Akhmatova

Akhmatova, the oriole is always grieving-
is she happy or sad?
Silver willow sliced to a stump.

She suddenly came out of that trance so common to us all,
and whispered in my ear (everybody spoke in whispers there):
"Can you describe this?"

Lyre that became a rattle.
Incinerating your poems,
you bellowed a shroud over Stalingrad.

And I said, "Yes, I can."
Then something like the shadow of a smile
crossed what had once been her face.

Today in Saint Petersburg the snow drips
off your bronze eyelids.
And the stars above-are they happy or sad?

Vermilion Flower

Emily Dickinson is staying at home. She's wearing her white eyelet
dress, wandering in her night-garden, composing a poem. Her
father sleeps. Emily Dickinson writes a letter to Mr. Higginson. Is it
any good, Sir? she laughs. She's been growing many years now,
pulling up weeds from China, sighting a lark over France, stunned
by the evening sun in her backyard as Amherst turns past-the
opal herd, the amber farm. Emily Dickinson has a solemn face. Her
eyes are very strange. They're dark and look inward and out. Stars
sparkle in the back of her head. In her hand-the vermilion flower
outstretched.

Cargo of Dreams

The dreams have run
their course.
The dreams that stood
at attention melted.
The poignant dreams dried
out and crumbled.
The windy dreams blew away.
Dreams that bled,
dreams of aching splendor,
rosy caressing flesh-colored dreams-
all dissolved in the river,
the river that never stops flowing,
carrying its invisible cargo of dreams....