Friday, December 16, 2011

The Unreal Life of Sergey Nabokov IX

Sergey Nabokov's Novels

The Prismatic Bezel

His imagination was strong—
An almost feminine quality
He saw halos around boys

Everyday things were—
Just mirrors of his own
Sebastian-esque arrows

A single mean look—
Could pierce and ruin
Him forever and ever

Well endowed Cupids—
Large knuckly hands
Soft husky male voices

Tres mnemogenic—
Masculine males never
Forgot his rare lips


“The abyss lying
between experience
and thought”
—Vladimir Nabokov
The Real Sebastian Knight

The maddening feeling—
The words waiting for him
The ones just right for love

The shuddering nude—
The derogatory thoughts
Oozing out of their faces

No closer similes—
Than a guy with exceptional
Build lurking after soccer

Usually a young student—
Ready for a private session
Sebastian good at such things

Lost Property

“Who is speaking
of Sebastian Knight?”
—Vladimir Nabokov
The Real Sebastian Knight

He had that easy swing—
Of a well-oiled Novelist between
A pair of Proustian parenthesis

A certain way of reminding—
Me how the Now became the
Past with merely a yawn

Making me feel like a pawn—
I was his half-brother but still
Merely an embarrassment

Who was Sergey Nabokov—
Reshaped by writers, reshaped by
Readers, hidden by a brother?

The Doubtful Asphodel

“In November of 1928
my mother resolved to
flee with Sebastian and
myself from the dangers
of Russia. The Revolution
was in full swing…”
—Vladimir Nabokov
The Real Sebastian Knight

Volodya depicts his—
Escape from an unknown
Country of terror & misery

Everything brutally gone—
Freedom, rights, wealth,
His inheritance stolen

The liberty of his exile—
He’d never exchange it for
Any vile parodies of home

Tyrannic iniquities—
Making his innate distrust
Even more wretched

The Funny Mountain

“I felt immensely sorry
for him and longed to
say something real with
wings and a heart”
—Vladimir Nabokov
The Real Sebastian Knight

Sergey's lifelong affection—
For me had always been
Crushed and thwarted

Had I ever been aware—
If he’d read my books at all,
Had he delighted in them?

I wasn't much of a brother—
I didn't really know Sergey
I was spoiled, self-possessed

Sergey became Parisian—
Much better than I could have
I simply despised Paris and Berlin

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