilt or witness. The knots that tied us no longer held We separated then, and limped away from each.

                                             

                                              

                                                     Antonia Baranov

Untitled

            

                 The dogwoods are in bloom

                 giving lie to Winter’s hold

                 I trudge through muddy roads

                 thoughts of Summer, of war’s end

                 and of life rising again

                 out of the Tigris plain.

                                                                  Antonia Baranov

                                                                   

Mackeral Sky

It was such a day as that    

I caught a glimpse of

 the perfect symmetry

of the Universe.

The mackerel sky,

mad Charlotte crossing bridge

her Mexican hairless dog in tow,

the screech of ravens

All merged in unison.

          

                          Antonia Baranov

Telephone Call

                          From depths of sleep  heard  your voice

                         drifting through my  dream.  Do not recall

                        how  it came about that I was crouching over

                        the  telephone listening to your words in the dark

.

                        Disoriented from lack of presence or eyes to read,

                        guided solely by the tone of your  voice. But as

                        the  inference  of your speech  began  to seep in,

                        I respond with irony at first and then in a feline hiss

                        spat out my rage and  leapt away from instrument.

                        I continued though  to hear you still talking from

                        the dangling receiver, our contact now broken.

                        As  the poignancy of the  call  lingered on for days

                         I savoured  it like blood  one absently tastes

                         from  an unexpected wound.

                                                                                                                                       Antonia Baranov

Good Neighbor

Met the neighbour this time alone pulling away

his new dog from the amorous advances of mine.

My husband varies in explanation for the reason

of  his ruddy complexion and erratic moods.

Our talks about dogs when his wife is present,

are friendly and relaxed, their  dog  as is ours, a rescue.

I let the dogs settle down but mostly reassure the couple .

He invariably at first sight of us tries to drag the little bitch

to the street and  I endeavour  to detain him each time.

This evening being without his wife he would have

 none of it; reverted  back to form it would seem, 

no learning curve except on my part that is,

 learning the  pretence of being a good neighbour.

The evening walk was not a total loss though

 little dogs managed a meeting, fleeting as it was.

 It was dusk, sun imbued clouds with lilac hue

 I gathered  a cluster of lavender flowers in my arms

  In the absence of the proprietary buzzing of bees,

 with that peculiarly dusty smell of Provence.

             

                                                                                                                                       Antonia Baranov                       

Judith of the Lace Parasol

                 

                     Judit with the lace parasol

                    walked her dog by the creek

                    asked if I was an artist,

                    my dough encrusted fingers

                    mistaken for clay--- for her gaffe

                    received a cup of tea and a loaf of bread.

                    She seemed like a good soul,

                    at ease in her body

                   no small feat at this age.

                   She adopted a ten year old dog probably

                   closer to thirteen, but didn’t seem to mind.

                  She came to my house and upon my

                   bully‘s  bark uttered a grandiose

                 “et tu Brutus” clearly intended for my ears

                  I invited her to our 4th of July,

                  a Hungarian to my Russian.

                  enemies in a new land at least   

                   recognise each other          

                  I’m  weary of new friendships

                  having barely survived the old.

                  So when she left I was somewhat pained

                  but ever so relieved.

                  I pondered about it some days and wondered

                  if she thought that I compromised to have the

                   life I did or perhaps envied it or both?

                   All to the  good, relationships

                    have an addictive underpinning,

                    and my solitude a reliable friend.

                    But as I said before,  she was a good soul.

                    Judit of the lace parasol.

                                                                                                                                         Antonia Baranov

Summer Madness

You have lost all immanence

to remember you I must explore

the  forms your absence takes in me.

Ended is the fruitless search,

the silly games I played

and you with stoic stance, endured.

My summer madness has had

A winter’s resolution.

There will be no aurora lights in night sky

or solstice to mark, nor easy camaraderie to keep

but a journey, silent and intent.

An unwinding of all the selves.

And in the end perhaps, surrender

to that uncertain grace.

                                                                                                                                                                           

                                                                                                              Antonia Baranov