A Fevers of the Mind Poetry Showcase: Mykyta Ryzhykh

Bio: Mykyta Ryzhykh; has been nominated for Pushcart Prize. Published many times in the journals Dzvin, Dnipro, Bukovinian magazine, Polutona, Tipton Poetry Journal, Stone Poetry Journal, Divot journal, dyst journal, Superpresent Magazine, Allegro Poetry Magazine, Alternate Route, Better Than Starbucks, Littoral Press, Book of Matches, TheNewVerse News, Acorn haiku Journal, The Wise Owl, Verse-Virtual, Scud, Fevers of the Mind, LiteraryYard, PLUM TREE TAVERN, ITERANT, Fleas on the Dog, The Tiger Moth Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Angel Rust, Neologism Poetry Journal, Shot Glass Journal, QLRS, The Crank, Chronogram, The Antonym, Monterey Poetry Review, Five Fleas Itchy Poetry, Ranger magazine, PPP Ezine, Bending Genres Journal, Rat's Ass Review, Cajun Mutt Press, minor literatures, Audience Askew Literary Journal, Spirit Fire Review, The Gravity of the Thing, Ballast Journal, Star 82 Review, The BeZine, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Synchronized Chaos, boats against the current, The Decadent Review, Corvus Review, American Diversity Report, Unlikely Stories, Triggerfish Critical Review, The Moth, Ripple Lit, Rock & Sling, Meniscus, Rabid Oak, ZiN Daily, Stone of Madness, The Cortland Standard, Quarter Press, Schredder, Wilderness House Literary Review, Poetry Porch, Chewers & Masticadores, The Big Windows Review, Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Third Wednesday, Cosmic Double, Dialogist, Consequence, Cool Beans Lit, Poets Choice, BarBar.


***

This poem smells blue

| | |

The color of wrinkles in the sky

¶

Black shapes in clear water

∆

This verse will be picked up by crows in the morning

And they will be thrown from heaven

On icy concrete heart rocks

~

All in vain

.



(reprint by Stone Poetry Journal)

***

Copper night knocks 

On the back of the head, asks: 

"What street is this?"

And this is not a street, 

This is the whole life.



Here at the age 

Of 4 I drank sleeping pills,

At 14 I lost my virginity, 

At 24 I lost my family, 

At 34 my father died (thank God, my father died). 



Now I'm free like the cry of a newborn. 

I'm single, like when I was born. 

A lonely body without everything 

Meaningful, invented, composed. 

The body, by its movement forward, 

Has reached the very beginning. 

Ashes close to dust.



And suddenly the night opens its 

Lunar hood, and now death looks 

At me with its bony eyes.



"Come on, friend," I said to death, 

"I hope you don't turn me into a zombie."

The door of cast iron milk opened. 

And I started drinking. 

My teeth turned black and fell out. 

Birds pecked out my eyes. 

My body fell off me. Copper night, 

Pig-iron milk, golden memory. 

And suddenly: emptiness.


(reprint by Crank)



***

We were stolen at birth and brought into this world. This world has robbed us. Cats will never again sing under the window about their nine lives in the nine circles of hell. We are no longer cats. We are no longer dogs. Only occasionally does one of us like to sit on a leash in puppy latex. We are heavy, sir. We are light, Lord, like fluff. We are airy, Lord, like chitin. We are homeless, Lord, like heaven. We are rich, Lord, like the poorest poor man. We are your angels, Lord. Wash our feet, Lord, we can't stand you. We love you, Lord, like dogs do. We are on your leash, tied to you, Lord. We are the gods of death in your realm, Lord. Ash. The last candle for your rest in our hearts, Lord.


(reprint by Crank)