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.




Julius Grimm (1842–1906), “Mond," 1888

Courtesy Carlton Hobbs





I know a place where is no death

A silver virgin in the sky,

Though beautiful it lives the less

And nothing there can ever die


See the gleaming silver flanks

Alps of burning shadowed stone,

Nothing there can render thanks

Feel appetite, remorse, atone


He who died rose up again

No death will have the victory,

But if you want to see pure death

Look up this very night and see




Hear Pavel read  "Invisible."





I saw someone outside the church,

Someone whose name by faith I knew,

Someone for whom my heart had searched,

Someone by need my spirit drew


It was someone who stood outside

Beside the rails that kept away,

The doors are locked, He said, by pride

And few within can truly pray


Those within will not admit

My poverty, My modesty,

Nor will they let me in to sit

Beside My cross of agony


But will they let you in, My friend?

Perhaps, my Lord, I may not tell—

Here is My grief, He said, I lend

To make your face invisible




Ivan Aivazovsky (1817–1900), “The Creation of the World”

Courtesy WikiArt





The Spirit of God moved over the deep

His royal reservoir of objects to be,

Things of a shining held in a sleep

Things of a darkness, mysteries


Things not in motion through cause and effect

Rules of a straightness, rules of a curve

Things which are made by the intellect

Lives in a latency none observed


No eyes to observe them, beings to love them

Sown in a sleep, potential in being,

All in quiescence contingent on Heaven

All in the deepness the Father was keeping


The Spirit moved over the objects He chose

Objects contingent were joined and were stirred.

All it passed over was lightened and rose,

Time was awakened by means of the Word






From the terrace of Ahaz

A sign was sent to Hezekiah

That Hezekiah would be healed

Recuperate from death assured—

The Lord required of the sun

That shadows should take ten steps backward

That shadows on the temple steps retreat


No, it is impossible

That shadows on the steps go back

The sun has never risen when it falls

And yet the guardsmen see and swear—

The king arises and repairs

To the glory of the Lord

The sanctum of the cherubim


This is the sign: The shadows rise

That nothing but the splendor of the Lord be manifest

So that no wizard may hypothesize

Not one of us appeal to spirits or to physics

That when you see the irresolvable occur

That which never happens otherwise

You know it is the Lord who sends a sign







Love, forget these futile clashes

Said one voice of patient sorrow,

The Christ was whipped with many lashes

And still the sun will rise tomorrow


Christ will gather with disciples

In the gardens and the rooms

Of revelation, not in temples,

Worry never forestalls doom


But then another voice still wiser

Said: the world commands attention,

Hear the prophets like Elijah

Heed the whisper, pay attention


There’s a battle fought on many

Fronts and through the fields of time,

Bullets can be made from money,

Water can be changed from wine


Nothing will be spared to conquer

Souls and spirits, small and great,

As the prophets still discover

Satan often sits in state


Then prepare to see and listen

To withdraw and yet to pray,

The world was made in six not seven

And rest will come another day








Morning mountain mist;  photo by Ceha

Courtesy City Data





Early mornings in July

Mist amasses in the valley

Between Lock Mountain and Loop Mountain


Thick mist through which you may not see

Opposes visibility

Stubborn till it rises


There if one would see a vision

The consequences of decision

Touch the cord that stretches between now and then


It runs along the valley floor

Between the future and before

A cord of silver and of light


One may stand there and pretend

To see the knot at either end

But nothing there can be made out


The cord may quiver as if shaken

But every venture is mistaken

Who can tell what grasps the end of it?


So it is when war begins

Until the mist before us thins

And what befalls us later is disclosed


Before, behind and to the side

What lies within the mist will hide

And we at more than arm’s length may not see


But when the mist has risen high

Who and what of us must die

Will be revealed, until then, God have mercy







Honeybee on wild thyme

Courtesy Pinterest




      For N.


If a bee collects in thyme,

The gray and flowering thyme,

Is it one who then returns

More than once again?


There must be more, a hive within

The nearby chestnut tree,

And if you see one honey bee

There must be many bees


And if one angel comes at dawn

To be at morning Mass,

There must be many to be found

So long as it may last


To watch the holy Sacrifice

To hover on their wings,

And then they praise the risen Son

And all of Heaven sings







Gentle in forget-me-nots

Those little royal blue flowers,

It forages but does not loot

Sips but does not scour


Touches with black filaments

And small insistent feet,

Pays unconscious compliments

The nectar being sweet


Another rubs the pollen off,

There may be more to come,

So diligent, the touch is soft,

Though petals may be numb


Through epidemic deaths of bees

Somewhere there is a hive,

A demonstration shown by these

That some are still alive


The world’s beginning flowered

With nectar as the lure,

But days to come might wither

If bees could not endure


Without creation’s complement

The smallest and the strong

Who keep the world luxuriant

It would not last for long






The Poetry of Pavel Chichikov / Last modified July 20, 2014/
Poems copyright 1994-2014 Pavel Chichikov/  

Proudly hosted by 

Opinions expressed here are solely those of the author.