"karenina" poems
You were no Eve of Russian literature
like Pushkin’s precious Tatyana.
You were no young, innocent, provincial girl
seduced by cynical Onegin, that bon vivant
corrupted by modern European values.
You were no mysterious Russian soul
brimful of essential purity and self-sacrifice -
with a love of pain and pure disdain of happiness.
Tatyana resisted all temptation, refusing
to take flight, rejecting the man she loved.
She was too good to be true; but you, Anna
what a pickle you got yourself in, choosing ****** sin.
You could share an affair with dashing Vronsky
elope with him and leave behind your husband
abandon your beloved son, Alexei.
But these were not the dreadful choices
sealing your tragic fate, my dear Anna.
It was those ****** feelings you chased
all based on the sin of selfishness.
You fed on romance, passion and desire.
Your hot-hunger was insatiable, a fire
rip-roaring through restraint and all decorum
You sweated and panted wild for ******
They say you’re a ‘drama queen’; heartless and mean
a woman undone by excess, always longing to undress
nakedly making grand errors of judgement.
By ignoring Tatyana’s fine example, you certainly forgot
there will always be those who tot up the ledger.
Your blood debt was owing, it had to be paid.
You saw the light at the end of the tunnel -
cool down, Anna, let the raw feelings subside
be watchful, wary and ever-ready to step aside
let the moments of menace and gloom drain –
it might just be an oncoming train is due.
© M.L.Emmett 2016
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 6:14 AM UTC
Her own desire led her astray,
a smile from him was enough to ignite the fire.
The serpent wrapped itself around her neck. She couldn't run away,
She thought they were the enemy, she found her society so dire.
"Why linger here? Why turn another page?" She though to herself.
She walked to where she first died,
and there she commited suicide.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 3:29 AM UTC
she gave advice and
didn’t attend parties
strangers have more
interesting lives, she said
like a veil makes a bride
but when she went
she was cold air
across the floorboards
seen, yet dangerous
as the unseen undertow
she floated
in blue silk from
trio to trio
kissing hello
as the small of
her back waved
every spare hand
to touch
and gently pull her closer
to whisper secrets into
her jeweled ears
the red politicians
swore honesty
the bankers forgot loans
even the musicians
lost key
yet a soldier won
the Battle of Temptations
then, just past
midnight she was
haunting the fringes
of the room
like she belonged
there, on the edge
as if placement was
secondary to the art
of her movement
why shouldn’t it be?
everything else was
her eyes went wide
she looked dark
if they didn’t love her
at least they talked
when she left, it
got rather boring, so
we watched the kitty
and tried on a new coat
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 7:05 PM UTC
it doesn’t have to mean anything more
than a crumpled up dollar bill in an open guitar case
i hope one day i’ll learn to keep my head down
to keep walking instead of getting stuck in front of windows
it feels like i’m loitering in the parking lot of everyone else’s lives
a heap of squeezed ginger ale cans
and candy bar wrappers crowding my bare feet
i guess eventually i’ll have to leave and find out
things always look better through a side mirror
i glance back and see the orange trees in the median
a runner almost getting hit by a left-hand turn
i’m so glad i didn’t have to watch her die
instead i watch two college students nervously laugh
shifting their weight from one foot to the other
beside the crosswalk button and i sigh a little
they are on one side of the glass and i am on the other
i seem to miss the things i made sure would never happen to me
tuck myself into bed buzzing with the engine of
a snow-covered train, a reckless ellipses
it is comforting to want what i cannot have
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 8:38 AM UTC
Her bookshelf to the brim and bursting
With pages worn, and well
Remembered for the virtues
Lost
And husbands in the war
Fallen woman--fall, and women
Harvests sown and reaped
Moon of full, of wax, of
Wane
Her heart of Shadow's seed
Hand of diamond and of band
Ashes, ashes, dust
A love once lived and now, one
Lost
The pages' faces face us
And sages burn, away
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
Sometimes I want to shake your head from your shoulders
Try to dislodge the barbed twists of your perverse thinking
And the ideas spearing through your tissues
Like whaling harpoons that hooked their many heads deep
Latching and Leaching
Because you might have ****** your packet of Love Hearts a little too hard
Until it crumbled and fizzed in desperate ecstasy on your tongue
And the rest in the tube read MISS ME
Whenever you asked
But you are not Isolde,
Capulet, Karenina or Earnshaw
And as much as you desire the piercing pity of your broken collar bones
The caress of the lost-souls melody and the razorblades of a ribcage
The bitter corset of an appetite that pays for itself in crocodile tears
And the romance of a noose of flaxen hair
You are not Porphyria
And he is not her lover
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
I've been curing my loneliness
with solitude
talking to myself
instead of somebody else.
I've been spending days
staring at the ceiling
dreaming myself to outer space
or New York
instead of leaving my room.
I've been writing letters
whose length would make Anna Karenina blush
all tucked into the curves of my cerebral cortex
instead of sending
"hey, hw r u?"
text messages
I've been curing my loneliness
with solitude
if you call crying alone
with my own hand patting my back
curing
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 11:26 PM UTC
The novel has more than six hundred pages
Each and every page has it's flavoured essence
If the essence of one page dilutes
It isn't really diluted
And, just adds varied flavours
Simultaneously the other page dilutes
Dilutes a little.
Flavours of essence is completely known
Quality of dilution is partially shown
Neither complete nor partial
Either incomplete or impartial
Words are of such
Which posses a sensory touch
No words could be neglected,
No pages could be skipped,
A word is a sword
A page is an image
An unseen film
An imaginative one.
The author has enriched his work
The novel does move around with the following
Most of the readers should have run short of words
Other than admiring.
Love and care,
Care and love;
Love for knowledge,
Knowledge of love;
Love vs betrayal,
Betrayal subsiding love;
Betrayal of characters
Characters are given roles of betraying.
Yes, yes, yes
The characters that betrayed
Were pathetic of all
Kinetic for sure.
The novel has more than six hundred pages
Each and every page has it's flavoured essence
If the essence of one page dilutes
It isn't really diluted.
Dated 30.6.2012
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 1:32 AM UTC
Your name was the one I etched into the frosted glass of my dad’s F150
The day after the first Christmas you didn’t come home.
Your blood was the hot coffee I poured into my cup at 3 am
While I wrote essays about how you wrote Anna Karenina
In your previous life.
Your voice was the ghost that haunted my room as a little girl
Nine years before I met you.
You were every one of the five people I’ve slept with besides you.
You were the pink champagne I spilt on my white dress
The first time I got drunk alone.
You are my 11 p.m. dreams
And my morning showers,
And the blue-eyed strangers I make eye contact with in between.
You are the garden I’ll die in,
Or the car I’ll crash in,
Or the ghost I’ll follow into Eden.
The last time you slept in your own bed,
I was the blanket beside you
And the pillow that tasted your last breath.
When l reach for you on the left side of my bed,
you aren’t there.
You are the yellow roses I leave on your grave.
You are not dead. You live inside me.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:46 PM UTC
and they write confessional poems,
and they're scared
when it happens to be too authentic
and they never bother
personae poetry and a shamelessness
about it - as if imitating someone
and able to distance yourself
from the adequate metaphorical word
schizoid - the personae principle
of poetry - the poet disguised
within many people - and indeed
as poetry goes, the crude oiling not
represented by stiff-collar fictive
outputs of he said, she said, "quote",
and the out-of-body experiences -
but then, that wouldn't be poetry,
would it? what it would be would
be jane austen, or anna karenina.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 7:00 AM UTC
“your tears are water.
you never loved me.”
i can relate to that line
better now, can’t i?
you cry about not having
me anymore. yet you tell
me i’m selfish. you tell me
that i never wanted the best
for you. but i held you every
time you cried. i made sure
you ate lunch everyday.
you spoon feed me
these lies and i take them
down like ice cream. but if
anna karenina taught me
anything, it is that
your tears are water.
you never loved me.
~k
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 5:10 PM UTC
Laid bare,
Ripped open
By the sheer joy
We allowed ourselves to share,
I sensed then
This had to be the beginning
Of the end of everything.
For all I have left for you now
My love,
Is my steady heart,
My humble happiness.
And so, ****** and blessed
In equal measure,
Such is the cycle of romance,
Or so it seems…
Capricious, frail
And yet, at times, so wondrous
And all encompassing.
Yet now I can see so clearly
How, when the rose first opens,
Its thorny stock stiff and fit to burst,
Such divine and fevered feelings
Are released in a perfumed crescendo
That, from that day on,
Can never be quite as sweet again.
Maybe better this though
Than fidelity?
Some persistent fervour
That, even in its noble rawness
And good intent,
The world can spoil so easily…
And one day, no doubt,
Would have only succeeded
In choking itself.
When it comes to passion,
We might as well be beasts, it seems.
Though, trust me,
I would not have believed it to be so then.
But Oh, to have lived such a dream
And cruelly to still be here now,
Full bloodied,
Feeling the warmth of the sun
When you are not.
So now it has to be farewell!
The truth is I will never stop loving you
And am therefore irretrievably lost…
And that, my darling,
Even in death,
Has no matter of reason within it
I can be forgiven for.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
It feels like
you just came
and visited me
yesterday.
The lemonades
and Anna Karenina
left open
on top of
the coffee table
waiting for us
to drink it
till there is
not a single drop
and for us to read
to debate
and to fight over
before we close it
and go through
another tale.
But you are not here
as the table
has been left
unattended
long time ago.
It was not
there alone
just like the day
we dragged it home
from the waste bay
and stationed it
at the center
of the hall.
It was full of mess,
dirt and marks
I can't hardly see
any signs
of love and
happiness
and pride,
the same feelings
we used to have
on it.
We used to run
to the grocery
down the corner
and laughed at
all the flattery
over the dinner
We used to kick
all the jittery
over the thunder
and shoved
the maturity
down the throat
but now we are
slowly getting
used to be like
a stranger
like a feather
off the duster
fly separately
on its own
to meet the final
destination
of its soul.
you are
no longer
here with me
to encounter
the thunder
as the lady luck
choose to
smile on you
and I fall into
the lethal oblivion
that stays longer
than the morning dew.
You may have
long gone
perhaps to the
end of the world
or to the center circle
of the endless whirl
it might be forever
or just like
the stay with me
that ends
prematurely,
but I hope
you know that
you will always
reside in the back
of my mind
at the bottom
of my heart
permanently.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 3:34 AM UTC