Posts Tagged ‘Siberian’

When A Russian Muse Opens Her Paintbox: Revolutionary Improv Email Poetry

April 24, 2011

She, artist who faced cold, fierce
Russian winters, Siberian epoch,
is my enigmatic muse.
To her, about her, because of her
I write.

Paint flows from her brush
and I can taste the over-ripe
dripping strawberries,
waiting to be set on
a piece of sharp cheddar.

When I have any form at all
of communication with her,
words flow from my fingertips,
and I can feel inspiration welling up
like a deeply-tapped spring.

Sometimes it’s gentle, like the tender petals
of Spring’s first flowers pushing
through the snow.
Sometimes it’s fierce, howling, raging
gusts of blasts that we both have faced
looking Northwest over the horizon.

Sometimes it’s confusing, the way
a late winter turns bitter
cold, then warm and melting,
then evening’s gentle, giant snowflakes
falling.

Rarely, once, even, it’s like a warm,
gentle summer afternoon,
lying in a field,
arms folded behind my head,
looking up at clouds,
dreaming of what could be,
who I could be,
poet going from village
to village, improv.

Even that word, improv,
sounds Russian.
And she gave me that vision,
that dream,
those floating, dancing clouds,
that idea,
that faith.

She has, again, opened her
box of paints,
created strawberries, ripened
and ready.

Perhaps I should follow
her example,
open my
mouth,
and create verbal visions
where none exist,
on a canvas of air
and soundwaves.

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Strong Siberian Late Winter Wind: Revolutionary IMprov Sonnet

April 2, 2010

The strong late winter wind/
blew through me,/
and turned me around again,/
like she never would do me./

It forced upon me at last,
though probably much too late,/
the formidable, daunting task/
of setting my bearings straight./

Like tree branches which are at first/
slowly by breezes unfurled,/
but then by the storm at its worst,/
ripped apart and hurled;/

So my life and emotions were washed away again/
by she who blew through me like the strong late winter wind.

Siberian Back Kiss: an IMprov Poem

January 25, 2009

There is a place
along your back
where breaths gently flow,
where nothing attacks;
where butterflies land
and their gentle wings flutter;
where moist kisses fall,
and tenderly make you shutter.

Where quiet, solitude, and bliss
all combine,
intertwine,
and are felt
with a kiss.

To gain that spot on your back,
though,
the rider, searching that destination
must go
slow.

For tenderness and passion
from such cold Siberian depths upwelling
are often hid, and only revealed
by the master’s gentle telling.

And the visions your eyes alone see,
cannot, of themselves, bring you to your knees.
But the sum of all your tender senses
will rip down those cold winter fences,

and let the warmth glow
and grow
exactly
where it should go.