Wednesday, January 12, 2011

pipsqueak sigh

Oh, my...and good grief!
I simply can't believe it.
Another poem about me.
Me sighing....

Why can't I write like a Russian?
Why can't I write like a Russian?

This is so unnerving.
This will not do at all.

It just won't come.
It's just not there.

I am not a Russian.

So I write with what I write with.
I let my mind go to far borders,
open my heart to black Steppes
and zones where words are wild.
I let those words fall through me,
and then I put them into lines,
into a circus ring of saying.

But it never comes out Russian.
It will never be that primal good.

Only Russians know where to find
words that are beyond all pages,
words drunken on the joke of love,
words that come like dancing bones,
to dance of how love goes deeply.
Words that speak of what is silent.

I'll never be able to write largely,
like a Russian, dark and richly. god!...I know
what the Russian is saying.

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