Daria Fedas is a filmmaker, visual artist, musician, composer, and poet in Saint Petersburg, Russia. She uses various elements in her work: visual imagery, music, and poetry. Her style is influenced by experimental cinema, lo-fi music genre, silent movie aesthetics, and expressionism. She is also a teacher of English and writes only in this language.
Daria Fedas is featured here as a filmmaker and as a poet.
To enjoy more of Daria’s work, please visit her IG Account and YouTube channel.
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Nightmares
I.
The harm has all been done,
I got myself to sleep.
The wind cracked open the window
To show the mountains steep.
The dream that had me followed
Tightened up my clenched jaw,
So I could only swallow
What brought the nightly claw.
II.
While death will give no reasons,
The sleep pretends to do.
They say, it comes by seasons
Or something's wrong with you.
The evil twins of midnight -
They hurt my sanity.
They drag me roughly into a fight
That's not supposed to be.
III.
I see you rigid, solid flare,
I hear the cold wind blow.
Beneath my wooden wobbly chair
The shadow softly crawls.
My heart is beating highs and lows,
I don't know where to turn.
It will be over
When I know -
My eyes have nightmares
worn.
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I know them, all the words
That ever have been heard.
I’ve seen so many faces:
Some ugly and some not.
I climbed up all the ladders
To see a thousand worlds,
Still couldn’t find the treasures
All praised in poets’ words.
I’ve seen them, all the battles
To win the endless war,
Where life is just the matter
Which matters never more.
I broke a deathbed promise,
I cut a useless straw,
So I could learn the letters
Which are yet to be explored.
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Me And Me
I grew so strong
I took my time
I haven’t got
No child of mine.
I have no reason
To be here
But they won’t let me leave, you see.
They hurt my knees,
They hurt my legs.
Sometimes I see them
Bending back.
I’m looking forward
To the night -
I can pretend
That I can hide.
I ought to be
Forever young.
I’ll stay awake
So they have fun.
My roots lie deep,
So deep to see
Entire size
Of me and me.
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Tired Eyes
Tired eyes
Need to be replaced.
Need to produce
The new ones.
New shiny ones.
Glowing brightly
in the dark.
Covered softly
with new skin;
New elastic
With no experience at all.
Experience is not attractive.
It leaves traces
On your back.
Your broken back.
With all the weight
of the world on it.
You are not welcome.
Anymore.
Anywhere.
Except for the memory,
Where you will live forever after,
And sometimes be peeked at
By the new
Shiny
Elastic eyes.
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Baby blue and argent
Are the colours
of the excitement
of the hunt.
I stole some particles
of joy
From the back seat
of a merry-go-round.
Would you blame me, dear?
It’s what is left to be,
When you’re nowhere near
of your fantasy.
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The boy
The boy tried to look up at the sky,
But there wasn’t any.
He tripped and fell down,
He couldn’t get up,
Because he was not taught to do that.
So he was lying on the floor
And with time
He learnt
Not to look up at the sky.
That’s how the boy stopped
being curious.
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