under direction of Alexander Kaletski
Frank Capri Photography
sound, video editing Rick Depofi

A videotape/DVD of the events is available

A videotape of RESURRECTION - POETRY STRIP is available.
Please contact the author by a-mail:

TRANSFORMATION - POETRY STRIP is a dramatic composition based on Elena Fattakova's poetry, enhanced by music and dance. Each poem reflects a variety of moods and psychological complexities of a female character. A dreamy, child-like opening is unexpectedly interrupted by an explosive appearance of a leather-clad dominatrix. Her act alternates the aggressive words of a command with a cracking sound of the whip. The show then develops into an exotic performance of a cross-dressed actors. Often grotesque, this scene humorously reflects a various stages of human relations, from the beginning of time to modern days. The show culminates with a monologue of a woman in distress who is revealing her soul while stripping off her clothes. At the end of the performance the actors, dancers, and musicians invite the audience to celebrate the joy of life in a festive improvisation.

       * * *

I was five then,
sharing bread with seagulls 
on a ferry across the world 
where life sits like a tolling bell.
Grasping at the thicket of night, 
empty as the days to come,
I remember ordering myself to stop dreaming.
I remember dreaming.

Pomegranates in the clouds, 
flutes flying in D minor, 
curtains flagging its tails.
Down, by the shore, 
no Parsifal's robe but loose knots 
glued to a fallen feather 
each seagull prays to leave.

If dreams wouldn't exist, 
I wouldn't know how to break 
and built instantly.

Free, on dust shall we stand, 
free, on dust.

For those inclined to fly the kite 
J.S.Bach puts on black gloves.
A golden hourglass keeps turning its sand.
23d Mona Lisa looses her smile to a sailor.
Rodin's Thinker stares at Degas's ballerinas.
Loyal in her commandment, 
la grande matryoshka shelters others.
A turquoise axe against my heart 
melts the frozen lake, the self.  

Gathering apples. Leap years,
taste of iron and honey,
mother's knife slicing.

Time is God when returns home - 
a yellow bandage of flame 
on a wire.

* matryoshka,  russian wooden doll

       * * *

The spring song traces
a golden wave 
of mountains.  
Childhood fills
the prickly pear year with
a food my mother told me
not to touch.
I kissed the 
icicle of a swing.  
She used to fold so
skillfully those ripe elephant ears
into an oven.  The cloud of dry
heat would turn to ashes
without burning.

I think one must pay for having freedom,
one must pay for not having
it.  I want to break the rules,
yet thirst remains,

my eye mingles with 
a map of many colors,
and I count 
the twelve owls
on her apron.

       * * *

Be watchful and alert.
     Don't ever be late.                                             
          Listen, always and…
                  hold your breath.
                        Walk on your toes,
      					  when needed so,
                                be quick,
                                  don't hold on,			
    						          let pieces drop, 		
                                           move to the next.		

                                           No taking photographs!
                                           No scattering around,
                                          no tears and 'personal',
                                         no using time for own purposes,
                  		                no leaving divas unattended,
                                       no missing bits n' pieces,
                                      no extra hangers!
                                     No talking, humming, whispering…
                                    No silent conducting.
                                  no chatting after show,
                                better don't.      Go home!
                            			Go home!!!
  	                    No guests, no pets, 
                     no table talk.
                   No color drinks!
                 No cell phones on!!!
               No alcohol, no smoking,
             no leaning over,   no,   no!
            Don't change a hair - 
          wig is not your job.
        Food taken 1-3.
     When buzzer's on,
   don't touch it.  No-no!

Don't leave until you're told.
Don't come until you're called.
Don't count shoes.
Remember all. 
Hang properly - petticoats first.
Bring sweets and flowers.  
Make notes for each show.
Don't even think 
expletive analogues,
forget  No!    

       * * *

At the beginning everything was white.  
Death always gives birth 
to the color red.  Space bathed in scarlet, 
turned upside down in the dance.  

He appeared, 
the first man, lightning 
flashing in his eyes.  
The edge of the veil trembled.  
A moment later fire leaped out: she appeared,
dancing in the flames and stretching her hands out towards him, 
looking the same 
in her nakedness, but strange.

He stepped into the fire, their virgin dance smoldering, 
carrying them to the stars, 
purple, lilac and white.  

Nature of man became lighter and fantasy
became reality.  Here, she, 
her sacred body grew twice, 
then another, and another, more…  

Time went by.  Red tinted yellowish, 
so many men welcomed 
the dance.  They tore the veil into pieces.  Clasping 
hands amidst apples, flowers, and leaves, 
now they were free -- green.

Dance changed form, colors faded into rain, washing away the yellow sins.  
The gypsy girl gathered her long hair over her belly and breast, 
swept through the dust on horseback, her hands and feet bare.  Her dance 
brought passion to men, orange, mauve, and cherry-red.  

Woman changed.  The new found power, a dance of seduction, 
her dark silhouette floating to the clouds.  Playing with golden locks, 
adorned with a crown of roses, she became a Queen -- royal leopard skin.  
Bending on his knees, man sent her his   air Kiss.  He dreamt, 
in a dance of worship, the name of woman, and dueled 
for the honor of her name -
royal blue and beige.

Time changed.  His dance grew frenzied, 
legs crossed in embrace, to face 
her bosom covered with lace, 
white and scarlet-red.  

She berated herself, became chaste;  
fastened a cloth over her head, 
deadly white, and painted 
her long robe black.

The dance grew faster.  Man rose from his knees.  
He deserted the past, the new moon leading his way.  
Discarding his purple wigs, he became her King.  
He greeted her with a smile, " Since today,
I'm free!"  Pulling his mantle, he left, gray and gold and gay.  

Her eyes turned yellow with jealousy.  
Holding a Bible and a whip, she tensed her muscles, 
pastel lights spreading a web of shadows.  
She gently slipped off her stockings, 
silk and sheer, leaping and jumping, she 
ran after time, racing the man.	

But nights were the same as before, 
when it was scarlet and red.  
He was free in the mystery of 
her dreams, pure silk and pink.
The new looked almost the same,
they mixed up color, clothes, and name.
The wall-clock chimed -- ten, eleven, twelve.  
Chasing man, woman forgot herself.  
Man dissolved into similarities.  
The dance moved in a circle, 
chasing chaotically all the colors.  
He started to dance with man, and she 
wanted to change places 
and dance with both of them, twisting limbs, 
spinning torsos, and forgetting faces.

We dance the end and the beginning,
again.  Alone.  White and red.

       * * *


The cat died tonight.
The butterfly died before.

An idea of solitude
is hidden in a torn silk stocking.

Once mastered 
the unicorn looses its horn.

I seem to know by now:  
my mother boiled water
to liberate the chicks.
If now touches the future,
is it before?

With humans nothing is ever obvious,
a map of Australia on my desk.
If the globe were the size of a pearl
I would swallow it
with calmness and dignity.

When a stranger sits where you want him
Evil tosses the card… Remember 
the lady at the market adding a weight
to the scales with her finger, 
trading smiles for a box of chocolates…

Is the new knife sharper than
the eyes that watch? 	
Marionettes haunted by
a mechanism of alienation
can no longer inhibit paradise,

I believe in the circus and
the bullfight, Picasso's
rechargeable heart, 

hot summer night.


The obligation to live
keeps fighting itself. 
Unrequited dreams repeat,
decisions made of looking glass 
forever ineffable.


Thy desert is a prophesy of banishment.
Pupils of the crescent moon fall in a hailstorm, 
misleading light.  The past opens its shutters, 
breathing fire, hastening 
the pace he fears most.  On his forehead 
wrinkles form an arch, 
agony moves his lips
that no one can read.
Hope has no memory. 
A black cloud grows too thick 
to see through.

The mirror bends away, 
the silent snake - 
his armless goddess - 

Oh, what purity has the snow of surrender.


In no time stars laminate the sky,
through the sieve of his fingers 
the thirteenth sun passes.
Dozens of roses remain 

nude against the window.


When will it rain?
        Will it rain?
Will rain will it?


Nothing is nothing - 
immediate nothing - 

right or wrong, 
blinding tears.


It's impossible to feel 
all at once, fifteen 
candle power poured 
over the midnight sun.

Don't come knocking 
on my wall through 
the eye of that needle.


Night (not black cardboard)  
breaks its house
to bury a whole lot of pain
by the cross-road sign.
The train moves in time.

Flat and green through its curtain, 
death calls.
Only there the Blue of 
the sun can be seen.
Neither sleep, nor dream,
finite bells solve the rhythm.


Dressed in yellow,
the clouds swim.

Uncertain and lithe,
the hand of a child points up, 
loving God in men, 
(a few thorns in the bubble bath 
as a proof of ungodliness).

Before the first star was born 
and hung in the sky like an anthem.


Back to justice, I'm ready to quit reading,
wisdom is everywhere,
nature wears a featureless mask,
no opening for eyes.
The music box keeps teaching the canary
to sing all night long 
sad, sad, sad song…

Come, listen with me.


No candles - no tears.


Primitive fire calls forth 
the hypnotic horizon.

Lovers reach towards the dream,
spinning into the timeless tale

over a coronation ball,
a parade through survival,

a brief exaltation of hearts.
Otherwise, why the Mardi Gras'

floats of lust calling us 
"out of the deep" 

each time we throw the beads 
into the sea?


Listen to the silence and believe,

even rocks fear the unspoken.


Blessed at the beginning and 
later fallen from Grace,
the angel bound tightly with 
a woman, bearing madness 
in a tombstone's maze. 

Trapped in branches of hands 
heart is, 
breathing wind, 
sending arrows 
to find the sin.


Forbidden emerald sky to go to,
forbidden blue sun to see,
forbidden white cloth - 
touch it.  


Names are last when
there is no time left.
In the jungle of wilder orange
we read newspapers,
the hairy fingers of leaves.  

Patient, passion-free,
persimmons from the tree.
From day to day
the advancing light 
nudges night aside.
In sequel, the rain surprises 
the park.
when trees are asleep, 
faces out of the shadows.


Streets absorb rust and color,
headlights pop and flash above them,
raging traffic - eye for eye - 
circles intellect in time. 

I always believed in the reverse,
walking on my hands 
around the hills, 
and the papilions, cornflowers, dandelions, 
smiling at the rainbow.


If the world to be a bubble
let the birds carry away 
all the chimes, bells and 
let the earth be a rock
washed by a riverbed of time…

While I praise again, 
the terracotta hat floats away, 
the sea scrolls its salt 
like an amulet,
teaching itself to wait.
An infant does.


Wish the games were 
always Olympic, guiding 
torchlight to winner.


Crescendo forks
to share celebration.


There will be more walls to break, 
anyway, it's all about finding limits.
Imagination has no scizzors
to eye the birth, falling into a rabbit hole,
where dolphin plays with oranges 
and butterflies…

              Adagio ma non troppo


Read in Russian [clik here]