Of Russian Literature

[monk222]

Thanks to make_me_stay, we have a poem to share. On the lure of Russian literature. I know that the_real_girlie has been wading in those deep, oppressiver waters herself. For my own part, I have been out of the mood. Though, I would not mind book-blogging "The Demons" and "The Brothers Karamozov" some day, if my life could be long enough. As it is, my life feels more like a haiku than a grand Russian novel. But who knows?

_ _ _

I was satisfied with haiku until I met you,
jar of octopus, cuckoo's cry, 5-7-5,
but now I want a Russian novel,
a 50-page description of you sleeping,
another 75 of what you think staring out
a window. I don't care about the plot
although I suppose there will have to be one,
the usual separation of the lovers, turbulent
seas, danger of decommission in spite
of constant war, time in gulps and glitches
passing, squibs of threnody, a fallen nest,
speckled eggs somehow uncrushed, the sled
outracing the wolves on the steppes, the huge
glittering ball where all that matters
is a kiss at the end of a dark hall.
At dawn the officers ride back to the garrison,
one without a glove, the entire last chapter
about a necklace that couldn't be worn
inherited by a great-niece
along with the love letters bound in silk.

-- "Changing Genres" by Dean Young