unearthly korshunova
Here at the riveron we encouraged our readers a few days ago to send us poems inspired by the sweet-but-sad Kazakh angel Ruslana Korshunova, who might have been victimized by the russian mafia. Since then we´ve recieved lots of poetic contributions inspired by our long-haired blue-vortex muse. Here´s one of our favorites that arrived directly from Belize:
Statuesque
She smiles, she wades into forever
An ethereal swan princess
Graces at last luminous lagoons of cobalt;
Infatuated angels peep from the clouds
To photograph a last glimpse of the sovereign belle
As she walks, and walks,
And no one touches her
The faithful sun is her solace, her bridegroom
Her soft peach skin reads epics with him
Sweet sour saccharine verses, distant reveries,
She held his hand once in Paris, said,
“I love you! Do you?”
And he blushed torrents of Cabernet Sauvignon.
Her silhouette now trails into the reticent night
The enamored moon still tells tales to the angel
Of the statuesque Russian damsel
Who walked with so much perfection
She seemed unreal, mythical
Her beautiful face, a resurrected portrait
Exhumed from a Romantic novelist’s illusion,
A priceless diamond doomed for its greatness.
Her feline eyes seduced the coquettish moonlight
That kissed her long hair with almond ambers.
Her striking fairytale pulchritude,
Immortal face of a goddess, absconds
Slowly turns into a masterpiece of rare porcelain
That now takes away the dazzling incandescence
That once radiated New York’s soul of darkness.
Osmer E. Balam
Tags: mafia, poem, ruslana korshunova, russian girls, russian muse, suicide, topmodel, unearthly beauty
September 22, 2008 at 6:43 pm |
I wrote a poem for Ruslana as well:
Apple girl, your rosy cheeks sang of horses and steppes
and a proud people of the plains, defying empires.
That vast land was too small for you.
You packed your hopes into a satchel and flew
to the New World, where they called you
Fairy Tale Princess and put you in a tower.
But the shiny new Apple was poison;
you fell into a dark spell.
When you strolled down the catwalk,
no one noticed you were sleepwalking.
your blank expression fit the profession.
Lovers climbed up the ladder of your long locks,
but not to rescue you.
There was no staircase down and
no Prince’s kiss to break your spell.
The mirror spoke the truth: Who is the unhappiest girl of all?
I am, you said to yourself.
And you left the tower the only way you knew how.
Like a fairy tale princess, we’ll never know you as old.
June 28, 2009 at 9:09 pm |
[...] Immortal face of a goddess, absconds Slowly turns into a masterpiece of rare porcelain That now takes away the dazzling incandescence That once radiated New York’s soul of darkness. (Ver poema completo) [...]