a slow wave
breathing you in
breathing you out
my body
finding it difficult
to take you in.
i don’t know
i can harbor  you

the other night i was sleeping
and he came to me
as a warning
as a gift
and i hated him for it.
in understanding
i can see
he has infected me
with this
this shaking

and when you’re coming
in me
i feel full on you
high on you
truth can be
and when you
 leave me–clarity.
it becomes clear
what i had been getting
full on.

tell me
if there was
or was that just me
telling myself
another lie.

and tell me
how did she feel?
tell me,
do you even know
to whom
i am referring?

i fell in love with you
the you i wanted
in desperation
i clung to you
i took you in
all the way
a sharp breath
a deep breath
and it was thick
and you reached so far inside
removing all of me,

my body aches
my heart beats
in my legs
my thighs.  

and last night
you threatened to die
you were filling me
with lies again
and i thought to myself
soon i’ll show you how empty
of you i could be
i’ll show you peace

but that was
last night

and now
you’re sleeping next to me
and i am
with you
once again


A coincidence,
this springtime.
Everything developing all at once
I recall
walking into my room
and seeing
sleeping sweetly.
I adore you.
And I know the
seasons change,
but I also know
that won’t.

I could tell you
how thick winters used to
run through these veins
of mine.
I could tell you how
hope never stirred
in this heart

And I’ve always felt
with intensity.
Always believing
that the opposite of love
is peace.
What seemed to me
a close to fictional concept.
What peace could be found
amidst long winters
and wide open windows?
Life taught me many lessons,
none of which prepared me for
walking into my room
and seeing
sleeping sweetly.
None of which
prepared me for
A coincidence,
this springtime.
Where I found peace
in my love
for you.

To the memory of a friend, as if definition could define us

To the memory of a friend, as if definition could define us

Written September 2011
I remember the first time
My laughter
Escaped your
I knew then
That we were friends
I wish I could
The last time

I’m not going to forget
Last winter
You had my stomach in knots
With all your
Or all your txts
“I got there okay, don’t worry”
“You always worry”
None of which I asked for
You just
I needed

I’m also
Never going to
Every time you made me laugh
Or cry

And I’ll imagine
Whether it was said
Or unsaid
Or even
That you always knew
That my love for you
Was there
When asked to find
Lance LaVictoire
I don’t have to dig very far
You built a home in my heart
A long time ago

I already miss you
To continue in a world without you
Is unimaginable
But I guess I’ll have to learn
To live with
The ache
Of this loss

So here’s to the memory
Of a friend
Who will always
Be remembered
And loved
By me


Poem written by Anna Akhmatova translated by JudithHemschemeyer

Poem written by Anna Akhmatova translated by Judith Hemschemeyer
He was jealous, troubled and tender,
He loved me as one loves God’s sun,
But to keep it from singing about the past,
He killed my white bird.

Entering the front room at sunset, he murmured:
“Love me, laugh, and write poetry!”
And I buried my merry bird
Beyond the round well, near the ancient alder tree.

I promised him I wouldn’t mourn,
But my heart turned to stone,
And it seems to me that always and everywhere,
I hear the sweet voice of the bird.

Autumn or 1914

Praise to the Rich Written by Marina Tsvetaeva and Translated by Elaine Feinstein

Praise to the Rich

Written by Marina Tsvetaeva

Translated by Elaine Feinstein

And so, making clear in advance
I know there are miles      between us;
and I reckon myself with the tramps, which
is a place of honour in this world:

under the wheels of luxury, at
table with cripples and hunchbacks . . .
From the top of the bell-tower roof,
I proclaim it: I love the rich.

For their rotten, unsteady root
for the damage done in their cradle
for the absent-minded way their hands
go in and out of their pockets;

for the way their softest word is
obeyed like a shouted order; because
they will not be let into heaven; and
because they don’t look in your eyes;

and because they send secrets         by courier!
and their passions        by errand boy.
In the nights that are thrust upon them they
kiss and drink under compulsion,

and because in all their accountings
in boredom, in gilding, in wadding,
they can’t buy me     I’m too brazen:
I confirm it, I love the rich!

and in spite of their shaven fatness,
their fine drink      (wink, and spend)
some sudden    defeatedness
and a look that is like a dog’s
doubting . . .
the core of their balance
nought, but are the weights true?
I say that among all outcasts
there are no such orphans on the earth.

There is also a nasty fable
about camels getting through needles
for that look, surprised to death
apologizing for sickness, as

if they were suddenly bankrupt: ‘I would have been
glad to lend, but’      and their silence.
‘I counted in carats once and then I was one of them.’
For all these things, I swear it: I love the rich.


It would be difficult
If I wrote about him
He would be small
If I wrote about the
It would be far
Like my voice

If I wrote about you
I think I would say
That you found me once
In a tired life
With a tired mind
And I heard you sing
But I had a voice
Like the sea

If I wrote about
Rich Buddha smiles
I would write
Offensive smiles
Are always in place
Always in place

If I wrote about you
I’d say you left me once
In a tired life
With a yellow shell
But no one
Wants to hear about

If I wrote about
I would say
Clear eyes can
See the stars–and
I’d ask
If you would describe them to me
Some day

If I wrote about you
I’d say I found you one day
If I wrote about us
I’d say
That once
We left each other
And there were no stars
That day

If I wrote about
I’d say
Someone’s got to love him
And I hope

If I wrote about you
I’d say that I found you again
One day
And I could tell you had
Seen the stars
And one day
Maybe you could hear
The sea