This is what I’ve waited for all evening. My girls and I had a pretty fabulous Girl’s Night, with garden watering, Project Runway, baths, and storytime, and I was able to stay present for much of that, but really I was yearning for these minutes in the office.

So, an end of the week poem. I’ve got little to go on, except the fact that a student and I talked about htis poem today:

My heart beats smoothly, steadily,

What are long years to me?

Under the Galernaya arch,

Our shadows, for eternity.


Through half-closed eyelids,

I see, I see that you’re with me,

And forever held in your hand

Is my unopened fan.


Because we stood together,

In that blessed miraculous moment,

The instant of the rose-red moon

Lifting over the Summer Garden –


I’ve no need to wait

At some hateful window,

Or grow weary with meeting –

My thirsty love is quenched.


You are free, and so am I,

Tomorrow will be better than yesterday –

Above the Neva’s dark waters,

Below the Emperor Peter’s

Cold smile.

—Anna Akhmatova

Yep. We’ve got some smartypants weirdos up at our school. Which is great for me, seeing as how I am one, and all. It got me in a decidedly slavic state of mind, which isn’t always a great thing, as you can probably gather given the state of global politics. Peter’s cold’s smile withers in comparison to Putin’s snakegrin.

Tonight it’s okay, I think. It’s okay to get the ice in the veins in the deep summer. Maybe. I think. At any rate, it’s all I’ve got to go on tonight.

So, a Russki poem. Have I done a Fountain House poem already?  I don’t remember, but I’m going to do another, and then I’m going to hang out with HP when he gets home.

Paper in the Fountain House

Paper in the Fountain House goes up in verse and smoke, the songs and battles on the radio build their forever terror and I will hide here, reside here in the the fountain house and cultivate an aura of pure Russian sadness amid the vines and veins and ruins, a heap of dust and ash in the corner. Thirty or sixty years from now you will all gather in the museum of my sorrow, smoking tobacco in the griefshade, building monuments by the daisies, and I will endeavor to push them right up,

an honor indeed.

It’s the taiga the grows and grows up through these flutes and gutters, blue under the skin and pounding with this old and cashed out resistance, searching for revolutions under a sky heavy with song. Curious, aren’t they, these thoughts of snow in late July,

in the sliverlinging days, in the days that scald and scorn,

so strange these tumblings of memory and snowscent, that bring the thoughts

of dampened leaves drop[ing all at once like bombshells.


So, I read an interview with Jim Harrison:http://www.esquire.com/features/what-ive-learned/jim-harrison-interview-0814

And it was good. Good night, poem peeps. My heart beats smoothly, steadily. Yours? Happy Thursday!