Poems

beg and borrow, said the sparrow
but I will not eat this worm
and the seagull, she's no eagle
though she's braver in a storm

both will eat your crumbs, and merry
while disdaining fruit and berry
catch you sitting, unawares
grab leftovers as if theirs

I will feed the little darlings
be they cardinals or starlings
keep an eye out for the hawks
and the squirrels they outfox

but the hummingbird, she hovers
foxgloves giving her a treat
when they kiss, like absent lovers
and the nectar, just as sweet

Ну что язык --
Язык поможет
тонкости мысли описать.
И ложку облизать
он сможет.
От него ето не отнять.

***********************************      *********

Your native tongue,
of some assistance
in capturing a nuanced thought.
Could lick a spoon too,
one more instance
where it will be denied for naught.


Author notes: In Russian, language and tongue is the same word (as in mother tongue, or native tongue), and so I play on that here.

Fairy godmothers -- they must have goddaughters --
says the directive -- it's straight from headquarters.
No substitutions -- not an inch or iota.
Fairies work hard to accomplish this quota.

Mostly, they look for a type -- Cinderellas.
But on occasion -- this happens, my fellas --
some Cinderellas are not into balls.
Rue the godmother on whom this befalls.

This way, and that, they will tempt their assignment.
Beautiful dresses -- lent out on consignment.
Carriages, gilded, a fresh pumpkin latte.
Keep striking out like an unlucky batter.

So, does the story achieve a good ending?
Given the quotas are harsh and unbending
cases like this rarely end in a happy
Fairy godmothers, they better be scrappy


Author notes: Prompt #5 Cinderella

The flurries blow, snow white and thick,
too much to handle.
A table with a candlestick,
a burning candle.

Just as the summer's gnats to flame,
drawn to the fire.
The snowflakes love the window frame
they so admire.

The blizzard sculpts in bas-relief,
the glass its mantle.
А flame that's waving like a leaf,
a burning candle.

The ceiling lit as shadows play
and grip, engrossing.
Crossed arms and legs into the fray
as fates are crossing.

Two slippers soon abandon fear
and fall to pieces.
The candle sheds a waxy tear,
the dress releases.

All reason lost in snowy dusk,
grey and mishandled.
A candle burning, waxy musk,
a burning candle.

The drafty corner does its part
to blow and capture
the candle's flame into their heart,
an angel's rapture.

The whole of February, snow,
ain't that a scandal.
The candle burned, it ought to know,
a burning candle

***********************************      *******************************

The blizzard pastes the earth with snow,
and blowing, blowing.
A candlestick gives off a glow,
a candle glowing.

Just as the summer's gnats to flame,
drawn to the fire.
The snowflakes love the window frame
they so admire.

The snowflakes sculpt in bas-relief,
with crystal drawing.
А flame that's waving like a leaf,
a candle glowing.

The ceiling lit as shadows play
and grip, engrossing.
Crossed arms and legs into the fray
as fates are crossing.

Two slippers soon abandon fear
and fall to pieces.
The candle sheds a waxy tear,
the dress releases.

All reason lost in snowy dusk,
its grey is showing.
A candle burning, waxy musk,
a candle glowing.

The drafty corner does its part
to blow and capture
the candle's flame into their heart,
an angel's rapture.

The whole of February, snow,
persists, ongoing.
A candlestick gives off a glow,
a candle glowing.


Author notes: This is perhaps the most famous "candle" poem in Russian, The Candle Was Burning, by Pasternak, from Dr. Zhivago One of the most difficult translations I've ever done, given how alliterative the original Russian is, and the short phrases, so it's perhaps looser than I would like.  But here are two slightly different attempts nonetheless, matching the meter and rhyme scheme. Мело, мело по всей земле Во все пределы. Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела. Как летом роем мошкара Летит на пламя, Слетались хлопья со двора К оконной раме. Метель лепила на стекле Кружки и стрелы. Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела. На озаренный потолок Ложились тени, Скрещенья рук, скрещенья ног, Судьбы скрещенья. И падали два башмачка Со стуком на пол. И воск слезами с ночника На платье капал. И все терялось в снежной мгле Седой и белой. Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела. На свечку дуло из угла, И жар соблазна Вздымал, как ангел, два крыла Крестообразно. Мело весь месяц в феврале, И то и дело Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела.

Our love, like gentle footprints in the sand
first softened, and then overrun by waves,
now barely visible in outline, flat and bland.
A hint of what once was, these shallow graves.

Like carefree flotsam tossed into the spray,
we traveled with the current, duty free,
mistaking our proximity for play,
and all the while abandoned to the sea.

What happened to us? Was it just the years
exerting their inexorable pull
as grain by grain, replaced by salty tears,
made every touch mundane, and passions cool?

Here, take my hand. Let's walk this sandy beach.
The tide is low. The waves are out of reach.

***********************************  ******************************
older version

Our love, like gentle footprints in the sand
first softened, and then overrun by waves;
now barely visible in outline, flat and bland,
a hint of what once was, these shallow graves.

Oh, how we laughed, and fell into the spray.
The ocean toying with us, as it must,
and just as well: we did come here to play.
Our bodies shining, was it love? Or lust?

What happened to us? Was it just the years
exerting their inexorable pull
as grain by grain, replaced by salty tears,
made every touch mundane, and passion cool?

Here, take my hand. Let's walk this sandy beach.
The tide is low. The waves are out of reach.