Russian Poets II

Able and about,
afraid, after Akhmatova,
alas, although I am Anna,
Arvo (Mets), as author, author-songwriter,
Best before in Brooklyn,
Can categorize collection come coupled,
Dearly does emailing
Even family famous found for
Good gulag hand
Had he heard her, he hit him home hopefully.
I knew KR,
Is it literary, look Mark,
Matveeva (Novella) meeting memoirs,
Mets more my Nadson (Semyon), Nikolay Nekrasov
not nice novella,
Okay our opinion on other pages?
Poet problem pure.
Quite!
Rather recording Russian, Rozhdestvensky Robert
sincerely said something, sometimes.
then thanks (giving)
that then these times think too tough,
were unknown.
Varlam Shalamov, Vsevolod, Ivanov
want what we were, well-known.
We'll worth you.


with M__ M__, for N__ R__, 43, 44, 44-2, 45

                        photo, P. Antonov

Links to Poets:

Anna Akhmatova - wiki, about, poems
Arvo Mets - wiki, poems
Grand Duke Konstantin Konstantinovich (KR) - wiki, poems
Novella Matveyeva - wiki, poems
Semyon Nadson - wiki, poems
Nikolay Nekrasov - wiki, poems
Robert Rozhdestvensky - wiki, poems
Varlam Shalamov - wiki, poems, "Recalling the Dead", Shalamov's Kolyma
Vsevolod Ivanov - wiki, memorial, novels, stories

Link to "Russian Poets I"

The Muse Poems:

   1  2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Russian Poets I

photo: P Antonov

Am I an Anna Akhmatova?
Arvo as dear does
even handed
has he had her home?
KR look!
Mark meets Matveeva
Mets more Natasha
Nadson Nekrasov
no not Novella
on or other
over rather
Semen Shalamov
she than that
then these to them
Varlam Vsevolod.

Russian Poets II

with M__ M__, for N__ R__, 43, 44, 44-2, 45

The Muse Poems:

   1  2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

  Muse Poems Series II:  

   1  2   3   4  5   6   7   8   9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Cosmic Virus

We set dreams in our mind's
protein coat.
agents for cosmic truth,
are we viruses?
souls born
before the mind is hatched.
the problem is how to go back
into dreams,
to the mountain pool
of our origins.

Under a Log in the Woods

Budding spider, thoraxes
crawling beetle-skins
epidermic manure,
     arthropodic.

My precisely laid plans,
   crunch laden,
   bracken spurned.

Tachyons

There's no point, looking dull-eyed
at work that won't muster.
Such halls exist where it all rests, immaculate.
Preserved and Dustless,
These points formed me and you.

My paper keeps on folding
Along my World-Line
A fortune sphere exponential,
Possibilities limited, only by light
as snow climbs back to Heaven.

Proving Tachyons . . .
Lovers who never met, laughed and talked,
The meetings did take place,
Only I was not there.

River Street

Such a task
Cutting down dead pipe,
Using sweep compound on the floor
Moving hills of trash
I wish I could put on the heat of all time
So the birds could be let loose.

Beyond the doors, a deserted industrial factory
Timbers rotting.

On rainy days, water drips
In the winter pools of ice
On the floor, the trash and broken furnaces, and scattered bricks
Are frozen and immovable.

I am just a slim door away from this
with my kerosine heater
chugging away against the cold

I am installing a sink
I will move in my wheel
I will build a kiln
And then I will confront this mystery with the open question

What will I make here?

I am not making it
It is making it.
I am letting it use me, to do its work.
That is all.

I am filled with a deep desire to write poems.

Out West, où tu est,

I went West,
crossed the Mississippi.
What reason for my grassland quest?
The answer's kind of trippy . . .

I saw the sea,
felt a motion, in the ocean of my heart.
I sensed her presence next to me,
though we stood lands apart.

Standing amidst waves of grain,
I saw her in a prairie Eden.
thought about all this grass and pain,
Upon which we all were feeding.

I counted weeks, and days,
When these blades of grass ran out,
I found her on a mast again,
no longer cast in doubt.

What Happened

What happened to the revolution . . . did it die?
No it did not die . . . it lives and it is waiting.
What is it waiting for, if it lives? . . .
 . . . It is waiting for you.

What happened to your greed . . . did it die?
No it did not die . . . It became too much and fell down,
But it lives in pieces,
. . .  at the foot of the mountain.

What happened to my happiness . . . did it die?
No it did not die . . . It simply got lost, and you forgot where it was,
But it lives in a place . . .
 . . . were you can find it again.

What happened to your sadness . . . did it end?
No it did not end . . . it became a loving companion
Left you for someone else . . .
 . . . It was so sure you would miss it.


What happened to my hunger? . . . did it stop?
No it did not stop. It is with me now.
But I trust it . .
 . . . it tells me the truth.

The Fish

No longer clear, the stream got clogged,
Hills around it, trees cut bare . .
The sky in town's now foul air,
The fish I caught, I remember.

I'm down with that

I’m down with what I've heard.
I’m down with all those words.
I’m down with just one song,
Down to bring it along.

Words bring me back alone,
It's down to moments
Moments that we can't hold down
Except through words alone.

Ten words take me down
To places that I’ve not been,
But yet I'm sure I am going down
Ten words will make go.

Dreams bring back the dawn,
As dreams forever have.
Three rosy fingers let sun in,
Before time starts moving on.

Indian Springs

In the sawtooth hills
near the correctional facility
a Paiute dog trots after tumbleweed
under a gold moon.

Indian Springs casino and gas,
south of the Atomic Energy Commission test site,
Vegas moms from new condominiums,
drive Chryslers and Buicks to work
at hotels downtown.

I'm looking for a pancake breakfast.

Crops don't grow.
Earth without men, seems to prosper.
The cacti, the hills.

The waitress said that guy fucked me over,
"Good thing thing they gave him ten years."

"Last of the Mohicans", "Call of the Wild" . . .
what did you read in school?
Fiction?"

Pigeon Feather

A pigeon feather fell,
So I made a fickle wish while walking,
To brush you dark and nether. . .
I thought, are you ticklish while you are talking?
We whisper love. . . gasp and moan,
I brush your lips, tickle your throne.
Eros and Jove incite the divine. . .
Arrows of love, . . . make the world shine.

Trees Burn

Trees burn
their leaves burn,

Bright heels together,
a brilliant plan shining,
on the damp ground.

Shall I make an omelet
in this old copper pan?

Tulsa

How many trains a day,
triple green Burlington and Northern locomotives.

By the stockyards.,
heavy moth-flakes fall
roads are icing up.

Cherokee woman behind the counter
smokes a drooping cigar
at the fireworks store,
near where the truckers stop,
     to pick up dancing girls.

"Who did Gilcrease think he was?
hiring Indian artists, to carve only for him."

Artifact, art,
the beaded moccasins of a young girl
hang on the museum wall, beside
her father's scalp
     stretched into the shade,
     for a lamp.
     fiction is so brief.
   
Where are the buffalo?
Where are the Cheyenne?

The Higgs Boson

  If the Higgs boson,
  Had an inclination to think
  One might read of quantums,
  Written in Higgins ink.

Two Tears in my Tea

I knew I had caught her, when she poured that hot water,

And cried two tears in my tea.

Whatever I'm drinking, is the same as you're thinking,

The same water's to you or to me.

I propose then a toast to the one I love most,

and whatever you serve me of course.

Please let's not wrangle, but let our photons entangle,

I'll drink your bitter tea, . . . henceforth.

What sort of Place

What sort of wagon town
is so dusty, waterhole girded
   by shamrackle saloons

What sort of town
rutted waterhole
hard crust pie trained in with all that
   no good white trash.

Beanpole idlers grifting cue balls
hard crust ersatz apple pie.

Railroaded by all that
boarding house chintz.

Stopping points,
a water fill, railroad hub, cattle drive.

Endpoint.