Barbara Hamby: Reading Can Kill You
Yes was Da, which is so much more Yes than Yes
but with a twinge of Nyet, and it was winter, a freezing Siberian
blizzard with days that began at ten and ended at two
John Balaban: Anna Akhmatova Spends the Night on Miami Beach
What killed her was the talk, the empty eyes,
which made her long for the one person in ten thousand
who could say her name, who could take her home,
giving her a place between Auden and Apollinaire
Kim Stafford: Top Hit
But comrades, if we kill him, someone will make
a martyr song and it will become the anthem sung
by thousands in the streets
Nina Kossman: Three Poems About a Head (3)
Yet you keep saying:
“I’ve lost my head for the love of my son,
I cannot find it anywhere!”
Well, then live without it.
Your son is lost to you and it is not your fault
Mary Jane White: “A Late Reply” by Anna Akhmatova
Distract me, my native fields,
From all that has happened to me,
The abyss that swallowed my loved ones
Nina Kossman: Three Poems about a Head (Two)
If you cut off your right hand and bury it in the garden,
it will grow into a little daughter with wings instead of arms.
Mary Jane White: “For You” by Marina Tsvetaeva
For you, I dissolve a handful of
Burnt hair in the glass.
So you will not eat, not sing,
Not drink, not sleep.
Nina Kossman: Three Poems About a Head (1)
And you, who came in here wearing rings,
but without your head,
leave your rings by the door,
and put your head on
Yana Djin: “Doctorow” by Dmitry Melnikoff
Doctorow comes out onto the dark shore,
holding a hand over his worn-out heart
Yana Djin: The Dead Don’t Die | The Poetry of Dmitry Melnikoff
And they lie at the edge of light alone
at the place where snow never hits
Kahlo embraces Diego’s barebone
and they emanate heat.
Marina Tsvetaeva: Thank God for the Rich
For their root, putrid and loose,
For their weeping-wound from the cradle,
For their perplexing habit of taking
More from my pocket into their pocket.
Anna Akhmatova: I am not one of those who left the land
I am not one of those who left the land
to the mercy of its enemies.
Their flattery leaves me cold.
My songs are not for them to praise.
