Feb. 10th, 2012 | 01:27 pm
An Eighteen Year Old's Thanksgiving
Those who celebrated Thanksgiving first
Were immigrants like us, newcomers here,
Grateful for the surcease from hunger, thirst,
From cold and death and danger, and from fear.
Now we bake turkey, cornbread, pumpkin pie,
And say our Russian thanks to this fair land
To which we were by fate compelled to fly,
Whose riches we dared grasp in our hands.
Raised by this land, divided into two,
What can four years hold against fourteen?
Only memories, far between and few,
And relics, beautiful, but few and far between.
Grew up with English, but sometimes I still stumble
And feel a stranger in this tongue I speak.
I wish I could write poetry in Russian,
But after all this time, my Russian's weak.
I'm grateful to this land with all its plenty
For all the freedom I have to explore,
To use this English tongue all too ungently
When all my parts seem constantly at war.
In this land I grew to be eighteen,
So I've English in me to my Russian core.
Four years can hold but little 'gainst fourteen,
But what can fourteen hold against those four?
Feb. 8th, 2012 | 10:31 am
It Was Six In The Morning
It was six in the morning and all was silent--
Night had just ended and summer was gone.
It was six in the morning, she hadn’t yet woken,
and I did not feel it was time to move on.
It was half after six and the morning still glistened.
My arm was quite numb from the weight of her bones.
I knew if I moved that she'd wake, so I didn't.
I was in no mood to spend this day alone.
It was ten after seven and light bored right through me.
The sheets were still twisted around as we lay.
She thought she would leave as soon as she wakened,
but I was still hoping for doubt and delay.
It was eight in the morning and she began stirring.
I was still silent, and still as the dead.
It was eight in the morning when her eyes first opened.
I pressed a small kiss on the top of her head.
It was eight and a quarter, and she took a shower.
Her steps were a mix of delay and of haste.
I lay there and listened, intent, to the water.
I hoped there was still some time to waste.
It's nine in the morning; she's out of the shower.
I beg with my eyes for her to remain.
She smiles a little and then acquiesces.
I think it will all turn out well, in the main.
Feb. 5th, 2012 | 04:00 pm
music: Gershwin -- I Got Plenty of Nothin'
My Little Rhythm
Somewhere deep inside me is a tick-tock clock
I can hear it ticking if I'm really quiet,
counting off the seconds of my long, short life,
keeping time for my moments -- it's my little rhythm
Somewhere deep inside me is a gong-gong clock
I can hear it tolling if the world stays quiet,
counting down the moments 'til it's all done, gone,
keeping time for my life -- if I take it slowly
Somewhere deep inside me is a thud-thump heart
I can hear it beating if I lay real still,
counting up my life, pulsing on on on,
keeping time for my seconds -- I know it keeps on going
Feb. 4th, 2012 | 02:12 am
music: Hands Upon Black Earth - Harvest
I like to write
about the most banal things.
My friend has a bottle
of Glade in her bathroom:
Lavender Meadow scent.
And every time I go, I like to
follow the instructions on the label:
shake well before using
spray toward the center of the room
And then stand under the spray
and feel each droplet
like a lavender-scented kiss.
I love split-toe socks because
I can pick up a dropped object
with the big toe, like a thumb.
Also, mine are purple,
like the physical manifestation
of a lavender-scented kiss.
Sep. 17th, 2009 | 10:33 pm
location: United States, New York, Stony Brook
|(no transcription available)|
I love you well
I love you mad
I love you chill, like hoarfrost
I love you sweet
I love you mad
I love you blue, like drowning
We are lunatics
We are moonstruck
We drink love like chocolate martinis
And quench our fires in cool sheets
that might as well be silk
When I kiss you,
I taste ice in your saliva
Don’t tell me there’s no passion in coldness
Don’t tell me that ice cannot burn
’cause I know better.
I tear icicles off rooftops
suck them between my lips
burning cold melting warmly
into steel-tipped drops of snowmelt
I love you, I love you, I love you
I am a wellspring of words
I am an outpouring
There is no thirst in you I cannot quench
I can drink the pools
of your eyes
You are a fountain when I grasp you
slipping slick through my hands
Pouring through me
like dams breaking.
We wear love like a wet wind,
heavily hot, hanging on clotheslines
And pooling, salty sea-like
into sweat between shoulderblades, skin flushed
We tongue the first snowflake
taste its imprint of the heavens
I love you,
You are the deep black waters
and the ice, shattering
steel breaking when spring comes,
untouchable as rain.
Jun. 20th, 2007 | 01:03 am
It twists me over, murmuring desire.
It says that nowtimes, life has lost its clamor,
Has lost its agelong burning at the pyre.
And if the world should end in hate and ice,
It cannot end while love sleeps in its bed.
Love needs to wake and live and perish;
It needs a last performance ‘ere it’s dead.
It needs to howl and raise a ghastly din;
It needs to roar defiance at the cold;
It needs to burn; a single shard of frost
Must melt a little ‘ere the ice takes hold.