Russia Idyll

A Russian summer,
nostalgic and dreamy,
textured and spare, Bunin’s
landscape and lovers

under the sun, in sunflower fields,
awaiting inevitable snow…

awaiting, perhaps, the exile’s return
from Paris, from Nobel,
like Gorky, poor Gorky,
the dead son, the shuttered villa…

(“I dare say it’s time for all us nineteenth century writers to clear out. You’d better prepare my obituary. You never know.”)

I know she is fire in winter,
ice in summer,
tonic for a fevered brow…

Curves and snaking lanes along icy rivers,
full up with salmon, froth,
life… persistent. Insistent.

and Andrey Anokhin, sketching a shaman’s drum head,
whistling folk songs amongst the Teleuts,
caressing a dark eyed lover
in his skins, hands
following curves, finding
water and fire in winter.

Her gasp, her song, her shouted stanzas,
body like a wire, quivering like a pounded drum,
the arching back,
the Russian summer exploding
in fire, in ice, in song.


About Martin

I'm just... filling time.
This entry was posted in Creative Writing, Poem, poetry, Russia and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Russia Idyll

  1. Great poem. Love the Russian comparison.

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