Irena Pasvinter

Dear Bill,

Your “To be or not to be”
doesn’t work for me.
Invoke word economy,
tighten your wording:
think B&B/J&B/GB.

Parcy Monious,
The Editor of “Word Economy”.

Hey, I could use a poem or two
To brighten up my day —
There’s nothing like a merry verse
To chase the gloom away.

Yes, I could use a poem or two
To thrust upon my foes —
There’s nothing like a witty word
To step on hated toes.

So, I could craft a poem or two,
But they are hard to hone.
There’s nothing like an awkward verse
To make an author groan.

Garbage bins, a crippled rocking chair,
Weedy flowerbeds, yawning cats,
Lizards drinking the sunshine,
Dirt, barking dogs, busy ants.

How about a star exploding, a supernova
Spilling out its luminous star guts
Just a million light years away,
Right in your backyard.

So what have you got in your backyard?

My body is not perfect,
It has never been,
Time does not help either.
Still, I’m not bothered
When you see me naked.
Perfect or not,
I’m not ashamed.

It’s different with my poems.
Some of them I share with you –
Those where my pain
Is nicely combed,
My soul is covered with
Many layers of wrappings
Glued together by resin of laughter,
Placed into a painted
Sarcophagus of rhyme.

Other poems though,
Where my pain is
Unkempt and disheveled,
My soul is naked,
With ugly bulges of sorrow protruding
Beneath the worn out rags of illusions,

I may show them to somebody else,

Not to you, I don’t want you to see them.

First floor, second, up I run,
Here he is, the familiar man,
Always there, between
The second floor and the third.
Cracks in the stone stair
Portray him, visible only to me,
I never fail to meet
His eyeless stare.

Third floor, second, first,
Down I went, never turning back,
Continents away,
No regrets, no despair,
No cracks in the stairs,
I use an elevator today.

Why then if I drift
Toward the past,
To the shabby house
Of my childhood years,
The first face I see
Is him, always there,
Etched on the stone stair.
I never fail to meet
His eyeless stare.

Take a sheet of paper, a pen, a pencil
Or stare into nowhere, aloof and pensive,
Close your eyes or wear a silly smile,
Sit down or walk at random for a while…

Now grab a thought, an idea, a distant notion,
Throw it away with a frustrated motion,
Pull out another inkling, you have a lot,
Settle down on something, an embryo plot.

Put together some words, arrange in a line,
Toss them around until they feel fine,
Hunt for images, powerful, poignant, fresh,
Implant them firmly into the poem’s flesh.

Then add your pain, loss, love, hope, fear,
Squeeze your soul to get something here,
Something palpable on this crumpled page –
Dig it from your heart, either joy or rage.

After your poem is sprinkled with blood,
Sparkles with mirth or is stained with mud,
Polish its surface slowly, without haste;
Consider adding irony by taste.

Read the poem aloud and cringe in dismay,
Tear it into pieces and throw away!
After a while gather the shreds again,
Revise once more with all due restraint.

Now show it to somebody you can trust
And do with it whatever you must –
Send to a publisher, hide in a drawer
Or simply go write another poem.

Loading a dishwasher with plates,
Hanging shirts on a rope,
I do my best to appear relaxed
Mourning my secret hope.

A cleaning lady comes once a week,
The place stays neat for a day.
Returning from work I absently seek
To straighten the disarray.

In fifty years or hundred at most
Robots will do all the chores,
Cleaning and cooking for their host,
Preserving his time and force.

I can’t partake from the future fruit
No matter how much I strive.
I load the dishes and cook the food
And bury my dream alive.