Orange que te quiero verde, that's Poeticah

The Visual Poetry of Poeticah explores the boundaries between poetry, languages, and traditional with computer visual art.

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American Matryoshka Dreamin' It is Pushkin when we call our grandmother Babushka. So Pushkin when we serenade her with our treasured Balalaika. What music is this language we hear? Lacking voiced or unvoiced bidentals, as in, "thank thee for the thaw", with its "r" rumbling like the "rrr-r" of that Ural motorcycle from our local bike shop. How pretty is this language we write? Peculiar Roman and Greek shapes, often shown as ornate fonts, next to colorful onion-shaped domes, on our dresses, shirts, signs, and blouses. The Lada, from Vaz of America, solid, affordable, what many of our workers drive. If work stings like the Siberian Steppe in winter, we can drive our Lada back to our Dacha to cozy up to a hearty Borsch. Models of little Sputniks warm our bodies with friendship and adventure. World peace frontiers shine miniature figures of Mir on our faces. The International Space Station, orbiting earth, mingles our warmth in cherished spaces. Shots of Stolichnaya bites of the special, dark bread, the elegance of Fabergé eggs, the wonder in the fairytale images on lacquer boxes, soften the blades of our mass produced lives. The faces of Matryoshki (cute round-faced girls, Eastern Orthodox icons, politicians lampooned) unlock iron gates to our holy family hearth. This Matryoshka dreamin' rekindles the spirit of old Glasnost, melting the Gulag of our icy American pride. All this is why the American people can warmly wave Do Svidanya to the Cold War. <<Writings>>