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.
This is a poem from my chapbook Blue Mundi.
American Matryoshka Dreamin'
It is Pushkin
when we call our grandmother Babushka.
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.
from Vaz of America,
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,
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,
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
to the Cold War.