We meet. Poet of Russia. Inna Teplova. Встречаем поэта из России. Инна Теплова.

Inna Teplova, Russia Poet, vocalist, member of the Union of Russian Writers. She was born in 1987. Graduated from the Kaluga branch of the Academy of Budget and Treasury with a degree in Economics. The author of the books "It is no coincidence" (2018) and "Sound" (2020). Co-organizer of the music and poetry marathon "Listen!" Published in collections and almanacs: "Arctida", "Listen!", "Clouds", "Lifft", "Svoy Voice"; magazines "White Rock" (Crimea) and "Formaslov"; newspaper "Istoki" (Ufa). Finalist of the competition among creative youth of the Kaluga region of the Literary Cosmodrome project in the Poetry nomination. Diploma-recipient of the literary youth competition named after Alexander Chizhevsky. Works as a civil servant. Inna Teplova, Россия Поэт, вокалистка, член Союза российских писателей. Родилась в 1987 году. Окончила Калужский филиал Академии бюджета и казначейства по специальности "Экономист". Автор книг "Неслучайно" (2018) и "Звучу" (2020). Соорганизатор музыкальнопоэтического марафона «Послушайте!» Публиковалась в сборниках и альманахах: «Арктида», «Послушайте!», «Облака», «ЛиФФт», «Свой голос»; журналах «Белая скала» (Крым) и «Формаслов»; газете «Истоки» (Уфа). Финалистка конкурса среди творческой молодёжи Калужской области проекта «Литературный космодром» в номинации Поэзия. Дипломант литературного молодежного конкурса имени Александра Чижевского. Работает государственным служащим. METAMORPHOSES Ivory-towerly stifling, timelessly mine. Seven meters, so amazingly square. And even to rusticate, to tell you the truth, For me in this room is especially pleasant. Here I shall stay, here I shall grow into hardwood. My fingers and my clavicles will burst into leaves, And start absorbing holy, life-creating light, And it will finally come in handy for me. I am not afraid of those metamorphoses: Not to sing, but to drink and inundate with water With roses and hortensias in tow Is a great, but dubious blessing. FACE OF HUMAN In a scorched hour, when the asphalt is already smoking, All passers-by seem ill to me. I look into their sagging faces And see those faces as blind and mute. The heat from asphalt rises even higher And quivers in car honks and motor droning. But they’re still able to hear me, Those ghostly, slowly melting away people. I’m trying to speak as loud as I can, Noting the inevitability of coolness, Or so it seems. But from my lips Lord’s Prayer Flies off, and all those gazes start to heal. «Hallowed be» - and there into these reasonable faces «Your Kingdom» - the gift of speech returns - «...will be done» - and consciousness flows, Resurrecting the clear face of Human.