"chekhov" poems
Wild rose, aggressive usurper,
relentless conqueror of attention, quarrels
wants to make me jelous,
pretends she is nothing but poetry distilled,
stops at every table and whispers:
"He is hard prose, the syntax, I can't grasp"
Unmindful of sly looks from various corners,
that in fact suggest, I had good riddance,
I am concerned about the clutter on my desk,
that escaped my notice during the days I was in that chasm
I was deeply in to Dostoevsky,
my cleansing ritual on such occasions: the Russian masters
when she passed my cubicle she spies Chekhov
lying on my table, waiting his turn
"The lady with the lapdog"* she reads aloud, with suspicion
would she ever understand, what Dostoevsky to me,
would have told?
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
Chekhov and Murakami came to me in short spurts of memory; as if the life of a keyboard was a retro invention sinking the ancient sea bona fidelis. Temper Fidelis and sorry larks wish upon the galoshes you wore to repeated proms instigated in large moral distances between burning barns (it's a dangerous hobby). Starved for trapped frogs with claws and violence was a question answered in blood so two wrongs made a state of nothingness free of wrong or right (***you nihilistic ***** she suggested a better drink to pick at Starbucks: 'a flaming frappucino at 140 degrees.' (what are you, some angry Russian aristocrat contemptuous of an English wife T-minus a decade ? )close-bracket)
God is sick of two things: my continued and addicted references to Judaeo-Christianity and the dragged sympathy of humanity for his lost son ("it's been 2013 years for Chrissake")
you melt on me like a strange evening spent with a stick of butter
self improvement 46% complete
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
Chekhov and Murakami came to me in short spurts of memory; as if the life of a keyboard was a retro invention sinking the ancient sea bona fidelis. Temper Fidelis and sorry larks wish upon the galoshes you wore to repeated proms instigated in large moral distances between burning barns (it's a dangerous hobby). Starved for trapped frogs with claws and violence was a question answered in blood so two wrongs made a state of nothingness free of wrong or right (***you nihilistic ***** she suggested a better drink to pick at Starbucks: 'a flaming frappucino at 140 degrees.' (what are you, some angry Russian aristocrat contemptuous of an English wife T-minus a decade ? )close-bracket)
God is sick of two things: my continued and addicted references to Judaeo-Christianity and the dragged sympathy of humanity for his lost son ("it's been 2013 years for Chrissake")
you melt on me like a strange evening spent with a stick of butter
self improvement 46% complete
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
I'm watching an old Soviet movie
one without English subtitles
the whole day it hasn't stopped raining
the opening shots are of a foggy
seafront, a lone figure walking
a guy on a bicycle holding a puppy
riding past someone leaning on the corner
of a house in which the light
suddenly comes on & a couple appear
later on, a budding romance
between two holidaymakers in this, the Crimea
slow-paced, this movie reminds
me of an Aki Kaurismaki
& I want to share it with the world
& muse on how the Crimea
saw Pushkin, Chekhov, Mayakovsky
amongst others visiting it's shores
the whole day it hasn't stopped raining
& I don't know if I feel even more English
now or Russian or whether it's all just a trick
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
The internal battle..eternal....(one from the vault)
Lucifer and Jehovah dancing some mad bossa nova
While angels on horse backs fought devils with black jacks
The white dove of peace had surrendered his lease
So God ripped off his wings.. he no longer sings
Then the Devil ripped out his heart so it could end at the start.
Wagner and Chopin got frightened..
..and off they ran.
But Beethoven and Bach were sat in the park
Composing arias to fight Hells hot fires.
While Chekhov and Handel burned coramandel
But the smoke from that pyre stank like a byre.
Socrates was sat dispensing the ethics
Hippocrates swore while dishing out medics
The Muses were musing one or two were enthusing
Oooh look.. the good against sinner
Let's go down the bookies and have a bet on the winner.
Cometh the day cometh the morn
Cometh the hour cometh the dawn.
Here is Joshua blowing his horn
And here comes Gabriel but all that he meets
Are the countless dead lining up on the streets
And the wounded and deathbound far far below
I feel sorry for Gabriel I wish he could go.
But Picasso arrives and cries
My God it's my Guernica I'll do a pastiche
Oh F*ck it he says and has a pastis (or two)
Then Pollack turns up totally ******
Picks up a paint and says what I have missed?
What a fantastic sight.. angels flashing demons crashing
The hounds of Hell with teeth a gnashing
Then Neptune arrives astride his watery chariot
Scything through Demons and sat beside Judas Iscariot
Mermen and mermaids mercilessly slayed
By Beelzebubs prototypes
Those that live in the black nights.
But as the dawn breaks God knows what it takes
So he sends for his legions calls out to all regions
Take arms and do battle
Till we hears Satans death rattle.
And the heavens rip asunder to the sound of the thunder.
Satan rings on Hells bell.. tells them all is not well
Then disappears from our sight as if he's turned off the light.
Then I awake with a start knowing that I've been a part
Of something vast something grand
A spiritual war being fought in this land
I am alive and I shall survive.
PRAISE BE.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 9:08 AM UTC
~I remember...
~For my two sisters
Future lovers
Are not knocking on my doors,
No line ups
Around the corner
Of my house;
The ladder to my window
Lies injured
On yellow
Lawn
Not nurtured,
Down bellow.
On the Queen Anne arm chair
Ashes of my
Fabulous years,
Wireless affairs,
No strings
Unattached
To my violin.
Sketches in the ****
Of lovers past
Are shivering,
Longing for my tapestries,
Trying, in vain, to hide
Under sad sepia.
Portraits, I promised
To paint
To Dorian Gray.
May still age
Given just a little
More time.
On the stage
I, Manon Lescaut, die,
Only sixteen -
Poor Knight De Grieux
Just another year,
please,
That I have not for sale
Anymore.
Pastels and aquarelles
Turned monochrome;
Chronos
Doesn't stop here
For a single moment -
Walks all over.
In the middle of my chaos
23/7
(What's an hour glass
Or more?),
Sleeps
Master Behemoth.
His fur coat
Once luxurious black
Has specks of grey,
One white whisker;
So are three of my hair.
Wise
Sybilla?
I don't think so.
It's not what
It used to be, my Master
Let's go out
To the open
Let's breathe,
Let's see new cats.
On the chopping block,
Let's lose our heads
Let's get lost.
Let's elope together
The weather
Should be
Just rainy-fine
For the Requiem,
For the funeral.
Tree Sisters gone
To the Cherry Orchard,
Uncle Vanya, again,
Left alone on the estate.
Seagull, before rain
Flies over my head
For the last time.
Author Notes
Two of my sisters are gone already.
Anton Pavlovich Chekhov's plays:
Three Sisters
Cherry Orchard
Uncle Vanya
Seagull
...To name just a few. Manon Lescaut by Abbe Prevost, two operas as well, one by Puccini, one by Esprit Auber. "A woman like Manon can have more than one lover." The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 2:07 PM UTC
V. the ballad of briseis
my heart is of
the flesh of figs,
and that which
i cannot touch:
grainy sweet
garnet nectar
pretty to behold
but easy to bruise
no god shall speak for me, briseis
for this fig-heart, like the heart of man
craves art as it does god
and though i know you not by name,
but only pseudonym:
blood, words, and love,
we are kindred souls
i'd like to believe that we
are cut of the same cloth
hewn of the same mound of clay
(or cast into the same iron, i suppose
for we became one another's anchor
the day we met)
i once told you, my dear briseis,
that if you taught me symbiosis
i would teach you love
for you found pragma
in philosophy cold
markov's blankets
freud's ego, plato's cave
whereas i found pragma
in alchemy's poetry
chekhov's gun
freud's neurotics, plato's human
it means nothing.
the alchemy lies
beyond the chemicals,
beyond the seed and the egg,
beyond our festivals of atonement,
beyond my prima materia
and your unfulfilled magnum opus
it lies in simple interdependence,
the oceans, the heavens,
the forests, the deserts,
the storms, the famines,
the herds of wildebeest,
the colonies of ants,
the beady dew on the spider web
and the purling river shallows,
our acrid mouths yearning for mother's milk,
the boy who makes us cry at night,
the fiery logs roaring against the cold air,
the hoot-owls and the faces on the wall
(our skeletons never did stay in the closet)
bathed in that slow, hideous wonder
those interplays of love and symbiosis
as i drown and die in reverie once more
pray that the stakes may be forever higher
that i find those eternal elysian fields
so long as our achilles lives to fight again
we are more alike,
than you or i would
ever dare to admit,
briseis
so humor this fig-heart:
hold me and tell me
that it'll be all right
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 11:57 PM UTC
And she reads Chekhov in the bathtub
thinking that 19th century Russia
must have been visually interesting, but literarily dull,
writing overstuffed with description and repetition.
It's pungent perfume pleasant at first, but soon overbearing.
She never made it through Anna K. either,
and only conquered Ilyich for academics sake.
Swimming in the long winded, emotional descriptions,
all she could think, was of what Northern ancestor
decided all Russians should go by three names
and what cunning linguist adored 'V' and 'Y' to such extent
that he proclaimed they should be used as much as humanly possible.
A popularized, sadistic joke
for a younger brother with a speech impediment.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
i have come to discern
a great breach
a chasm that stands
between
apprehension of the world
and the world
itself
like some character
in a play by Chekhov,
perpetually seeking answers
yet, offering no
truths...
as an eternal madness, a seeking,
ever seeking, yet
accomplishing neither end nor
resolution
a tune, played almost to
conclusion,
missing that final chord,
so that we see, that life has,
tampered...
(as grief enters, stage right)
"line please..."
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 10:38 AM UTC
Everyone is anxious
For Chekhov’s gun is still on the wall
It has not been fired
And we are soon approaching the next act
What do they wait for?
A provocation?!
Dear college age white boy
(Not unlike myself)
Your pseudo-nihilism bores them
We all know these things are just for show
Besides we see how much of an elitist you are
And how little you understand the words you are saying
If Nietzsche’s life were recast
You’d be the man beating the Turin Horse
Why does he say such things?
Does he understand the human mind, the human condition?!
We all wait for the collapse to come
And all of its children to return home
For we are already all aliens to each other
And we know what sweet flowers can grow from ashes
If life is to be a garden
I intend to be a worm
Does he really mean that?
We can see in his eyes he is not convinced
How long have we been going in these circles?
Or is it true that I am unique in this regard alone?
Every philosopher
Every poet
Every self perpetuating artist has their bag of tricks
I have whatever I can pillage
Everything that can be said
Has already been said
He am going back into the gallery
And drawing mustaches on all the faces
And as the audience leaves
Chekhov’s gun remains untouched, suspended by a thread
And this time only
There are no deeper meanings
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
Anaphora I feel for you
Anaphora I like you
Anaphora I met you at a party
Anaphora I didn't think you'd remember me but
Anaphora I found out you did when you asked about
Anaphora I had told you about
Anaphora I remember you wanted to know
Anaphora I think there may have been something
Anaphora I something deeper at play but
Anaphora I'm not quite sure
Anaphora I may look like I have it all, but a large part of me remains underdeveloped, I'm not sure how to map out the chart of my feelings, if you remember me now, please
Anaphora I say something, please reach out again over
Anaphora I over that black void and find me, alive, waiting patiently by the phone for your ring,
Anaphora I or your words to save from doubt
Anna Foura, I feel trapped, like some protagonist from an old Russian book, probably approved by Chekhov, I lie in wait playing dissonant jazz and idle daydreaming, I miss you ana
Foura I feel for you anaphora.
Aug 4, 2022
Aug 4, 2022 at 1:23 PM UTC
and suddenly
i was in tears
the shock set in
like the sun sets down
like a gun left on a table
waiting for Chekhov's cue
the sickness crawled in
and the tears trickled out
as i came to the fact
that i was completely alone
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
He rubs me raw
Not with his hands
No, not anymore
Not as often
But with his words
From the outside, in
The tears coat my eyes
Its the middle of class
Yet my thoughts aren't on Chekhov
But on how close the day is to done
Which terrifies me more than
It probably should
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
Pavlov must be getting old;
His ears keep ringing and he's can't stop,
Can't stop his own spit-up drooling self.
His dog isn't as well trained as he thought,
But Pavlov has run off the pages and fallen out of energy
To do anything but listen to a worse bark than bite
His dog is chasing Schrödinger's cat, he thinks,
But he can't go to the window to check, can't go to see
That perhaps he's only hunting his own tail
And down the hall, Aesop is telling stories to no one,
His words floating across creaky floor board seas
While Occam simply bleeds out in the bathtub.
And Plato, in his man-cave, watches the tv flicker light and shadow
While he wonders about the world he'll never know,
Wonders about the ****** dog that won't stop barking.
And Pandora is coming to collect her matchbox rent,
Tears still in her eyes from a deck stacked against her,
I guess 'cause Chekhov never loved her.
He's holding a gun to his head, eyes clenched tight,
He's wrestling with his own existence,
Challenging the story his god has written.
And Achilles is tripping on his own feet,
And Montezuma has plugged the lavatory again
While Maxwell bashes in another skull.
And Pavlov must be getting old;
His ears keep ringing and he's can't stop,
Can't stop his own spit-up drooling self.
And down the hall,
Schrödinger still can't find that **** cat.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
Hard to put into words
the extent of grief.
No cavalry of relief in sight
coming over the hill.
You, my son, those
last days, so ill.
Unlike you,
you soldier like
in life's fight.
Death took you unaware
that night
and again
the day after.
No present mirth,
no laughter,
no Shakespearean drama
set in tow,
no Chekhov way
with words,
no Ibsen dark talk,
just this, these words,
and a blown from palm kiss.
Silent words:
we love and miss.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
I wasn’t crying.
I was hydrating my grief
from the inside out.
He said, “You’re not dramatic. Just detailed.”
I said, “You’re not cruel. Just consistent.”
We called that a compromise.
(or else a hostage negotiation.)
There’s glitter in my carpet
from a party I threw
to prove I wasn’t waiting on him.
I wore white.
Not bridal,
but still white enough
to make someone feel guilty.
I lit sparklers like sirens,
toasted survival.
Nobody clapped.
I collect apologies I don’t want,
write scripts for confrontations
that end in standing ovations,
then lose the footage
in a hardware crash
I secretly caused.
I take the stairs two at a time,
just to feel something chase me.
I text “I’m fine :)”
like it’s a safe word—
to keep the spiral
polite.
I rehearse the voicemail
he never left
like it’s Chekhov.
Like if I say it right,
the gun goes off
and I disappear
beautifully.
At the end of the dream,
he’s always wearing my hoodie—
saying something tender,
just slightly
too late.
And I wake up
with eyelashes on my wrists,
thinking—
Maybe I am the problem.
But God—
you should’ve seen the poems.
Apr 23, 2025
Apr 23, 2025 at 9:45 AM UTC
I read lots of Russian lit (in translation, of course) while in Viet-Nam
I understood poor, young Raskolnikov
And read all I found by Anton Chekhov
Remembered nothing about Bulgakhov
Heard naughty whispers about Nabokov
Thrilled to the Cossacks in old Sholokov
And then I learned about Kalashnikov –
This, I decided, is where I get off!
Moc Hoa (pronounced something like “mock wah”) is a now-prosperous town on the Song Vam Co Tay near the border with Cambodia. In 1970 it was rather down at the heels and was a center of military activity, including mercenaries presumably controlled by the C.I.A.
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
Dostoyevsky lies above Chekhov
The yellowed pages of Marquez
Stands aside in sad mood
With hundred years of solitude
From the bearded Tolstoy
Peeps out an innocent boy
For a small piece of land
Just enough to rest in peace
It's all a wildly strange mix
Where Tintin rules over Asterix
Hawking confuses the soul
With time's history and blackhole
On a pedestal Shakespeare loses might
His musty volumes half eaten by termite
Tagore not yet ready to lose his vigour
Shines upon eyes with portly figure
There's astronomy, history, magic and science
Rubbing shoulders with morality and conscience
Neatly stacked one upon the other
Mostly crumbling by time's weather
Ill preserved and not anymore read
Muddled words lost in the head.
But I only admire the tidying woman
Who labours hard does the best she can
Arrange them to restore their old glories
If by chance someone reopens the stories.
Mar 17, 2024
Mar 17, 2024 at 4:21 AM UTC