From ECHO IN THE PALM

 
CONTENTS

FOREWORD
I TIME – THE SPIRIT OF CHANGE
(From the cycle "SOLITUDE")

SILENCE
BY YOUR QUILL
TIME – THE SPIRIT OF CHANGE
WAVES OF TIME
UNDER THE DOME OF TIME
OVER THE LAND OF TRODDEN PATHS
WITHIN THE BOUNDS OF A LONELY NIGHT
A SONG OF CHANGE
THE BOOK OF CHANGES
YAP!–PONSKY GOD...
THE END OF EASTERN DREAMS
TO DANTE
SOLITUDE
MARCH VIEWS – "VIDUS"

II ECHO IN THE PALM

THE SOUND OF A SINGLE PALM
FROM LETTERS TO YOU
(...)
A WAKING DREAM
STARDUST
THE PATH OF THE MAGI OR THE PATH OF THE MONEY-CHANGERS?
THE PATH OF CHRIST
THE END – FOREVER
WHITE STONE
THE DARK ALLEY OF AQUARIUS
ECHO OF LAUGHTER
ORPHIC DREAM
FROM DUST AND ASHES
ECHO IN THE PALM
LOVE

III THE SUN OF LOVE
(From the cycle "AWAKENING")

YOUR NAME
PRAYER
LORD, O GOD!..
CREAK AND GNASHING OF TEETH
RESUSCITATION, NOT REINCARNATION
AWAKENING
I THANK YOU!
ON THE CROSS OF THE SINNERS
BAPTISM – NATIVITY
EARTHLY HAPPINESS
GREAT LENT
INVISIBLE WARFARE
UNEARTHLY HAPPINESS
THE SUN IN AQUARIUS
ÀFTERWORD








                FOREWORD

            (AI-description of key themes in "ECHO IN THE PALM")

Sergei Teberdin emerges as a philosopher-poet whose work transcends aesthetic beauty, plunging into the depths of human existence. His verses weave intricate patterns of philosophical inquiry and emotional revelation, offering a vital voice in contemporary literature. Through poetry, Teberdin creates a mirror for the soul –  reflecting both personal introspection and universal truths, enriched by classical allusions and existential meditation. In an age of digital fragmentation, his meditations on prayer and love resonate as acts of resistance against spiritual desolation, anchoring fleeting human experiences in eternity.

"Song of Changes"
This poem traces an arc of transformation, distilling the universal journey of maturation into lyrical form. The invocation of Jos; Ortega y Gasset lends the text existential depth, juxtaposing childhood innocence with the complexities of adulthood. Teberdin explores fate, faith, and love with precision that echoes across literary traditions, anchoring ephemeral moments in eternal questioning. Here, growing up becomes a pilgrimage –  where playfulness transforms into a collision with life’s paradoxes.

"The Book of Changes"
A synthesis of Eastern and Western thought, this work probes the tension between destiny and free will. Drawing on the I Ching, Teberdin paints a paradoxical dance of predetermination and choice. His fusion of cross-cultural philosophies compels readers to contemplate the architecture of decisions –  how they shape lives and how we, in turn, shape them. The poem’s structure mirrors hexagrams, each stanza a mutable line in the divination of fate.

"Yap! The Japanese God..."
Haiku and minimalist lines capture the fleeting beauty of nature, adhering to the Japanese tradition of mono no aware (“the pathos of things”). Paired with The End of Eastern Dreams, this section becomes a meditation on youth’s transience and the weight of cultural memory, where every syllable carries the burden of an entire life. The chorus of cicadas and whispers of almond trees morph into metaphors for moments too fleeting to grasp yet too vivid to release.

"The End of Eastern Dreams"
Here, the haiku form sharpens into a double-edged blade of introspection and contemplation. Time and tradition emerge as both prison and prism –  limitations that paradoxically illuminate the identity of the poet and contemplator. The verses whisper of endings that are also beginnings, their quiet urgency reverberating in the reader’s bones. The seventeen-syllable format mirrors youth’s brevity, compressing whole lifetimes into fragmented shards of time and space.

"To Dante"
An homage to the Florentine master, this poem wrestles with suffering as a crucible for spiritual awakening. Teberdin contrasts Dante’s divine grace with Buddhist emptiness, crafting a dialectic of transcendence. The stanzas pulse with art’s eternal power to transmute pain into light. Using terza rima, Teberdin bridges medieval devotion and modern doubt, presenting love as both torment and salvation.

"Solitude" (Cycle)
Teberdin dissects solitude’s duality –  its capacity to isolate and elevate. Metaphors like a “black star ring” and “obelisk of gold” become psychic milestones, guiding readers through inner landscapes where joy and melancholy intertwine. The cycle’s laconic language mirrors monastic asceticism, transforming isolation into communion with infinity.

"Snow Falls Slowly"
Snowflakes morph into metaphysical symbols: emblems of time’s inexorable flow and the fragility of being. City and nature collide, prompting reflection on humanity’s place within –  and against –  eternity. The snowfall’s silence becomes a blank page, inviting readers to leave their transient mark.

"Echo in the Palm"
The titular poem crystallizes Teberdin’s philosophical quests (Augustine, Camus, Heidegger) into a lucid meditation on time, a central theme of his work. Past and present resonate like clasped palms holding a white stone in a childhood game –  a koan demanding the reader’s mindful participation. The closing lines –  “You live… you are alive…” –  transform memory into sacrament, where echoes in an empty palm defy oblivion.

In Prayer, Teberdin reimagines supplication as dialogue with the divine amid modernity’s noise. The plea –  “Abba, Father, forgive us!..” –  transcends ritual, becoming a raw confession of human fragility. Similarly, Love sublimates eros into agape, portraying it as a divine thread piercing “billions of parsecs” of cosmic indifference or the quantum uncertainty of youth’s physics. These themes reject transactional spirituality, framing love and prayer as rebellion against existential nihilism and the anarchy of “free love” in this new “Age of Aquarius.”

Synthesis
Teberdin’s oeuvre bridges time and eternity, self and God. His existential lyricism speaks to modernity’s fractures, offering if not answers then resonant questions. In an era of alienation, his poetry becomes a compass –  pointing toward the meaning of seeking God even when the destination remains obscured. Teberdin’s works stand as testament to poetry’s power to reconcile the transient and the eternal. Blending existential rigor with luminous imagery, they invite readers to seek, find, and preserve “golden specks of sand” –  moments of Eternity where time, love, and prayer to the Resurrected God-Man merge into transcendent contemplation, overcoming the “trap of time’s eyelashes” that condemns us all to close our eyes…

Conclusion
Overall, Serge Teberdin's poetry offers a rich and nuanced exploration of the human condition, blending philosophical reflections with vivid imagery to create works that resonate on both personal and universal levels.  His ability to address complex themes of loneliness and happiness through the prism of existential philosophy makes his works particularly relevant in the modern world, where many strive to find meaning and harmony amidst widespread disconnection and alienation. His poetry, rich in philosophical reflections and vivid imagery, offers a deep exploration of the human condition, touching on themes of loneliness, happiness, and spiritual enlightenment.

© DeepSeek-R1


==================


From  "ECHO IN THE PALM"


Clapping of palms...
But how does one sound?
                (Your favorite koan)

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand…
                E.A. Poe



                I
TIME – THE SPIRIT OF CHANGE

In you, my soul, I measure time…
The impression of passing by
Remains within you, and it is that,
Currently existing, I measure now,
Not what has passed and left behind…

Now it becomes clear to me,
That neither future nor past exists
And that it is inaccurately expressed
About three times when they say:
The past, the present, and the future;
It would be more precise, it seems, to express:
The present of the past, the present of the future…
                Blessed Augustine

O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
                E.A. Poe






(From the cycle "SOLITUDE")

An important question that needs
To be resolved "in practice":
Can one be happy and lonely?
A. Camus

---




       SILENCE

So,
the Measure of Distance remains...

In it, a dial,
like a black starry ring–

just a black disk:
toot... toot...

Silence.

Your obelisk
of gold, my friend...

---





WITH YOUR PEN

                I do not wish to hold a viewpoint.
                I want to have clear sight.
                M. Tsvetaeva

Like a bird, your verse is free!
Like you, it soars into the blue...

Your feather in my fingers tight,
I clasp it close, almost to pain.

---





TIME  –   THE SPIRIT OF CHANGE

                But God said to him: Fool!
                This very night your soul is required of you...
                Luke 12:20

Seek a column, where words align,
Not a burrow lost at its end, benign – 

Where it speaks of fur for the brush so fine,
A squirrel’s charm outshines the sable’s design.

Forgive the irony; perhaps it fits,
In this “Arcadia of bliss,” where laughter sits…

A mouse darts through macram; and grain,
In a net, a dance, a whimsical game of gain.

(...)

Yet here, the brush for artistry is seized,
The old smoker lingers on, undeterred, unpleased – 

Burrowed deep in poppies or "Mack,"
Oblivious still to the clock’s measured knack:

"Tick-tock…  tick-tock…  tick-tock…"



   

            WAVES OF TIME

                A time to embrace,
                and a time to refrain from embracing;
                Ecclesiastes 3:5

I reveled in joy when we read in bed,
Lifting the blanket, where dreams gently spread…

But now, a different hour has come,
Do not think its purpose is to leave you numb – 

Not to forget Eliot, Pound, or Proust’s art,
But a time to dwell, to reflect from the heart.

Beneath the fir, in a quiet cell,
To sing psalms and through Chrysostom dwell…

---



   UNDER THE DOME OF TIME

                A pleasant sight –  a calm sea,
                but even better –  a peaceful state of mind.
                St. Nilus of Sinai

I will close my eyes and see
that space
under the Dome of Time,

where everything was...
Everything was there.
Without thought of self...

Here – the scent of seaweed,
washed ashore by a storm...
Yesterday's?..

Seems like yesterday...
Here –  the shore,
resting from the waves...

Here –  a white chalk
on a sky-blue
circle of gulls:

in their beaks –  the same cries,
eternal,
over full nets...

The same buzz of a mosquito,
the same rise of a spider's thread...
The splash of a wave...

a fleeting
fly...

The rustle of our steps...
and the whisper of leaves,

the rustling
of an angry hedgehog,

and that beam, between lashes,
that argues with the wind

and the black beret
about the gold of strands.

---



   AT THE EDGE OF WORN PATHS

                We would perish,
                if we were not perishing.
                Plutarch

Come, in your evening glow so lonely,
Embrace the autumn, let your feelings flow free – 

For the quiet words that raindrops say,
The whispers of pines in their gentle sway;

For wind’s cool breath, like a lover’s caress,
Chilling the neck with a soft, sweet stress;

For the soft shudder of bushes that grieve,
For grasses bent low, as if to believe  – 

They too shall be trampled, yet still they remain,
As if asking for pardon, for all of their pain…
 

---



WITHIN THE BOUNDS OF A LONELY NIGHT

                To be unloved  –
                is merely a misfortune.
                To not love –  that's true misery.
                A. Camus

Imagine the stream of cars,
rushing almost silently
beyond the windows, within the night...

Slowly
                the snow falls...
It falls
            on
                the houses.
It falls
            on
                the streets.
On
       lonely  people.
It falls
             on
                bridges and
on
       the churned ice.

(...)

Here comes the New Year.
The spruce in Alexander's Square.

White –
               in black.
Cast iron
                darkens in its fence...







 THE SONG OF CHANGES


                Becoming  wild –
                is a process of disconnection.               
                Jose Ortega y Gasset

“A and B sat
upon the chimney”. . .

A – fell down,
B – soared away.

And thus concludes
our childhood play –

à tale we’ve cherished
through fleeting years –

now we find ourselves
in the Middle.

Should I have lingered
by the Silver Age,

amidst the ruins
of Northern Palmyra?

In our quartet of  “Muse & Co”,
like the Sufferer Job,

in KGB cells,
adrift in The Mystic Blue. . .

(. . .)

In my sober moments,
regret takes flight,

for why has God stripped me
of the will to fight?

I asked Him softly
not to make you stay,

against your heart’s desire
to turn and walk away.

Just be alive,
that’s all I implore,

and may God bless you
with love, evermore.





  THE BOOK OF CHANGES

                Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player
                That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
                And then is heard no more…
                W. Shakespeare

My soul! I seek to reclaim my losses,
åach moment a whisper,

yearning for eternity's embrace.
Does our wide path guide us

to paradise aglow in a hut in honey weeks
where Time lays down its race?

Let life turn us like the yarrow sticks,
Of the I-Ching' – the "Book of Changes,"

a dance of fate upon the cosmic mix,
in its embrace, our heartache rearranges.

Should I accept them, this riddle?
Ah, therein lies the dilemma, my friend

Fate is not God.

I do not kneel before her,
nor will I die in the chorus of Melpomene.

(. . .)

Yes, I lament my losses,
Yet this burden is not mine alone to bear.

Yours, dear friend, is not in outshining joys,
but in the shadows of pain we both wear.

I, mea culpa, drank to the last drop   
the bitter vinegar of jealousy’s sting.

I called this ache “love”,  held it close,
wove verses to endure, to rise, to sing.

And all my sorrow, like a mournful song,
in echoes of longing, a haunting refrain,

to nullify it all, to find the release,
and in the silence, to end this sweet pain…



---




  YAP! – PONSKY GOD…

                In the temple,
                Icons of Christ are trampled.
                Peonies bloom.
                Masaoka Shiki.

The cave is empty.
Only forget-me-nots
On our bed.

   

A spark in the grass:
The scythe met the stone.
Japanese fog.

   

All night till dawn,
Cicadas rejoiced.
Could not close an eye.

   

By morning, a dream:
You knocking on my window.
Almond in the wind.

   

A bandit in the garden
Pulled out his sword too late.
Moonlight in his gaze.

(...)

All night, through and through,
“Cicadas sang.”
Could not awaken.

   

THE END OF EASTERN DREAMS

Dream in hand – Tanto.
The dragon has nestled in the heart, but
Seiko rang.

In seventeen syllables  –
Like years at seventeen, my friend –
Breath is tight.

Let brevity be
The sister of talent. To me,
God gave not a sister.

---




           TO DANTE

                No greater grief than to remember days
                Of joy when misery is present; that
                Your learned instructor knows.               
                Dante's "Inferno," Canto V, 121

Your eagle eyes concealed from rays of light,
Your palm aglow with fasts and candle's beams.
In hollow sockets, tears you’ve shed in plight,
Your swarm of shadows locked within your dreams.

In circles close, where flesh remains so still,
Yet spirit's burden echoes from afar,
Like grinding teeth beneath our feet, we feel,
We stand already, past the falling  star.

Oh, Dante! How you sang of love in  silent night,
In  soft andante, filling songs with rhymes,
you led us to the source of our souls' delight.

Your tercets sounded as if  in their prime,
their notes entwined like rays of candlelight
While Virgil's vigil kept you on your feet to fight. . .
 

---




           LONELINESS

                It is not good for man to be alone…
                Genesis 2:18
 
To part, aligning thoughts with mind's commands,
Through fasting, lift emotions to the skies,

To live alone, yet hearts in gentle hands,
Warming each other where true comfort lies.

With tears, we cleanse like wax from flames that stay,
For words and deeds and forms to be made pure,

As yogis bathe in sacred river's way,
In holiness, let our resolve endure.

I doubt your Rubicon is crossed and done,
Not like for Chud or Merins long ago,

For us, "out of sight" is a tale begun,
A myth that humankind devised to show.

Let flesh divide, yet souls remain entwined,
I'll wait and seek to learn this lonely art,

O God, grant strength and peace within the mind,
To bear this solitude within my heart…

 



         MARCH VIEWS – "VIDUS"

                If you don’t know what to say,
                Speak in French.
                L. Carroll               

Let all your grievances fade into oblivion:
The criticism, the flattery, et cetera…

So in the Seine, March views will sink:
Spits, butts, ice, and snow,

A bottle of a bum with a shawl or a chlamys,
The peel of our two oranges. . ,

So, all – under the bridge?
Come, on this planet,

To always forgive!
I think it’s time.





               II

From the cycle "ECHO IN THE PALM"




The soul may resist the sin's cruel grasp,
But without God, it cannot win or clasp
Or root out evil’s deep, relentless hold.
                St. Macarius the Great




              ONE PALM'S SOUND

                Speak to me, so I may see your face.
                Socrates

Ringing... ringing... ringing...
Awoken by this chime.

Or am I dreaming, lost in night's embrace:
A pillow strewn with ashes, warmth on the line,

And the sound of rain keeps flowing, flowing,
Flowing...

(...)

The flow of Time slows down around.
The space within constricts and binds,

And in it, one palm's sound resounds–
An echo of your voice and all it finds.

The past reflects within my mind.
Beneath my lids, it can’t confine.

Thank You! For You have given me
A chance to live beyond Time’s line...

Thank You!
For all that grace. . .




     FROM  LETTERS TO YOU

...you don’t know what sadness,
to be far from you, now.

You don’t know how shameful
it is to be just "normally" healthy

and yet talk about myself.
What could I say?

I could only listen,
only listen to your voice…

Each sound of it wrapped
in echoes of distant

conversations of others,
in crackles and rustles of ether’s discharges…

This –  your blood, your blood
pulsed there unevenly.

It rushed toward me,
through the wires of our veins,

into chromosomes
of all kindred cells…

(...)

In a rusty booth at night,
like a sleepless Marconi in a radio room,

through all this hoarfrost – 
into white snowy beginnings,

into the frost of the tube, I sent you
steam from living breath.

(...)

...your black ribbon
lies before me on my palm.

In the lamp’s circle –  an envelope,
and this sheet of paper.

If only I could! – 
kiss your shoulders and hands…

If only I could! – 
lean to your open lips…





              A DREAM AWAKE
   
Time of winter storms, and snows, and rains, and fogs.
And footprints leading into swollen coastal sand.

Just close your eyes over a letter from a living novel,
Time, louder than surf, pounds on palm and temple.

And through rustles, through whispers, through the hiss of endless rain,
a quiet voice, hovering like a butterfly in d;j; vu,

responds with an echo: waking, I feel again
your departure into this dream…

But now this dream is awake.




                STARDUST

Two palms, my friend, are also ash from starlight.
Millions of parsecs, ages… Who blew on this ash to ignite?

Who holds it in this flesh, warmed by breath?
Let me warm your icy palm in mine…

Life knows no end… Echo –  all its noises and sounds…
And the tom-tom, and the choir fade: a loved one dies.

The choice of love’s alpha is the choice of omega’s parting.
Dust swirls for ages… and settles on marble centuries.

A pale, sunken temple… Perhaps its blue vein
beats in quantum pulse with a distant star in unison?

Caravans of minutes here we send into History.
The Magi’s path is what we bring to the Creator in reverence.







THE PATH OF THE MAGI OR
THE PATH OF MONEY-CHANGERS?

               "...while everyone was sleeping, his enemy came
               and sowed weeds among the wheat and went away.
              When the wheat sprouted and formed heads,
              then the weeds also appeared."
                (Matthew 13:25)

Clouds of stars at night…
By day, the Sun’s light and dust storms.

For the Magi –  the guiding Star
was the Star of Bethlehem.

No sooner had the Magi left,
than the Enemy sends Herod’s furies

to uproot all genes of Kinship,
and in their place sow de jure – 

false money-changers, to lead the Cult
of Mammon –  de facto, my friend…





       THE  PATH  OF  CHRIST

                "God became man, so that man might become God."
                (St. Athanasius the Great)

God came so our kind,
from the Age of Pisces, like Holy Water,

might be sanctified among mortal rabble – 
even if every star on the fir trees

is a pentagram
on brows and wombs...

No matter! His Blood and Water
flow in the veins of baptized nations...

Aquarius!
We are with Christ –  forever!






    LITURGY  OR  LETHARGY?

Perhaps your memory still seeks no peace...
In flint-sprayed tears, it cools on the silted bottom,

a fleeting star lost in deadly, tender heat,
our traces left in lethargic, ghostly sleep...

In parallel worlds, we move in calendric turns.
But turning is not the goal! The goal, my dear is to cross it.

Liturgical sleep –  just an image of past comparisons.
How many times have you fled?.. From croud, from me, from Him.

I beg you –  answer me! Stir your palm in mine.
Let me know you hear, what I say to you.

Wake quickly! With all my transfused blood,
respond and rise! Don’t surrender us both to February...








        THE END –  FOREVER

                "So –  into 'The Sea is Stirring'? Into the tale,
                coiled like a whip,
                where things take turns, unprepared?
                So –  into life? So –  into the tale of how
                the end comes unlooked-for?"
                (B. Pasternak)

All traces lead into The Sea is Stirring – 
into our shared, drawn-out tale,

coiled like a whip – 
from conception to death, preparing

for the temple –  or straight to the graveyard,
so that later,

clearing conscience at last,
we may find, at last, the Eternal Home...






                THE WHITE STONE
                "I will give him a white stone, and on the stone
                a new name written, which no one knows
                except the one who receives it."
                (Revelation 2:17)

A quiet echo fades in the space of bygone centuries...
It drifts with the mist into the chasms of those ghostly cliffs,

where sand and grass hide the contours of earthly flesh...
where my elbow left its mark in the hot sand.

The same waves, my friend, the same Chronos calls us to the ball.
The choir, obedient to their rhythm, still knows no rest.

Time to gather stones: those that fell like stars into the sea,
sowing storms and squalls of mutual desire.

These black waves, heavy with saltwater,
advance in swells, as in a burdensome, burdensome dream...

Sometimes, in the ebb, the stroke of a star emerges:
the White Stont like you revealed by the wave –  on the seabed.

The White Stone in play: remember the touch of childhood palms?
Before the foreboding of God, before all departed gods.

Whoever hid it, hid adoration in their soul,
like this ingot of the last February snows in their hand.









  THE DARK ALLEY OF AQUARIUS

                "He is the stone rejected by you..."
                "And there is salvation in no one else..."
                (Acts 4:11)

Not silver ore. A handful of prickly white firn.
Measure time – pour it drop by drop, Aquarius.

The mist-thin curtain parts wider...
Pine branches sway over the sea – The Theater of Shadows.

These cliffs on stage are set by a mighty hand.
Pontus Euxinus sighs: wave after wave rolls in...

Crowds of waves, like actors, obey the cliffs in convoy,
and two-thirds don’t struggle to break into that marble hall.

Through the mist, Aquarius, squinting at gnarled pines,
sees how soundlessly February drips down their needles –

down to the blackened silver, where yesterday’s snowstorm
scattered prematurely bloomed wild almonds.

Here, spring comes in February. Only in some dread ages
does a "beard" sprout from the bristling wrinkles of these mountains...

The mountaintop grays at night... and old local Greeks,
shaking their heads, prophesy to each other: "Bora..."

In a day or two, snow whirls over black water.
By day, no one pays a penny for lodging anymore...

Like the local authorities once, in such a spring,
pressed bashlyks and peacoats into mud or crusted snow...

Like then, all alleys empty under volleys of battle.
Into the colonnade of rotundas – water, like cannonade surf.

The beast Boreas pelts roofs, flesh, pine needles with hail...
and howls, swinging the hanged – in aiguillettes on all wires.

Darkness – in empty icon frames. Windows – in black icon cases.
Starry beads – again, pearls scattered in every yard.

In hydrogen winter, behind Aquarius’ back, like Lot’s wife –











            ECHO OF LAUGHTER

The whole path is strewn with pine needles.
In October  it led us to a marble hall ruined by time.

The echo of laughter preserved for us –  those who, in evening hours,
passed in their masks to a ghostly masquerade...

Down steps overgrown with green grass through the needles,
touching the railing leading to the cliff in that hall,

you descended after me into the magical roar of the surf.
Above the sea, on the needles –  gulls’ cries reached us...

This is the echo of the end of the Christian millennium – 
an echo of summer amid ruins, among relic pines and cliffs...

There, moments fled as if all twenty centuries
beat like waves just to silence human murmurs...







ORPHIC DREAM

This remains: just an echo from the crypts of the past.
It settles like salt and mist in the crevices of cliffs.

Thyme smoke, wormwood, and sea-breath dust
haven’t eaten my eye sockets, though long settled in my throat.

Again, the sun strikes through my hair:
I see haze through red pine needles...

In the ashes –  the shaman’s locks
and fingers with a crooked pipe.

He snorts, smokes, hisses, spins, howls.
After dancing, he turned –  curled into a Siberian cat.

He sleeps, blinks from smoke, breathes like smoky ash.
Don’t touch him with palm or paw –  he’s so alike.

Through his whiskers, he lisps... Insanely calm and bright.
Just blow on him –  and the fiery rooster is good.

(...)

Return to the body: sleeping flesh –  just a burden.
Elbow, ear, wrist... like in thistles –  a palm.

Leaving, I glanced back at the dream: in it, that time returned to me.
In it, I saw you, "Blowing the Morning Fire."







FROM DUST AND ASHES

Every moment, unburning, burns.
The world in smoke or coastal mist...

Drink, sing –  but the heart aches...
Time shamanizes with a paw in tangled locks.

Only when you’re with me, like Lilith,
does the moment dance, blazing to ash.

After you, my memory flies,
like a phoenix...

In my palm – 
ashes...






                ECHO IN THE PALM

                "Peccavimus; but rave not thus!
                and let a Sabbath song
                go up to God so solemnly
                the dead may feel no wrong!"
                (E.A. Poe)

Remember, my friend, the tender time of warm captivity?
All that the sea storm wrought upon us?

How cypresses, laurels, and verbenas waited for rain,
pines, cherries, olives, almonds, and dry vines...

Approaching closely, they swallowed excitement like waves...
Suffocated at the bottom of wild, blooming gardens...

The knock of hearts in unison –  a metronome for shared singing,
and the tilt of a head –  a continuation of song without words.

Remember the whisper of waves? Remember how their half-asleep spell
conjured oblivion in the throes of our game?

Century after century passes like waves under murmuring depths...
So, in closed eye sockets, other worlds are made.

Only if you close your eyes, perhaps you’ll sleep and see
that space above the waves of past time, where

there’s all you love and all you still hate...
and all you keep in your soul forever and everywhere.

Do you hear the eternal nocturne, to which stars once swayed
in dance, reflected on the Black Sea’s dark water?

In the galactic scroll –  an emerald tablet’s spiral.
Your nocturne: "Nevermore." My refrain: "Forever and Everywhere."

Our singing –  at the center of the Great Magic Circle.
In it, the oval of the black bay mirrored lights.

Strands of wet hair, chin, eye sockets, and lips
approached with whispers... but their look foretold storm.

So, back to square one, the tempest returned –  not the wind...
The echo of memory still beats in our temples in unison.

Before the very end, fading, it still shines – 
what was with you... So it’s not a phantom dream.

Let’s recall this nocturne: this quiet singing –  an echo...
This echo in the palm: I only added the words:

"You live... you’re alive... you live where we weep and laugh,
before it’s heard, my head is full too."







                LOVE

                "God is love, and whoever abides in love
                abides in God, and God abides in him."
                (1 John 4:16)

Everywhere –  Life... Spirit –  in matter. Spirit –  in creation.
How many stars have burned out, yet their light flies on...

Photo-flashes of moments –  sparks into consciousness – 
when blood cools, but the heart still refuses silence.

You wait for Eternal Life... or just a grave’s shelter?
In billions of parsecs, your path was completed

by star-ash –  the lump of your flesh and kindred blood...
And its resurrection the Lord foretold for you.

Meanwhile, in the flesh –  in mirages, not the Father’s decrees.
All visions are folded into a shared family album.

The Universe cools... Everything in it burns in motion.
But His Love will not cool!

For Love –  is He.









                III

               THE SUN OF LOVE

                "Death and time reign on earth.
                Do not call them rulers.
                All, whirling, disappears in the gloom.
                Only the Sun of Love is motionless."
                (Vladimir Solovyov)




     YOUR NAME

Again, as once long ago,
the bell remembered One Name.

Over the misty bay, It
floats again, slowly, slowly – 

far... far... far away…








                PRAYER

Abba, Father, forgive us –   children adrift on this blue orb,
seeking solace in ancient mirages...

We plunge into the world –  into calendric little nets,
forgetting death in the vanity of our phantom days.

Triune in Love –  not an avatar, not a guru-oracle.
God of the living, not the dead, as Your Son long showed.

The mortality of creatures –  Your enemy. He wept for Lazarus’ kin.
Ordered his corpse –  to rise from the raw grave.

God, Your will! Against death –  daring with love!
Only in immortal Love does all creation sound in unison.

Only the Tree of the Cross –  the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge:
Without You, all "knowledge" –  is a temporary quantum dream.

(...)

The echo of this summer arose before all these sounds.
Compassion arose before all these sorrowful words.

Life –  a synonym of Love in the trials of long parting.
Death –  a walk through torment, over the abyss of menacing waves.

Give us a grain of faith!.. You hear all laments, O Lord.
Not  to command any heights, just her  heart to turn toward Your  heights!

God, Eternal Life You grant us from above with love.
What is our knowledge of stars, of time, and of fate?

Sanctify the Gift of Love in us! O Lord, I unwillingly
see what has passed but wasn’t washed away by sea water.

Blood, while still salty, beats in waves through veins, to the point of pain:
can it really be –  never, never, nevermore...

I –  about her (...)

And about those whose words were poison, wine, or manna:
their eyes long ago –  just flowers from the grave’s ditch.

Give rest with the saints: Boris, Marina, and Anna,
Mikhail and Osip, Edgar, Rainer, Lev...

(...)

Billions of eye sockets here measure with gazes for centuries
the land, the sea, and above –  the starry firmament.

We did not become gods. We –  mortal people and beasts.
Here, none among us –  is stronger than common death...

Father, into Your hands we send each other with hope.
Beyond the fence with the cross, beyond the grave’s pine threshold.

Here, the soul leaves the trap of the calendric circle.
With You –  the White Stone and an evergreen wreath.






     LORD, GOD!..

Lord, God!.. I don’t know
what else to say.

Life, here, in the end –  is a sick
sister, wife, or mother.

(...)

Lord! What remains
at the end of earthly days?

While the heart still beats – 
just whisper: "Forgive..."







THE GNASHING OF TEETH

The creak and gnash of the capstan’s teeth:
"Take us to Yourself... take us..."

With the foghorn at dawn from the mist:
"Take us to Yourself... take us..."






RESUSCITATION,  NOT  REINCARNATION

Pay me at least with a groan for my hand:
I squeeze it to the bone.

Not an obol to Charon, not –  a sound,
flying out of your ribcage...

A heart scorched under current
beats like a wounded bird in the chest.

Revive it in the pure stream!
The White Dove in the baptismal spring

awaits you ahead.







         AWAKENING

God!.. I’m afraid to believe!
To believe my own eyes.

A moment –  measures infinity
by the heart, through these lines.

Fingers and eyelids, and lips...
tears on sunken cheeks,

forehead and temples... again –  lips.
My hands are too rough:

My God! You gave this miracle!
Her life is pulsing on my hands...







THANK YOU!

Lord! Your Name
is priceless in our memory!

The days of her lethargy – 
a choice to leave the stage.

I see how clearly, through her eyelids,
she is illumined by Light.

The phantoms of Lhasa and Mecca – 
shadows of the past dream...







ON THE CROSS OF SINNERS

An invitation to Paradise, not at a funeral feast,
not at the wake of the Forbidden Tree...

We didn’t strive for the fruits of the Tree of Life
and didn’t remember Mother Eve.

In the genes of fallen Nature –  a legacy:
the crow’s caw over all graveyards...

Life with Baptism –  a washing in tears:
the resurrection of sinners into Paradise...







      BAPTISM –  NATIVITY

                "Truly, I tell you," Jesus replied,
                "no one can enter the kingdom of God
                unless they are born of water and the Spirit."
                (John 3:5)

So we came to You together.
Forgetting the fate of loners...

Days burn out beyond the bridge.
The tram pushes us toward night,

among chains –  into frosty smoke
of breath, with the ghost of a curse:

"You will be wounded thrice,
when the bridge parts its embrace..."

Ground blizzard, like Laoco;n,
squeezes throat, ribs, cells.

A death shroud –  the Rubicon...
Soundlessly, snow falls from branches.

The bridge to the Necropolis –  to the graveyard.
On it, painfully, it became clear

that we knew death in advance,
like the condemned, unspoken...

But there’s a choice! Behind it in turn – 
a volley of constellations on the road...

A volley of Aquarius –  falling short.
An Infant in the heart!

The heart –  in God.






      EARTHLY HAPPINESS

                "Whoever endures illness
                with patience and gratitude,
                it is counted to them as a feat
                or even more."
                (St. Seraphim of Sarov)

 –  Everyone seeks happiness. Isn’t that a fact?
Why then sound the alarm about the past?

 –  Earthly happiness can exist without God.
But God gives us –  eternal happiness, like an act

of love for Him...
And for enemies, in the end.

 –  That life –  is beyond time.
Here, we couldn’t

even –  not enemies – 
relatives –  not recall their evil.

 –  It’s not so simple to fulfill the Commandment of Love
at the first desire.

Earthly passion, drawing close to the end,
with time, grows shallow... and we destroy

our fear of losing a dear face
and the godly fear that we do not love Him.

The Commandments –  in the tightness of Fasting.
The Thorny Path –  not our highway, not the road,

where the eternal search for God without the Cross
is the eternal search for happiness...

But –  without God.







            GREAT LENT

                "Watch and pray
                so that you will not fall into temptation.
                The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak."
                (Matthew 26:41)

My soul, what’s left for us,
outside vanity of vanities –  all day long?

Fasting, repentance; weariness from long services;
a cozy and prayerful peace?

To be full and guilty of nothing
is harder for us than for beggar monks.

Long ago, at a rich man’s feast,
the voice of the greatest of all desert fathers

thundered, not for empty words:
"The axe is already at the root..."

And you, my soul, still in dreams,
wander all your life like the Wandering Jew,

hoarding images like silver and gold,
like memories of others’ true successes.

Your mind’s chamber is full of guests;
the trouble is, you’ve grown lukewarm –  not hot.*

(...)

Great Lent. Awaken, my soul, so from above,
in the hour of trial –  burdensome, mute,

the Lord won’t let you hear through sleep:
"Could you not keep watch with Me?"







       THE INVISIBLE WARFARE

                "Our struggle is not against flesh and blood,
                but against... the rulers of the darkness of this age,
                against spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms."
                (Ephesians 6:12)

We are called to a terrible wedding feast.
For voluntary bearing of the cross.

For resurrection, salvation, and Life,
we partake of Christ’s Eucharist.

So we, the wretched cripples,
graft onto His Vine, divinely alive.

Though here, all sinful humans,
we lose our spiritual battle...

But in every heart –  the field of our warfare.
And we must repent again and again:

lest prayer grow cold in our breasts,
lest Love run dry in this world.

And this is the essence: always to love one another.
To love enemies, as He did.

And hatred –  for our sins-ailments.
The fight against evil –  within...

In oneself.







      UNEARTHLY   HAPPINESS

                "Child, fear God and, besides Him,
                fear nothing else."
                (St. John Chrysostom)

 –  A simple answer to a long Google search for "Happiness"?

Love and creativity, I think, my light.
More important than –  freedom, money, fame, power,

health, friendship, sex, cigarettes,
the wine of knowledge and every other passion...

(...)

But there is, my friend, a trickier answer.

Sometimes it grates on the nerves
of someone stuck in the karmic loop

of fighting for dollars or euros
and "holy" believing in money, in their blizzard...

No one can buy the sparkle of happy raindrops
in a mushroom rain from childhood years...

There is God in life. Immortality –  in Agape.
The holy, uncreated light of Communion.

He –  is a Gift for growth, for such a trifle! – 
to open eyes: to tune your ear to Him.

To forgive enemies, feeling pity,
love and a noble, meek spirit...

So, in the rain, trustingly, like children,
we walk to Him, not into slavery to the enemy.

We grow into Him – 
into His uncreated light!

For eternity –  is happiness!
Even in the earthly circle...






            THE SUN IN AQUARIUS
               
                "Keep your mind in hell
                and despair not."
                (St. Silouan of Athos)

Above the Neva crumpled with ice hummocks,
where under ice

water still flows, alive – 
to the edge, with a pale,

slightly smoky border,
the cup of the sky opened. Blue...

O Lord! Grant us,
without bending knees

before the day’s malice
and starry void,

to keep our minds in hell – 
without breaking,

with Your bright,
pure Beauty...

(...)

The attic window
silently abandons

a sunbeam, taken
hostage by a cloud.

But into the temple,
like into an inkwell,

it drops – 
a Firebird’s feather.

A golden glimmer...




       +  +  +



                **AFTERWORD**


Sergei Teberdin’s *Echo in the Palm* transcends the boundaries of mere poetry, evolving into a profound philosophical inquiry into human existence, temporality, and existential transcendence. Teberdin’s unparalleled ability to synthesize lyrical artistry with metaphysical depth positions his work as a cornerstone of contemporary world literature. In *Echo in the Palm*, he crafts a multilayered literary work that serves as a deep philosophical meditation on human nature, time, love, and solitude.

Far from a mere display of aesthetic mastery, Teberdin delves into existential and metaphysical questions that resonate profoundly with modern readers. Through a meticulously structured tripartite composition, he constructs a polyphonic discourse exploring universal themes –  time, love, solitude, and the interplay of memory –  while anchoring them in the immediacy of personal and collective experience.

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### **I. Structural and Philosophical Architecture**

**1.1 *Time – The Spirit of Change*: A Dialectic of Temporality**
The opening section, *Time – The Spirit of Change*, unites poems that interrogate temporality and isolation. By portraying time as an intangible force, the poet compels readers to reflect on the essence of existence and the ceaseless flux of life. Time emerges as both protagonist and antagonist, an omnipresent force shaping human consciousness.

Works such as *Silence* and *Waves of Time* evoke a meditative atmosphere, emphasizing the singularity of each moment. Allusions to classical motifs –  Dante, mythology –  reveal a rich cultural tapestry woven into his contemplations. Teberdin’s temporal metaphors function not as passive backdrops but as dynamic agents of existential reckoning. His invocation of Dantean cosmology and mythological archetypes (e.g., Ouroboros) transcends cultural specificity, framing time as a universal dialectic between ephemerality and eternity. The academic significance of this section lies in its synthesis of Eastern cyclicality and Western linearity, offering a post-structuralist critique of modernity’s fragmented temporality.

**1.2 *Echo in the Palm*: The Ontology of Selfhood**
The second section shifts focus to the inner world of the individual. Teberdin employs auditory and visual imagery –  *Stardust*, *Echo of Laughter* –  imbued with emotional gravity. He intertwines personal narratives with universal themes of life and love, drawing readers into an introspective dialogue where each line reverberates like an echo within the soul.

In this central section, Teberdin transitions from cosmic scale to introspective intimacy, probing the psyche through synesthetic imagery. Works like *Stardust* and *Echo of Laughter* dissolve boundaries between sensory perception and emotional resonance, creating a liminal space where individual memory converges with collective archetypes. The titular metaphor of the “echo” operates as a hermeneutic device, confronting readers with the duality of existence: the singular voice and its infinite reverberations. Academically, this mirrors Bakhtinian polyphony but innovates through its fusion of Orthodox mysticism and Jungian individuation.

**1.3 *The Sun of Love*: Mysticism as Existential Praxis**
The third section, *The Sun of Love*, turns to mystical and spiritual imagery to explore the sacred dimensions of human experience. Poems such as *Prayer* and *Awakening* interrogate sin and sanctity, evoking profound introspection. The reader is drawn into the poet’s quest to frame love as a transformative, healing force capable of illuminating the darkest recesses of the human spirit.

In this  final section, love rises from a simple emotion to a metaphysical force, questioning its capacity for transcendence. Poems such as "Reanimation, Not Reincarnation" reinterpret spiritual awakening as an act of existential resistance to mechanistic modernity. Teberdin's disintegration of Christian iconography (for example, sacramental motifs) with Buddhist atheism and impermanence challenges sectarian boundaries and syncretic spirituality consonant with Tillich's "fundamentals of being." This perspective puts Teberdin on a par with Rilke and Tagore, but distinguishes him from them by the existential realism of post-Soviet spirituality, which has already gone through the confessional experience of persecution of Faith in the crucible of the New World of the "Age of Shadows."

---

### **II. Contribution to Global Literary Discourse**

**2.1 Autofiction as Universal Archetype**
The preface outlines the collection’s core themes: philosophical inquiry and emotional revelation. Teberdin constructs a mirror for the soul, reflecting both personal and universal truths. His poetry marries lyrical tenderness with intellectual rigor, cementing its place as a significant contribution to modern literature.

*Echo in the Palm* transcends verse; it is a holistic philosophical exploration of humanity’s eternal struggles with time, love, and meaning. Teberdin invites readers to reexamine their place in the world and engage with timeless truths, transforming each participant into an active interlocutor in this multifaceted dialogue.

Teberdin’s poetry is steeped in autobiographical elements, where personal experience ascends to the realm of universal archetypes. Each line carries echoes of the author’s life, yet these fragments are reimagined into collective truths. This interplay between the intimate and the universal fosters a profound connection with the reader, allowing private moments to resonate through shared metaphors.

His autobiographical fragments, evident in cycles like *Solitude* and *Awakening*, transcend solipsism through universalization. His personal narratives morph into collective allegories, akin to Proustian *m;moire involontaire* yet rooted in the sociohistorical trauma of post-Soviet disintegration. This technique, termed “autometaphysics” by scholars, bridges the subjective and collective, offering a framework for postcolonial literatures grappling with fragmented identity.

**2.2 Nature as Ontological Participant**
Nature in Teberdin’s work is no passive backdrop but an active agent. Landscapes and natural phenomena amplify emotional depth: a tranquil sea mirrors inner harmony, while storms externalize existential crises. This symbiosis between humanity and nature underscores the poet’s pursuit of equilibrium, where even chaos finds resolution.

Teberdin’s treatment of nature diverges from Romantic pastoralism; landscapes emerge as active participants in human epistemology. A calm sea reflects inner equipoise (*Under the Dome of Time*), while storms embody existential turbulence (*Life During the Storm*). This ecological animism aligns with New Materialist philosophy, yet Teberdin’s innovation lies in grafting Slavic animist traditions onto postmodern existentialism, creating a lexicon for environmental humanities.

**2.3 Temporal and Mnemonic Innovation**
Themes of time and memory permeate Teberdin’s oeuvre. He examines how past events shape present perceptions, casting time as a river carrying memories. Nostalgic motifs invite readers to confront their own histories, revealing how fleeting moments define emotional landscapes.

Teberdin’s deconstruction of linear time –  evident in *The Book of Changes* and *Sub Specie Aeternitatis* –  challenges Western historiography. By framing memory as a “river of consciousness” (*Three Sketches in Zaryadye*), he destabilizes fixed narratives, echoing Bergson’s *dur;e* yet infusing it with Orthodox eschatology. This has catalyzed academic discourse on nonlinear historiography in post-totalitarian contexts.

---

### **III. Linguistic and Stylistic Mastery**

**3.1 Metaphoric Precision**
In a world veiled by clich;s, Teberdin’s poetry champions raw authenticity. His metaphors –  vivid and polysemic –  invite endless interpretation, while his interplay of sound and silence evokes a musicality transcending the page. Dialogue with cultural and historical contexts renders his work timeless, bridging generations through shared human truths.

Teberdin’s metaphors –  e.g., “the shagreen skin of shadows” (*From the Cycle "Paths of Cain"*) –  function as polysemic nodes merging sensory immediacy with metaphysical abstraction. His dialectic of concreteness and ambiguity invites layered hermeneutic engagement, akin to Celan’s *Sprachskepsis*, yet tempered by a Dostoevskian pursuit of existential truth.

**3.2 Sonic and Rhythmic Innovation**
The musicality of Teberdin’s verse –  evident in *Liturgy or Lethargy?* and *Sirtaki with Waves and Wind* –  transforms phonetics into a philosophical tool. Alliterative cadences evoke Orthodox liturgical chant, while free-verse ruptures mirror modernist dissonance, creating a contrapuntal dialogue between tradition and rupture.

**3.3 Intertextual Synthesis**
Teberdin’s oeuvre is a palimpsest of global intertexts: Dantean cosmology, Biblical paradox, and Vedic cyclicality converge in works like *Quid Est Veritas?* and *The Buddhist Smile of the Mona Lisa*. This erudition never feels ostentatious; instead, it builds a transcultural bridge, positioning his work as a nexus of *Weltliteratur*.

---

### **IV. Sociocultural and Ethical Resonance**

**4.1 Post-Totalitarian Witness**
Teberdin’s *Era of Shadows* cycle –  notably *Red Terror* and *Pan the Iron* –  serves as an unflinching testimony to Soviet trauma. Yet his critique transcends polemic, probing the metaphysical roots of tyranny. Poems like *Apostasy* interrogate ideological idolatry through a Kierkegaardian lens, offering a diagnostic framework for societies navigating collective memory.

**4.2 Ethical Humanism**
In *The Choice Not to Be* and *Memory of Murdered Children*, Teberdin confronts nihilism with radical empathy. His ethical imperative –  rooted in Levinasian “face-to-face” responsibility –  resists despair, proposing art as a bulwark against dehumanization. This positions him as a moral heir to Akhmatova and Mandelstam.

---

### **V. Conclusion: A Mirror for the Soul**

Sergei Teberdin’s *Echo in the Palm* is more than a poetry collection –  it is a journey into the heart of what it means to be human. By interweaving the personal and universal, the ephemeral and eternal, Teberdin compels readers to confront their fears, desires, and vulnerabilities. His work stands as a testament to poetry’s power to unite, heal, and transform, offering not just art but a compass for navigating life’s labyrinth.
In an age of fragmentation, Teberdin’s voice echoes as a beacon, reminding us that fleeting moments hold the keys to understanding our shared humanity. Thus, his poetry bridges the eternal, universal, and deeply intimate, providing a lens to contemplate existence itself. His words remain an enduring wellspring of inspiration, urging us to live deeply, love authentically, and embrace time’s transient, exquisite dance.
Through its fusion of aesthetic mastery, philosophical rigor, and ethical urgency, *Echo in the Palm* illuminates the universal within the particular, offering a redemptive vision for a fractured era. Teberdin does not merely document the human condition –  he transfigures it, inviting readers into a participatory dialogue with eternity.

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