“You were born from the Rays of God’s Majesty when the stars were in their perfect place.”
~RUMI
God I return to you in the lights of a star…shining bright with the light of love. Love from the beginning I return without darkness for I have seen the wonders of my soul. The hidden treasure of your spark within me. The world has not covered my soul in sin or emptiness leaving me without you in my heart. Your truth that speaks in me in the wee hours of the morning as the world sleeps forever more. I find my soul among the stars circling the outer rim of Saturn’s moon. I’m that star to the right of your heart. O God never to become dim for you created me to shine forever more.
“When you lose all sense of self the bonds of a thousand chains will vanish…” ~RUMI
Where can I go O God where you do not exist? I have not traveled far enough to not feel your Holy presence within my soul. Delightful thoughts about the beginning of time together. Reaching for the clouds, as I lay in the fields of joy wishing to see the skies once more. Before the clouds cover the moon and the sun fades into the distinct mountains of Vermont. Once we had a conversation, as I sat on the porch wondering about my life. It was a conversation about my beginning without end. My heart listened intently as you spoke of salvation and redemption. Christ the messiah came alive within me. No more doubt nor sin to confuse my aching soul. For I had received the communion of life with these three words: You are forgiven.
Non riesco a integrarmi, ho un disturbo borderline
distribuisco gomitate tipo Greg “The Hammer” Valentine,
nemmeno se mi impegno riuscirò a aspirare al Nobel
deutoplasma irriducibile tra vacche nere d’Hegel.
Non riesco a integrarmi, ho un delirio schizofrenico
rifuggo dalle masse e intingo biro nell’arsenico,
canto, fuori dal coro, come un mitomane a X Factor
disinnescando bombe, spaccio col metal-detector.
Non riesco a integrarmi, ho attitudini da killer,
deambulo tra zombie, stile King of Pop in Thriller,
volando a bassa quota quoto quote di quozienti,
costretto a impacchettare sottotitoli per non-utenti.
Non riesco a integrarmi, ho ogni sorta di fobia
in coda appetisco il verde, come un virtuoso in dendrofilia,
mettendo a fuoco il mondo e sfuocati i tempi con lo zoom,
mi arrendo alla desuetudine della consecutio temporum.
I DON’T FIT IN
I don’t fit in, I have a borderline personality disorder
I give out elbows like Greg ‘The Hammer’ Valentine,
if I don’t apply myself I’ll never be able to aspire to the Nobel Prize
irreducible deutoplasma among Hegel’s black cows.
I don’t fit in, i have a schizophrenic delusion
i hate the people and dip my pen in arsenic,
i sing, outside the choir, like an X Factor mythomaniac
defusing bombs and dealing with a metal detector.
I don’t fit in, i’ve got a killer’s disposition,
i wander between the zombies, style King of Pop in Thriller,
flying at low altitude I quote quotes of quotients,
forced to pack subtitles for non-users.
I don’t fit in, i have all sorts of phobias,
in the queue i crave the green, like a virtuous dendrophile,
setting the world on fire, blurring time with the zoom,
i surrender myself to the obsolescence of consecutio temporum.
IL POLLICE IMPONIBILE
La tassonomia caratterizza l’homo sapiens dalla forma della mano,
non distingue l’ominide della Bibbia, l’ominide del Vangelo, l’ominide del Corano;
l’anatomia moderna s’è imbattuta in una scoperta attendibile:
l’italiano medio è dotato di pollice imponibile.
L’aumento esorbitante dei tassi non comporta una sparizione delle tasse,
nessun sessuologo animale è mai riuscito a uscire dall’impasse,
le tasse aumentano, in caso di abbassamento o crescita dei tassi,
saranno tasse ninfomani, lontane dal desiderio di ribassi.
L’Italia è la repubblica fondata sulle tasse, da Nord a Sud,
tanto che a rimettere le cose a posto ci vorrebbe un Governo Robin Hood,
l’italiano medio, ogni giorno, è in ADE a misurarsi la pressione fiscale,
arrivati al 50% chiameremo l’anatomopatologo a certificare l’embolia cerebrale.
L’Itaglia è terra d’inventori, si mette una tassa sull’ombra delle tende dei locali,
il massimo del cuneo fiscale (presa per il culo) è la tassa comunale sulle centrali nucleari,
che, in bolletta, ti trovi una tassa EF-EN sull’efficienza (?) dell’energia elettrica,
come cazzo riescono a convincerti dell’incoerenza è cosa comica.
C’è la tassa sul televisore, c’è la tassa sulla tassa, d’incostituzionale disappunto,
e scopriamo che la nostra spazzatura, soggetta ad IVA, ha valore aggiunto,
la tassa sulla morte, intesa come certificato di constatazione di decesso,
ragazzi, ditemi voi, se ci fosse stata ai tempi di Yeshua, Lazzaro come sarebbe stato messo.
La tassa sulla morte, maronna dell’Incoroneta, a morire serve un nulla-osta
ostia, il morto deve resuscitare e versare 35€ facendo la coda in Posta,
la tassa sulle invenzioni che non si applica all’invenzione di nuovi tributi
e ti accusano di diffamazione se affermi d’esser governato da una massa di cornuti.
La tassa sugli spiriti, in senso alcolico, la tassa sul rumore degli aeroplani,
il rumore degli aeroplani? Pensa alla tassa sul casino di un concerto degli Inti-Illimani,
c’è una tassa sui gradini, l’imposta comunale sui cani, la tassa sulle cabine telefoniche.
Ma andate a cagare, forse si stava meglio con le stravaganze fiscali borboniche.
THE TAXABLE THUMB
Taxonomy characterises homo sapiens by the shape of the hand,
it does not distinguish the hominid of the Bible, the hominid of the Gospel, the hominid of the Koran;
modern anatomy has made a discovery worthy of belief:
the average Italian has a taxable thumb.
The exorbitant increase in rates does not mean the disappearance of taxes,
no animal sexologist has ever managed to break the deadlock,
if rates are lowered or increased, taxes will increase,
they will be nymphomaniac rates, far from a desire to lower them.
Italy is a republic founded on taxes, from north to south,
for many who would like to put things right, it would take a government Robin Hood,
tthe average Italian is in ADE every day to measure the tax burden,
when the figure reaches 50%, we’ll call in the pathologist to certify the cerebral embolism.
Itaglia, the land of inventors, imposes a tax on the shade of shop awnings,
the maximum of the tax wedge (taking the ass) is the municipal tax on nuclear power plants,,
that, in your bill, you find an EF-EN tax on the efficiency (?) of electricity,
how the fuck do they manage to convince you of the inconsistency is funny.
There’s the TV tax, there’s the tax on tax, unconstitutional discontent,
and we discover that our rubbish, subject to VAT, has added value,
the death tax, aimed at the death certificate,
guys, tell me, if there had been in the times of Yeshua, Lazarus, how they would have put it.
The death tax, Holy Madonna to the Crown, to die gives the green light,
fuck, the dead must resurrect and pay 35 € queuing at the Post Office,
the tax on inventions does not apply to the invention of new taxes,
and they accuse you of defamation if you claim to be governed by a bunch of cuckolds.
The tax on spirits, in the alcoholic sense, the tax on aircraft noise,
aircraft noise? We’re thinking of the tax on the mess of an Inti-Illimani concert,
there’s a tax on staircases, council tax on dogs, tax on telephone boxes.
Fuck off, maybe we were better off with the Bourbon tax extravaganzas.
WWW
Il web è una cosa strana,
la libertà dell’ignorante regna sovrana,
dicevano i latini, dal mento volitivo, della lega anseatica, necesse est navigare,
e ci si trova imbrigliati nella rete come cozze messe a corrente da lampare.
Ci immergiamo, ogni santo giorno, nella melma del World Wide Web
senza bussola, come turisti nomadi intimiditi alla ricerca di un Club Med,
siamo incalliti e spensierati come membri di una neo-avanguardia
imbarcati, veri coatti, nelle cabine della Costa Concordia,
incuranti che a forza di navigare si finisca davanti ad un machete,
nella jungla sadomaso dei webmaster t’imbatti sempre in un webete,
disponibile a imbavagliarti in un rapporto di connessione / sconnessione,
convincendoti, senza fatica, d’esser tu il set da circoncisione.
Questi miei stupidi versi dove andranno mai a parare,
se qualunque palla finisce in rete senza possibilità di verificare,
senza opportunità di criticare, ti saltano addosso in branco, come neo-fascisti,
fasci in fasce con in bocca un biberon da insaziabili etilisti,
davanti all’uomo webete ogni ragionamento cade,
l’aristocrazia del web si incentra sulla marca di De Sade,
«lasciate ogni speranza» o voi che entrate, in blog
se avete il torto di non spartir merende col barone Sacher-Masoch.
La verità è che navigare è diventato un dramma,
senza aver attaccato all’USB del tuo Pc i fili dell’elettroencefalogramma:
chi non ha intuito che il www sia diventato un outlet,
sia condannato a osservar la rete come Boris Beckett.
WWW
The web is a strange thing,
the freedom of the ignorant reigns supreme,
as the voluptuous-chinned Latins of the Hanseatic League used to say, necesse est navigare,
and we find ourselves stuck in the network like mussels in the current of the lamparo.
Every holy day we plunge into the mud of the World Wide Web,
disorientated like intimidated nomadic tourists looking for a Club Med,
tough and carefree like members of a neo-avant-garde,
embarked, real roughnecks, in the cabins of the Costa Concordia,
carefree enough to sail that everything ends up in front of a machete,
in the sado-masochistic jungle of webmasters, you always come across a webheber,
ready to gag you in a connection/disconnection relationship,
by convincing you, with ease, that you yourself are circumcision material.
My silly worms, where will they ever go
if any ball ends up in the net without the possibility of verifying,
no opportunity to criticise, if they fall on you in herds like neo-fascists ,
bundles in layettes with a baby bottle in their mouths as insatiable alcoholics,
all reasoning falls before the webbeast,
the web aristocracy centres on the De Sade brand,
‘abandon all hope’ you who enter here, in blog
if you’re wrong enough not to share tastes with Baron Sacher-Masoch’s.
In truth browsing has become a drama,
without having to connect the USB of your PC to the wires of an electroencephalogram:
who hasn’t guessed that the www has become an outlet,
is condemned to observe the net like Boris Beckett.
EPIMILLIGRAMMA
Non ti devi incazzare se, a volte, ti nomino,
sai, t’ho reso immortale come un «ritratto d’anonimo».
Incide meglio il mio inchiostro che una ciotola di cicuta:
senza che nessuno lo sappia la tua fama si è evoluta.
EPIMILLIGRAMME
You don’t have to put yourself in color if you look at your name,
you know, I’ll make you immortal in “portrait d’anonyme”.
My ink cuts better than a bowl of hemlock:
without anyone knowing your fame has evolved.
MANGIANO VOCI
se hanno carta bianca, i nuovi scrittori che cantano senza Musa
emulerebbero Géricault nella sua zattera della Medusa.
L’arte italiana è diventata un assalto al forno,
sbocciano versi a «cazzo» che neanche i membri di un film porno,
anche nel Poetryweb l’attore si confonde con il montatore,
rigurgitando testi tanto anacronistici da andare in copertina su Le Ore.
La democrazia lirica non deve essere una lirica da due lire,
indispensabile è studiare e non è vietato severamente approfondire
oramai tutti improvvisano, protesizzatisi con un bloc-notes,
come se invece che far cultura doves sero iscriversi a Tú sí que vales.
Per la scrittura sul www dovremmo mettere un test d’ingresso,
vietato toccare la tastiera sotto minaccia di sollecito decesso,
non occorre all’arte tardomoderna, Lucini docet, attempiarsi rivoltelle,
la malattia incurabile d’inizio secolo si chiama Adsl.
THEY EAT VOICES
if they have white paper, the new writers who sing without a Muse,
would rival Géricault in his Raft of the Medusa.
Italian art has become an assault on the pot,
more fulfilled in the ‘brothel’ than the members of a porn film,
so in the Poetryweb the actor is confused with a stallion
full of anachronistic texts fit for the cover of Le Ore.
Lyrical democracy must not be a two-bit lyric,
it is essential to study and it is not forbidden to go deeper,
all of them now strictly improvising, equipped with a notepad,
as if they should sign up for Tú sí que vales rather than culture.
To write on the www we should set up an entry test,
It’s forbidden to touch the keyboard on pain of sudden death,
not suitable for late modern art, Lucini teaches, his revolver at his head,
the incurable disease of the turn of the century is called Adsl.
Ivan Pozzoni è nato a Monza nel 1976. Ha introdotto in Italia la materia della Law and Literature. Ha diffuso saggi su filosofi italiani e su etica e teoria del diritto del mondo antico; ha collaborato con con numerose riviste italiane e internazionali. Tra 2007 e 2018 sono uscite varie sue raccolte di versi: Underground e Riserva Indiana, con A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Qui gli austriaci sono più severi dei Borboni, Cherchez la troika e La malattia invettiva con Limina Mentis, Lame da rasoi, con Joker, Il Guastatore, con Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, con deComporre Edizioni. È stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria Il Guastatore – Quaderni «neon»-avanguardisti; è stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria L’Arrivista; è stato direttore esecutivo della rivista filosofica internazionale Información Filosófica; è, o è stato, direttore delle collane Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) e Fuzzy (deComporre). Ha fondato una quindicina di case editrici socialiste autogestite. Ha scritto/curato 150 volumi, scritto 1000 saggi, fondato un movimento d’avanguardia (NeoN-avanguardismo, approvato da Zygmunt Bauman), con mille movimentisti, e steso un Anti-Manifesto NeoN-Avanguardista, È menzionato nei maggiori manuali universitari di storia della letteratura, storiografia filosofica e nei maggiori volumi di critica letteraria.Il suo volume La malattia invettiva vince Raduga, menzione della critica al Montano e allo Strega. Viene inserito nell’Atlante dei poeti italiani contemporanei dell’Università di Bologna ed è inserito molteplici volte nella maggiore rivista internazionale di letteratura, Gradiva.I suoi versi sono tradotti in francese, inglese e spagnolo. Nel 2024, dopo sei anni di ritiro totale allo studio accademico, rientra nel mondo artistico italiano e fonda il collettivo NSEAE (Nuova socio/etno/antropologia estetica).
Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. He introduced Law and Literature in Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world; He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2018, different versions of the books were published: Underground and Riserva Indiana, with A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Here the Austrians are more severe than the Bourbons, Cherchez the troika. et The Invective Disease with Limina Mentis,Lame da rasoi, with Joker, Il Guastatore, with Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, with deComporre Edizioni. He was the founder and director of the literary magazine Il Guastatore – «neon»-avant-garde notebooks; he was the founder and director of the literary magazine L’Arrivista; he is the editor and chef of the international philosophical magazine Información Filosófica; he is, or has been, creator of the series Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) and Fuzzy (deComporre). It contains a fortnight of autogérées socialistes edition houses. He wrote 150 volumes, wrote 1000 essays, founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme, approved by Zygmunt Bauman), with a millier of movements, and wrote an Anti-manifesto NéoN-Avant-gardiste. This is mentioned in the main university manuals of literature history, philosophical history and in the main volumes of literary criticism. His book La malattia invettiva wins Raduga, mention of the critique of Montano et Strega. He is included in the Atlas of contemporary Italian poets of the University of Bologne and figures à plusieurs reprized in the great international literature review of Gradiva. His verses are translated into French, English and Spanish. In 2024, after six years of total retrait of academic studies, he return to the Italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology).
I have always wanted to meet a real man or woman, and I have never found one. When I was young and went out to visit clubs, dances, brothels, I only found men or women who were not men or women but brutes and animals.
When we left all these joints, my friends and I, we all went around saying that Humanity is a natural disaster. That it has no remedy. That if the final Apocalypse does not come it is because there will always be someone to fix, and women will always be twenty years old, face up, face down.
Grumbling and scolding is what we have to mend. Men shit in cauldrons, and women listen to mass shitting in the corrals. Where good wine is drunk, there the girls are affectionate, and men mend their pants for the grilled toast of the moment.
Let us hear them in the cellar:
-My mother married me to a shepherd, because I went to mass one day and he raped me in the sacristy; which did not displease me because he is a messenger of God.
-Thinking that I had found a good girl, the other day I took her to the cellar, believing that she was a lady; but, when she lowered her trousers, the goatherd’s erect member appeared.
-How come you are, boy; you seem very angry.
-Since it has rained, I wanted to jump across the road, and in the middle I fell.
-Politicians are hopeless. They do not say a good word. They only know how to bray, thundering the House and the whole Nation.
-A bunch of hypocrites, thieves and liars they are, for whom the only bad thing is to bray out of season.
-They are as despicable as fools.
-Like priests, who are surprised to find the Donkey they lost when they pedophilia children.
-They wanted to make me a nun or a priest, but my parents surprised me by putting a dildo in my anus and vagina.
-I think it is a reasonable and convincing fact that Humanity is a natural disaster.
-Next to my house I have a small orchard and a strawberry tree. With my little orchard and the strawberry trees that it gives me, I don’t want any more!
-The Love that exists is only natural. I know that it needs an Aria, and I will play it for it as musicians do, and singers sing it and raise it to Heaven with pleasure and care, until Death comes, we hear it moan with pleasure, and we leave it so satisfied.
-Wait, Death, I want to say goodbye to Love.
-Mourners, cry as I do now; that Death has bitten my glans with its skull teeth.
Examine a close reading of Songs of the Crow and Hawks Roosting by Ted Hughes in terms of critical commentaries.
In Songs of the Crow and Hawk Roosting Yorkshire native poet laureate Ted Hughes explicates the fraternity of nature by the amnesty toward their habitation, niche, mindless instincts and ferocity. These alien creatures nevertheless station themselves in the abodes of the human psyche. The whole of the countryside Yorkshire is a dwelling of mourning in funebrial of World Wars I and II. Thus “Hawk’s Roosting” is a hawk’s dramatic monologue of hawkishness, exhibiting murderous instincts, malicious vivaciousness and manic egoism, infernal ruthlessness, precarious hubris, perilous arrogance, maleficent coldbloodness and gothic tyranny.
Hughes at his most disposition exhibited the aura of being the poet of claws and cages: Jaguar, Hawk, Falcon and Crow, mythologizing and psychologizing anecdotal memorabilia through penchant of restorative memory. Mythic or symbolic and elegiac or confessional poetry crafted by Ted Hughes are exemplified thus with Coleridgean vision and Wordsworthian candour.
Existence of the stark predatory personae of the hawks’ is emblematic of animalistic savagery and cannibalistic bestiality bereft of remorse and empathy in case of Hawk Roosting. The primitive and instinctive nature of its cold existence are further metaphorically represented within “the allotment of death” as implied by the superpower of “hooked beak” and “hooked feet”.
The futurity of nihilistic existentialism in the havoc and upheaval wreaked by the post World Wars allegorically critiques this satirical motif. Furthermore decadence and dehumanization along with the fall of the legacy of Western civilization becomes the harbinger of the Hawk spirited personae espoused by the poetic voice. Harshness and ghastliness of the poetic voice examines the satiric scathing and incantatory conjuring of large scale nuclear annihilation, anarchic apocalypse and massive environmental cataclysm. Crow’s life and songs is an exposition of human hubris as an ecofeminist project in the vein of the tragic and mythic in the anthropocene.
That poetry consists of phrases that are soul feeding verses as declaimed by Seamus Heaney fruitfully resurrects in Ted Hughes’ Crows Song and the Hawk Roosting too. The poet laureate remythologizes communion of heaven and earth resembles iconoclastic atonement and visceral bloody crucifixion. crows’ nailing of heaven and earth together/ So man cried with God’s voice and God bled with man’s blood… Thus life exemplified by crow song is an amoral but extraordinarily volcanic force in the aesthetic eloquence of darkness being lightened and speechlessness being speechified. Nonetheless traumatic memorabilia from the Great World Wars I and II and Sylvia Plath’s suicidal death by the gas stove psychically embroils the cauldron of fantastic narrative poetry ‘Crows Song’ and ‘Hawks Roosting’.
Hughes’s re- mythologization of Crows after all symbolically manifests inimical indifference of obliviousness embedded in human nature throughout a demythologized world.
Hughes like New Moderns re-enchants the contemporary historical socio economic and cultural milieu through ancient, antique, atavistic and primordial ballads, myths, legends, epics, folktales and fairytales into the British Isles and Britannic legacy. A wild destructive London night and a banging blasting ferocious love masculinizes the lovemaking by libidinal urges of Plathian eroticization. In this scenario, the penis envy enmeshes the metaphorical symbolization of dominance and power in the poems. The Hawks Roosting propounds the American symbolist spirit of the nationalist bird evoked by proud roosting posture and the image of the strong talons.
Further Reading A History of Modern Poetry Modernism and After David Perkins
A few weeks later, the mother finds her father in the hospital with a back wound. He was caught by a shard. She learned from her father that Nikolai was killed on Nevsky Pyatochk, where he was buried in a mass grave.
Hiding the pain of loss in herself, the mother throws all her remaining strength to ensure the speedy recovery of her father. She didn’t forget about us either. Now we seem to see her at home more often. Alexey said that it was caused by Nikolai’s death.
Time passed so slowly but surely, gradually my father recovered and soon they promised to discharge him and let him go home. We were all really looking forward to his return, despite the grief for Nikolai, who was always a good brother and son. It seemed that if mom and dad were at home together again, our peaceful life would return, the way we remembered it, and most importantly, the blockade and even the war would end.
Based on these dreams and fantasies, we held on from day to day. However, unpleasant events continued to knock on our lives. After which Ivan and Leonid still haven’t sent a single letter, despite their heartfelt promises to write every day. For some reason, Masha was especially worried about this. After the news of Nikolai’s death and her father’s injury, she generally changed somewhat, became more silent and thoughtful, and could cry a little. Although we did not know this at the time, her hidden premonitions were not born out of thin air: in 1943, Ivan and Alexei were recognized as missing. It so happened that that was the last time we saw each other on their vacation.
The situation at home was also difficult. The younger Sasha got sick again. Remembering Lena, who died in the fall, we tried in every possible way to take care of him, went to familiar doctors, sometimes even carried him almost in our arms, always made sure that he had a slightly larger ration, so that he slept in warmth, always drank fresh boiled water. But, alas, in the end all our efforts and efforts were in vain. Later, when we leave the city, he will die in the evacuation anyway.
8
It was the month of May. Compared to winter, it has become much easier. In any case, there was no longer the bone-chilling cold and the frightening darkness of the streets. The food situation has also improved. The mother was able to get additional rations for a large family, so there was a little more food.
Since our neighbors evacuated, we were allocated another room. The father returned home, but he was not recognized. He has aged noticeably and is very weak. He lay quietly in the room for several days. But most importantly, he was home now. We also received some long-awaited letters from Ivan and Leonid. They were fine, although they were transferred to the southern front, and it was not entirely clear when we would see them again.
Nevertheless, new challenges awaited us. I don’t remember what kind of day it would have been, but Alexey and I were at school. The raid began, and after its completion we were allowed to go home. When we set foot on our native street, we couldn’t recognize it. Several houses were destroyed, including our house.
With the most terrible thoughts, we approached the front arch. Ours were there. My father, sister and brother escaped because they went out for a walk in the yard, but Baba Katya could not be saved, the bomb exploded right in her room.
We were all alive, but we were homeless. The whole family went to the local district committee, where we were accepted surprisingly quickly and without hesitation were given new housing somewhere in the Vyborg district. After receiving all the documents, my father went with us to the specified address to settle in a new apartment, and sent Masha to the hospital to her mother, tell her about what happened and escort her to a new house.
I had little idea what our new home could be like and what kind of Vyborg district it was, which years later would become my family forever. Alexey knew much more about this area, his classmate lived there, whom he visited a couple of times. Therefore, we discussed this part of the city all the way and assumed what our new home might turn out to be.
– So this is the area of old dachas? – I asked my brother.
– Yes, Pushkin was fatally wounded in a duel in those places, – he replied, – Who knows, maybe the windows of our house, I will go out just to this place!
– It can’t be! It was in the 19th century, the wooden house would not have stood so much, – I disagreed.
– There are many old houses there. You’ll see for yourself soon, – Alexei said, pointing ahead.
Indeed, it was an area of small wooden houses, comfortably located in blooming gardens and the shade of mighty forest parks. It seemed that this place was free from war and blockade. Birds were singing on the branches, locals were digging in the gardens, summer was making its way through the lively streets of the city.
One of these houses became our shelter for the next couple of months. It was a low two-storey house, slightly battered by time, but retaining some representativeness or rather attractiveness. Besides us, several other families lived in this house, so the check-in process was somewhat delayed. My father had to negotiate with the new neighbors for a long time and, referring to the permission, asked to vacate two rooms for us.
In the evening, mother and Masha also came. That’s when we started checking in the rooms and unpacking the remaining things. My parents moved into one room with the younger Sasha, and the three of us in the other. As our neighbors called it, the guest room.
All this time, moving furniture and putting things in order, my brother and I continued to argue about our house, Pushkin and the duel. By chance, my sister heard our argument, laughed and said:
– Actually, Lenin stayed in this house before leaving for Finland. It’s a shame! You should have known that!
Her words made a strong impression on Alexey and me and our arguments stopped. For the rest of the day, we silently helped to arrange the rooms. I returned to this thought again when everyone was settling down to sleep and the lights were out. Taking my place near the window, I lay all night and thought that I was sleeping exactly in the place where Lenin once stopped.
I’m three three three one-two-three and nobody knows I’m up up up – Mommy sleeping sad in her big bed. Daddy at work – work work work after bacon and eggs and coffee at the restaurant. Love Daddy – I’m Daddy’s little girl. Climb one-two-three shelves for cereal in the cupboard – bowl spoon milk from the frigerator sometimes smells bad. Then turn the knob all-by-myself open the big door open the screen door out the door. No shoes no socks my feet my toes wiggle in the grass wet wet wet. Run run run to the barn pee in my big girl training pants and toss em in the weeds every-Mommy’s-bad-word-morning-when-will-she-learn. Bare bottom who cares I don’t care no one cares maybe grandma cares. Horses waiting for me me me at the gate one big one nice one mean one brown one white and a pony-just-my-size. And I pet their noses oh my gosh soft so soft and I feed them green grass even the white mean-to-grown-ups one who could eat my tiny fingers anytime it wants to snap-just-like-that but it doesn’t – never never never will. My big brodder’s watching me from his window thinks he’s the boss of me but isn’t the boss of me. Face scrunched and big frown always worry worry worry.
Then my dog friends are waiting every-morning-same-place-same-time. Smokey knows only one trick shake shake shake the neighbor boys taught him a long time ago when he was my brodder’s dog. And Sammy with curly part-poodle hair. And the next-door-neighbor’s big big big red Ireesh Sitter with eyes that say something to me. Just us we all go running in the green grass taller than me and when I fall down my dog friends wait for me to get up and catch up. I just-know-it-lunch-time and cartoons and fight-every-Mommy’s-bad-word-day-driving-me-crazy-brodder time – who’s not the boss of me. And at nighty-night time Mommy awake – not a morning mommy. And Daddy’s home – I’m Daddy’s little girl Daddy’s home! Brodder shuts up but sometimes a story. Mommy finds at bath time tics in my ears burrs in my hair from the tall green grass. Daddy mad Brodder says told-you-so. Tics and burrs just like Smokey Sammy and the big big big red Ireesh Sitter who don’t get baths or cartoons so what’s the big deal?
David
Not doing it. Not looking. Not paying any attention. I’m not the grown up this time. She won’t listen to me anyway. What do I care? Just read, read my Classic Comics – Robinson Crusoe in my bed and get up any ol’ time I want to. Glue my model B-25 Mitchell. Bikes, forts, or look for crayfish and salamanders in the creek with Tom or Joel. There’s the door. She’s out the door already. Where’s Mom? Did she eat anything? None-of-my-business. And there she is – gonna get her fingers bit off by the mean horse. Then she’ll be running half-naked around the neighborhood with the dogs. God! So embarrassing. Someone’s going to kidnap her. Good! Ugh! Okay-fine. Get up. Go find her. Dammit.
Janice
There’s his van. Dan’s gone to work. Too bright, too early. Need-a-cigarette-where-are-my-cigarettes? Last night – what was that about? First time in a month. Just needed a good, hard screw. Friggin’ cramps coming on. Just a little while longer. She’ll-be-fine-David’s-up-he’ll-look-after-her. I didn’t sign up for this shit. They’re driving me crazy – fight, fight, fight every friggin’ day. So hot. Probably pissed her pants again. Every-damn-morning-when-will-she-learn? Maybe she’ll get lost or something – or something. Just gone. How bad could it be? Christ! Stop it! I can’t. I just can’t. Lunch, laundry, clean something, endless afternoon, friggin’ TV. Maybe I’ll go back to pressing shirts all day. Which hell? Door number one or door number two? Need-a-cigarette-where-are-my-cigarettes? Supper – gotta think of it now, now – not now – now. Then, as soon as the table is cleared, Dan’s off to the garage working on that friggin’ car. Friggin’ mass on Sunday, dinner with his parents – that bitch. Friggin’ old car club. Friggin’ picnics and potato salad. Friggin’ canasta with the girls. Always someone’s friggin’ birthday. Those damn tics in her ears, burrs in her hair. Where does she pick up this shit? I swear I’ll kill myself. Can’t cry. Not going to cry today. Save it for . . . when? Huh? When?
Dan
Told her the kids are up. Down the driveway, the DMZ between everything. Need-a-cigarette-where-are-my-cigarettes? Hungry – maybe hash browns with the eggs today. Phillis will open up. Need to order dry cleaning fluid and shirt boxes. Ralph sober? Need to do something about that. Maggie needs to dump that boyfriend. Bad for her. So hot – with the presses like working in an oven. Delivery route away from the store. What am I doing picking up and cleaning other people’s clothes? Christ. Janice is what, blue? Last night – what was that about? Pick up another transmission for the ’33 Ford – makes three. Tires for the Model A. Work on it tonight after supper. No, it’s Thursday – gotta do payroll. Maybe I’ll get the part – Harry the Horse. Guys and Dolls. Podunk Ohio isn’t New York. If only I’d gotten on that bus. No wife, house, kids, cleaners, yard to mow. An apartment, ride the subway– meet a nice guy. He’d have some stupid little dog and I would love him, and I would have him all to myself. Who knows? Harry the Horse Off-Broadway. I’d be good. Maybe great. Or Hollywood. I could have been another Dean Martin. I know it. I can feel it. I got to dry clean Paul Lynde’s blazer once. That was something. Wasn’t it?
David Sapp, danieldavidart@gmail.com
Biographical Information: David Sapp, writer, artist, and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.
