MARINA KAZAKOVA - POEMS

Marina Kazakova (b. Gorky, Russia, 1983) is a Russian-born Belgium-based poet. Her literature works deal to a large degree with confrontation with the past and explore the challenges posed both by memory and grief. Published internationally in magazines and journals (Three Rooms Press "Maintenant", "Great Weather for Media...", "Crannog", "Duck Lake Books", "Writing in a Woman's Voice", "Modern Literature"), Marina is a frequent performer, she has been shortlisted at various international poetry festivals and art events: Brussels Poetry Festival 2017-2018,  Maintenant's Dada London Invasion 2018, Nothing To Sell 2019 - Rome, European Poetry Festival 2020, Red Square Festival 2020, The 3rd International Literary Festival Words of Fire 2020 in Portugal, Gerard Manley Hopkins International Literary Festival 2020 in Ireland, etc.
 
Marina holds Master's degrees in Public Relations and Transmedia. Currently, she is Communications Officer at Victim Support Europe (Brussels) and working on her practice-based PhD in Arts at Luca School of Arts (KULeuven).
 

​Tower Bridge + Fish

​Cocooned in eastern scents
of candied peanuts,
the Tower Bridge gets idle, shiftless,
it stretches gently
over the liquid
black ink of Thames.
Cacooned in knitted scarves
of ginger sunset,
the chef keeps talking
of his native Balkans,
the tired faces in red buses
sleep the afterwork dreams
missing the mise-en-scène.
Cacooned in mustard autumn
lights of London
the fish under the Tower waters
sing jazz, go sentimental,
write rhyme, free verse, love poems
in liquid black ink of Thames.
 

​ autoportrait + naked maple + lords and ladies

​I walk and walk,
I troop away
from honeycomb of Camden way,
I suffocate, I almost faint.
My promenade
lies through the silent landscape
uphill steep slopes of gracious Hampstead,
along the walls of Georgian mansions
towards l'heure bleue and Galsworthy’s sky,
backwards in time.
I stand and stand
in Oxfam’s backstage,
I am trying on
the famous autoportrait -
in a tie, suspenders and a beret,
the mirror suddenly turns into
a triple-tiered frame,
(the famous Gluck-frame,
invented by her in 30s),
which contents – my reflection-
slips off into the space
beyond the shop building,
seeps out onto the Windmill Hill.
I think and think,
I dream around the Bolton House,
touching its handmade red bricks,
oil lantern towers,
the railings
     with moulded leaves
when Gluck appears
                out of the thin air -
an all-embracing naked maple,
a  perfect symmetry of «Lords and Ladies» -
the floral naturmort in front,
a thunderbolt into my heart.
I stop and listen:
«Lords-and-ladies,
angels – devils,
Adam- Eve,
YouWe,
Come in! Come in!
It's time for tea!»
I stand stockstill,
I blink away
the Bolton House starts to shake,
I, you, we, Lords and Ladies, Oxfam, lanterns, Hampstead -
faint.
 
 

​Portrait of Margaret Watts

​I was befuddled,
numbed,
confronted -
the portrait of the princess Margaret
hung in the silence,
right before my eyes -
the secrets of desire came to light.
Felt passion placed itself
on most vivid display
the tale of confidence
was at its most dazzling .
As I got closer,
her smile, semi-transparent,
(inevitably invited the comparison
with Mona Lisa)
turned into the raw,
unvarnished
senses.
The face competed
with gorgeous Da Vinci hands:
long fingers, with music in between,
born for the pianos keys.
Not a trace of fear,
no drama,
only sheer
self-sufficiency -
non-chalant, miss Margaret Watts!