The Poetry of Pavel Chichikov

Pavel's new collection of poems, A House Rejoicing, is now available at, in print and on Kindle, and at Barnes & Noble. The cover art is "The Little Festive House," by Lisa Lorenz. Hear what Pavel says about the book.

Pavel's book From Here to Babylon is available in print and on Kindle.

Lion Sun: Poems by Pavel Chichikov, published by Grey Owl Press, is available at Amazon, or write to Read the review of Lion Sun on Scribble on the Net, an electronic journal of New Zealand and international poetry.  

Also by Pavel are Mysteries and Stations in the Manner of Ignatius  and Animal Kingdom, from Kaufmann Publishing. 

Pavel's poems inspired by Goya's etchings are at And a selection of his photos can be seen at Catholic Images by Pavel Chichikov.

Sylvia Dorham's moving The Book of  Names is available at See Pavel's review on the book page!

Enjoy artist Timothy Jones's blog page, which features his painting "Fallen Oak."  

Guest poet Charles Van Gorkom's blog may be found here.

All poems on this page are by Pavel Chichikov. They may be freely distributed, if not for profit, upon the permission of Pavel Chichikov ( and must be credited to Pavel Chichikov. No alterations in the text may be made. All copyright restrictions apply.




Alex Colville (1920–2013), “Hound in Field”

Collection of the National Gallery

Courtesy Mount Allison University, Sackville, New Brunswick, Colville House


Hear Pavel read  "Waits for Us."




As a dog of the hunter follows a scent

The man and the woman follow the track

Of God the ineffable


As a hawk above forests, clearings and fields

Watches the movements of hares and voles

From the sky of autumn


As a trout of the summer in clear blue streams

Looks for the flight of the dragonfly

In the mists above currents


So God in His mercy lays down His trace

In the clean white world of the printed snow

In the April world of the untouched hills


We sense Him and glimpse Him

And then we are drawn to Him

As the scent hound follows the fleeing deer


Drawn forward by spoor towards the hunted prey

Our master and savior, the hidden one

Waits for us in His wilderness








Who are we before the Lord?

Wounded spirits who still crawl

Or come with crutch and sling, not all


To those the wound of love denied

A buffet dealt to injured Christ

Garments gained by throws of dice


Those whose suffering was grim

Will not come forward to be blessed

And healed by Christ, their health is less


So then for those the rest will plead

It is such duty to be here

And joy as well, where love is near


Then the well-spring of His love

Will flow as from the Temple ran

The fertile glory, Son of Man


We are the channels of the spring

That guide the water in its course

But only channels not the source






“Foggy Night at Train Station”; photo by Saddogeye

Courtesy photographer and Deviant Art





The last stop comes, the train arrives

The doors are open, all must leave,

Through the doorway from the night

Tendrils of the white fog weave


The platform in the open air

Conducts the edges of the cold,

Doors have closed, the train departs

The rigors of the night enfold


Now we must descend and search

The frigid streets for ways to find

A shelter and perhaps a home,

Fatigue and fear defeat the mind


Lost and lost, the city strange,

A web without a center spreads

Without a plan, without a map

A single light shines up ahead


Bright but somewhere close or far

With no perspective to disclose

The scale of things, the size of things

Or when and where the sun last rose







As I walked down an autumn hill

I saw my shadow too

Ripple through a screen of trees

Saplings as they grew


Ripple as if indistinct

Ghostly as a specter,

As if from solid living form

A shadowy defector


That must be me, the real one

That delicate outline,

And what I think of as compact

Mere notions of the mind


For if there should be something old

As old as galaxies,

In so much time my solidness

Would vanish instantly


Then I walked across the road

And downward from the hill,

The level sun declined a bit

And all the shadows filled







Clouds like cliffs above the hills

Fog through which a gray light pours

A call of geese above the mist


If we could see above these clouds

An echelon of shouting birds

Would seem to row across the sky


If you and I could see right through

The clouds that cover up the world

It would reveal an exodus


Every spirit hatched from death

Rising up to join the blessed

That fly because they can forgive





Bradley tombstone, St. Patrick’s Catholic Church, Newry PA

Photo by Kat (detail); courtesy Find A Grave





An adze of headstones scrapes away at time

But stone itself is blunted on that fist,

Angels of the infant dead have arms

But granite falls and breaks above the wrist,

Sweet scripture of a century ago

Made shallow by the sharp expanding snow

In copper-plated limestone makes an end

Of all we ever bury of a friend.

Mary, in a bucket made of wood

Carried cold spring water from a well,

She came to Pennsylvania as a child

Not dying till a hundred mountains fell,

So heavy were the seasons till released:

Her well-beloved son became a priest—

As he might pray for me were he alive

So I for him above his mother’s grave,

As One for me may seasonably come

And lift away the silence from the sum.







Mikhail Nesterov (1862–1942), “The  Annunciation"

Courtesy Wheat and Weeds



      For Sylvia Dorham


What was the Blessed Virgin doing when

A golden messenger alighted near her?

Was it in the open, shade or sun,

When Gabriel enclosed her with his pinions?


Was she really studying the psalms

As images in paintings image her?

Was it in a garden green and calm

As wonderful with pinions he addressed her?


Or was it in a room of modest things,

An ashy fire and a copper basin,

Shadowed and enfolded by his wings,

Cloth of gold enrobing God’s intention?


Or was she at the oven baking bread,

Drops of perspiration on her face?

Would she then invisibly be wed

Immaculate within and full of grace?


And even at the river washing clothes

Heavy with the water of the spring,

Would she not be sanctified by those

Azure and vermillion heavy wings?





The Poetry of Pavel Chichikov / Last modified December 14,  2014/
Poems copyright 1994-2014 Pavel Chichikov/  

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