Dean Nicholson


Dean Nicholson, author who is devoted to creativity and philosophical investigation encouraging synergy of all gifted human capacities and the disciplines that are divided and even confronted according to false authorities and values. Currently he's working on a Study of idea of eternal recurrence of the same in Nietzsche's works and a script for a peculiar featured film about medieval history – comparing the history of battles and ideas. He is the founder of **Literary-Philosophical Society which is named after the Love of Beauty-Philokalia (from 2003). In cooperation with his sister Clara Nicholson, who lives and works in London, he created some of the new approaches in understanding Fine Arts.

Braids

curved fortunate;
hillocks and clouds
mistakes, and, along them
cliffs and boys.
drop, quickly drop
it, or home you go
musty gorges
where the party is on
and loads of wheels
are full and, pupils
in them perish still
enormous it is, white
and no one has it
jet it is ours
green
green
jump, and then, …one more
shift
new wails
and a glacial smile
it's attracting, it's attracting us…
glittered swards,
of flame, so strong
and along them, shades
of wails; keep on wailing, cry,
shed tears.
Crowds. ; . to legions
they appeal, they are weeping –
here - - - the see/
- at my sword
it's swinging and
…it sleeps.
 

French comedy

they are calling for and
crying little
but who cares a bit about it
      yellow doe
        wet blue skin
happy dew
- some young women.

around a sculptured head of Molière
perhaps - you jet
didn't go, a red
tree is waiting
you to first lay
under it,
in bed with some snow, gloom

and off you go at once
via Molière

RED SNAKE

In a stream tosses red snake and turns
long hair of hers, is hanging drained
; and green waves, and bluish foam
were gently kissing, her small jaws;
a sad woman, watched withered
at the white forehead of hers, cold shadow fell;

she watched at herself, her young frail body
with the snake she sadly started to compare;
and just as, the snake is red
in the same colour, embroidered with silk
is the shirt of hers; long hair
that used to sing quietly, the long hair of hers
the same as one on the snake -, began to squeeze her
as black shroud, and as snake was squeezed by foam;

a soft sad, sleepy melody began
to cover her cutely, small shoulders of hers
…she laughed for long, and waved happily
with greenish ruff, ruff of a warm wave;
dead in stream, the red snake
beside her the girl, dying soundless
 


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