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Moscow Pictures



As far as the eye can see
Is beauty,
Pushing at the pink tones
Of sunset or sunrise,
Tearing some emotions beyond understanding
As if retrieving intimations of another life,
Remembering in feeling a different incarnation
Where desire met differently with the real world,
Where creation sounded different notes
In a different symphony.

O let me move into that memory -
Or is it memory, perhaps it is a new
Psychic sensation that just seems old,
As a dream that feels to be a deja-vu
Until you awake and realize it had never been before
That time -
Had existed once in what felt like forever
Until you woke

Like that sunrise or sunset
Around dark rocks in intense shapes
That pinkness in the sky that I saw as I lay
Half-awake at night, in the dark, and with
Closed eyes,

My dream like pink, unaware of where it is,
Mattering not what bed I lie in 
As I dream
Alexandria Jerusalem London Moscow..........
It matters not, it is not that sky 
But the other sky
The other sky that dreams itself in pink
Silently behind closed eyes
In the night of any time
No precise date
The dreaming time of absolute eternity
Where I remember something of extreme emotion
Where the sun`s colours tear at the feelings
Of dreaming in night or day,
In morning or evening the pink sky
Of eternal sunrise and eternal sunset
Painfully scouring its majesty..........






Moscow sunsets
Pale cloud-streaks
Heart aflame

The desire for you

Red wet lips
Russian Lithuanian wide
Mouths beautiful 

O I love

Flashing sparkling eyes
Black dark eyes at night
Like stars
Brightly twinkling in cold still






The strange light
Of Moscow skies
The snowy cold
Of bright weird 
Night with lights
All artificial
Dreams are bizarre
Amid Moscow flats
The twinkling lights
For hours and hours
Some strange yearning
Is enflamed but not 
Satisfied amid the endless blocks
Of flats floating against the sky
Of smoke and mist
Cloud and peculiar coloured
Sky of atmospheric weirdness







As sacred in the night as snow,
Fur-coated ladies in black boots
And fur hats;

Woman on another plane
Walks in beauty like the night;
At last I meet

Anna Karenina from my childhood dreams
Here, in Moscow, in the snow,
In freezing beauty of the night.






I am alive
And I do not wish to be dead
Until I die.

If my flame still spires
Then it will make errors
Amongst its glories

But for me (my reflective self)
That is normal
Though I may crunch in guilt.

I crunched with Sveta in the snow
Across the Kremlin, where the beauteous white
Was Russia incarnate, in every dream

Of deepest soul against the blue
Dark sky, nearly night
With snowflakes on her fur and hair

As she spoke, her lips bursting
Unintentionally, beauty of a young
Girl, a dream in the forest sky.






Perfumes of these Russian snows,
Ladies so concerned in night,
With mysterious beauty crying,

Here it snows seriously
Down through ravens on the high
Trees, white birches

Strange where silence flies like flapping
Huge crows - "good luck" 
In Russian, incomprehensible legend.






Onion domes
Against sky-snow
Peculiar light
All is strange
Noone does
Anything but dream
In anxiety







Flame burning through the snow
Red lips hoping and smiling
In the crisp cold

Deep dangerous yearning here
Dostoyevsky in intensity
Dirty old grey coat

I fly wild goat 
Or is it forest bear
Jumping on cold moss

Holy sinner in the night
Russian rock of agony
Strange depth of insanity

Slow heavy walk in boots
Coat and fur hat
Machine-gunning at Stalingrad

Mad endless face-to-face
Three-feet-away fighting with spade
Or knife, finally fucking well winning it






I lost my hat.
In Moscow it is impossible without
A deep fur warm black hat
Over the ears,
And I was happier when my Russian hat
Was restored to my head.
I felt like a Russian soldier
Fighting at Stalingrad.






Deepest yearnings at last satisfied
Deep soft wild milky
Red-lipped straw-blonde
Ah! ecstasy.






And all those hypocrites can go to hell
And their lies can melt into flakes of snow,
As all I want is to love a woman
Firm and hard, to kiss her lips,
Hold her beauty, and enter in
To her softness, while she kisses me
And does everything she can feel,
And gives herself utterly and totally;
And that is what I at last found
In Russia.






Primaeval flood of first love,
Light through the snow of eternity,
Woman loved in unthinking joy,
Deep smell and organic dream,
Art that is of unspoken greatness,
Tchaikovsky soaring to the moon,
Dancing with the ultimate goddess-queen
Of the moon, moon-queen,
That is love in the Universe,
All alone, united with all,
Crisp, cold, still snow,
Flying with the cells of blood
In well-being.

I want your beauty, and to bury me
Into your perfume, your hair floating
And flying into my wild face.
Goodbye, for now,
Russia in love,
Love for Russia,
In a gorgeous dream.

Bright cupolas in a magic sky
Like Kandinsky dreaming.


Tim Cloudsley nació Cambridge, Inglaterra. Es sociologo, escritor y poeta. Trabajó como profesor en la Escuela de Idiomas, de la Universidad Industrial de Santander, Bucaramanga en el ámbito de estudios culturales y literatura.

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