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FROM ADOLPH P. SCHVEDCHILOV
Dear Editor David Allen Stringer:
I would be very appreciated to you if you could kindly inform the readers of "Phoenix New Life Poetry" about publishing of my books.
The new books of poet Adolf P. Shvedchikov are available from the Editors by E-mail:
those endless daffodil and tulip fields caress immense horizons.
Time to breathe again the heady perfume of the hyacinths,
eat Dutch asparagus in alabaster white, pink apricots from the Valais,
marvel at Vermeer’s Het Meisje met de Parel21,
stand in awe before the Chartres stained-glass panels,
pray in silence in the Church of Giornico, hear distant chapel bells.
Once more I want to swim in Playa de Kawama,
snorkel over Red Sea corals, fly my happy kites on Noordwijk beaches,
Alfred de Zayas
“What are you doing here?” Bandhur froze.
The man on the settee rubbed his temples. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the university?”
“Lectures begin mid-afternoon.” Bandhur strodr towards the kitchen and switched on the kettle.
“My head hurts” his father, half hidden in the shadows, spoke. Bandhur felt a chillness claiming his limbs. Father and son had always lacked chemistry. “What are you doing in my flat?” Bandhur stirred his coffee. Mouldy shadows crept stealthily across the tiles.
“Did you hear me?” His father bellowed.
Bandhur entered the living room. The landlady must have left the window open the window open to freshen the place. A cool, autumn breeze whispered into the flat.
“I came - -to get this.” Pulling a drawer from a chest by the settee, Bandhur picked out a photograph. It was taken when he was a mere five years of age. Even then he knew he was trapped - - -“If only we had known then” his father smirked. Bandhur flinched, staring at the image of his mother. Her whiteness sat oddly against the colourful Asian garb. His father stood next to her in a suit. They lacked chemistry too. Then there was Bandhur, a product of separate cultures and - - bad chemistry. Gazing into his own pair of five-year old eyes, that child knew - -“Don’t you dare, Bandhur, ever come in here again, looking this way” snarled his father, his brutish eyes raking the red nail polish on his son’s manicured fingers. Bandhur walked to the door, opening it.
“By the way, dad, I’m Bhanavee now.”
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Leaves of royal gold lay in soft carpets on the park lawn welcoming the Daughter of the Sun. That was the meaning of her new name. “I am Bhanavee” she muttered silkily. Finally, the chemistry between her mind, body and spirit was settling peacefully. However, Bhanavee knew she was still a work in progress. The laughter of children in the playground echoed in her ears. Falling leaves danced partaking in the celebration of her new self. Black curls cascaded down her back as she mindlessly hummed a tune. She stopped. It was one aspect of her transition that bothered her. The Voice. He was still in Her.
A wintry chill cut through her body. Stumbling into an unexpected maelstrom of wind and fog, Bhanavee felt herself being pushed back to the building of flats she had just walked away from. He was there, by the bedroom window. Her father. A ghost of his former self. His vices made it easy for Bhanavee to bury her past. Foul play was ruled out. Her plan was idiot-proof. Father was a drunk who overdosed on his sleeping pills. Nine days ago, she buried the truth.
Ghostly shrieks tore across the park. Her father’s wispy arms thrashed about, accusingly. Birds swerved urgently in mid-flight. Shreds of grey clouds blanketed the sky. Rushing shadows moaned. Bhanavee trembled. Bad blood was back. He was still in her, unburied.