טובלי סימיריאן
כתביו של טובלי
בדוק את Amazon.com לאוספי שירה שהודפסו לאחרונה מחדש.
אפריל הוא שירה...2024
The 2025 Poetry Marathon begins May 17...
...see you then.
Poem # 12
Hydrocephaly
Her voice is without skin, genderless. She is singing, speaking, and breathing without sound, always grinning—all at the same time, producing a scraping sound as if she drags her soul like a bucket of hardened cement. Again and again, she looks up. Her eyes are setting suns, her nose delicate and frail. She seeks friendship. Simple and mild attention. The air between us cools. Tentatively? Beyond understanding. She is merely an abstraction, something that will wander in dreams unfathomable, injured, forever misunderstood. Her little song floats like a wing without a body. Where she flies, no one will remember.
© 2025 Tovli
Poem # 11
The Difference Between
A skinny poem
Old woman with no eyes
caught
smiling
beaten
unlike me
caught
peaceful
nearby
suddenly quiet
caught
Woman with no eyes. Old.
© Tovli 2025)
(A Skinny Poem—form created by Truth Thomas)
Poem # 10
Abecedarian—for the Aspiring Ex-patriate
A letter. Is it wrong?
Be truthful, if not stoic.
Careful. You’ll get lost if you look too hard.
Done. It didn’t take too long.
Eventually, there is a process.
Finding your way, for example.
Getting along with others.
Hiding from invading soldiers.
In time, you’ll make friends and begin carrying a properly issued rifle. But,
Just when you think you’re safe, someone
Kills your pet dog.
Loss builds character, or so they promise.
Many times, the friendliest people just change their names and apply for a new passport.
No has to know.
Only government officials worry about
Properly spelled addresses and last names. Learning to stay
Quiet matters.
Remain wordless.
Silence is the only way to survive most planned invasions.
Tomorrow, I'll slip your name inside the alphabet. The
Ultimate solution to discovering family and belonging.
Victory and a box of matches are all you need to remember your former homeland.
We’ll leave at dawn. Together—
X’s on our smiles, eyes pointed down.
You know I’m telling you the truth, don’t you?. It’s the
Zenith of order—alphabetical
our names at the very top of a state-approved poem.
Shhhhh, don’t let them hear...
It’s our only escape to salvation.
© 2025 Tovli
Poem # 9
Lost Haiku
I
Nothing’s ever lost.
In a dream, you find yourself.
A distant vision.
II
Such a peaceful sight!
Sadly, there is no worthy
keepsake. Only sleep.
© 2025 Tovli
Poem # 8
Moldova: Remembering the War
I keep that old coffee mug and silver spoon close by. I always know its whereabouts.
The oak branches have frozen into starlight yet still touch the kitchen window. Aunt Eve, in her baggy fishing trousers, announces: “Those Dumplings are ready!” Her voice, above the clatter, paints the walls into memories. And there she stays, like a solid bookshelf, always a bit too loud, her aging skin preserved inside our stories like colorless vinyl.
Death is no reason for memory. Nothing is lost. Our family at that instant, that moment of disappearance, was moving like a thousand seconds split into one breath. Six million constellations formed in the universe at once. No one blinked. No one forgot a single recipe. Aunt Eve saw to that.
Once the soldiers left, we sifted through scattered debris. Mama handed me the mug and spoon. “Hold on to these. They’re important.” She whispered. “They belonged to Eve. She’ll want them back.”
Aunt Eve, you’ve disappeared into the night sky. I have your recipes, your teacup, and little spoon. The kitchen is warm from boiled potatoes and seasoned dough. It’s all yours for the asking…
© 2025 Tovli
poem # 6
Resolve
A blitz poem
I loved you
I am lost
lost from warmth
lost in light
light and caution
light as breath
breath as soul
breath that’s torn
torn skin
torn poetry
poetry laughing
poetry remembered
remembered as wind
remembered in time
time to let go
time for wandering
wandering in love
wandering with loneliness
loneliness sings a long time
loneliness beyond words
words don’t matter
words of silence
silence as sound
silence as beginning
beginning to heal
beginning as ending
ending the time
ending the performance
performance as method
performance that’s dreamlike
dreamlike shadows
dreamlike memories
memories forgotten
memories wilted
wilted with time
wilted in passing
passing through hallways
passing into absence
absence belongs
absence left behind
behind each door
behind piano keys
keys never fit
keys break off
off and away
off and missing
missing intentionality
missing persistence
persistence
intentionality
a blitz poem—form created by Robert Keim
© 2025 Tovli
Poem # 7
Lighting Up a Mind-Thought
A little Gogyokah poem
Fire-poetry equivocates—slipping beneath a falling moon.
Displacement—how clever to spill into the sky
with nothing to offer, save a half-baked coordinating conjunction.
That’s English for you—too many semicolons,
nothing left to catch the color blue on fire.
© Tovli 2025
Poem # 5
Universe Caught in a Haiku-Dimensional Freeze
A vivid, calm spot.
Poet sits near the window
the time ticks away…
© 2025 Tovli
Poem # 4
The Thief as Artist
You? Seeping into thought,
swimming on my side of the pool?
One world?
Afternoon sun, thinking it belongs to you?
I am not afraid of a thief who kidnaps a word or two,
then fails at liberation. Like Mama said,
“Just because I invite a pig into the house,
doesn’t mean it can put its elbows on my dining room table.”
Embezzlement is foretold, a heavy door that opens.
Windows that lock.
But a thief nearing the table is proportionate.
Dead eyes. Idyllic life. They lack stillness.
They’re never clever enough to drag a moth
away from its flame—even for a second.
Let the little thief write a poem or draw a self-portrait.
After all, it’s only one moment in time.
Besides, they never stay too long, even for dinner.
Instead, they get absurdly quiet at the most inopportune times.
© 2025 Tovli
poem # 3
Equanimity--Art of the Myth
I love it when you use the word “neat” as an expletive.
It’s really “neat” when composure cracks in two:
two personalities step forth—one the ghost of the other.
“Neat”, like the whiskey bottle you smuggled into the library last week.
“Did I do that?”…neat answer—I thought.
“Was I a part of that?” …neat reply—I thought.
“Neat! Was that me? A long time ago? Nah! Not a chance.”
…neat dodge—I thought.
You and your expletives!
If it hadn’t been for simple four-letter word bites,
we’d never have survived those hitch-hiking-moments
that stuck to the heels of our Birkenstocks back in the 1960s.
© Tovli 2025
Poem # 2
Hippopotamus Dream
Hippo rising, teeth biting the river’s surface,
or so I dreamt,
each night…forever.
Granny laughed. “The Hippo…she’s always unfriendly.
Enemies are rising toward you. Next dream? Reach out.
Pet the wide, cold back, the slippery glass-like wrinkles
until her shadow dries, and slips into a tear drop.
Re-dream the hippo, simple as it is.
Take with you the shadow bones
from mammal-like cousins of deafened whales.
Any subversive prayer will be answered, some latent,
unsuspecting moment, next summer.”
“Why next summer?
Why not tomorrow evening?”
“Do as I say.
The hippo. Her eyes float cold in winter.
She sinks when the river warms and recedes.
The next time you dream
if the hippo nibbles your toes,
spread your fingers and unlock your elbows.
In the next dream, you’ll sprout wings,
tumble, drift, and skid into a cloud.
The sky will think like a river.
Be careful not to drown.”
God bless Granny.
Thanks to her, I never dreamed again.
Instead, I stayed awake.
Studied cracks in the ceiling
and worried about rising rivers
late summer storms,
and little, tiny hippos crawling here and there
near the bottom of every lake.
© 2025 Tovli
Poem # 1
Under-rated Life Change
In these eyes,
never tears…but a sparkle
I liked.
I kept.
Imagine. A wilderness
The winter…the solitary moon.
No one trusted words
like I wrote.
No one left footprints
like I drew.
I taste a deep hunger
that changes from time to time.
There’s always a thin spot within emptiness,
bricks that have fallen out of place,
greasy snow moments to avoid
and starvation just around the bend.
I can’t remember one single thought I’d change
from past world-incarnations,
or a meal I’ve truly missed.
I never aim.
I squeeze the trigger and
another seventeen-syllable word joins the star-map.
I think that’s so cute—how it happens all at once.
Something to snack on along the way…
a little poem about to die,
but surprisingly reincarnates from within.
© 2025 Tovli