Every year, in honor of Poetry Month, a dear, dear old friend always sends me a poem in the mail. Crudely typed on a typewriter, typos and all, she opens me up to a new poet. Broadens my world. Shoots me back to the time when a master penned the words that are on the paper in front of me. Shows me a new way to describe people in a snarky, awful, hilarious way. But most importantly, I can feel the love that radiates from each letter. Love from a distant friend. A friend living a wonderful, happy life with “Husband” and her “millions of kids”.
I love you, Mariel. Always and forever.
A Cloud in Trousers
— Vladimir Mayakovsky, 1893-1930
musing in those brains of oatmeal
like a bloated functionary on an oily sofa —
I’ll mock it to death with a dripping shred of my heart
and nourish my biting contempt.
No gray hair in my soul,
No doddering tenderness.
I rock the world with the thunder of my voice,
strolling, looking good —
your love is a violin solo,
cruder ones use a drum.
But you can’t be like me,
inside out, all lips.
Come out and learn,
of the angelic leagues!
You too, ladies, thumbing your lips like a cook
If you prefer,
I’ll be pure raging meat,
or if you prefer,
as the sky changes tone,
I’ll be absolutely tender,
not a man, but a cloud in trousers!
FLOWERY NICE doesn’t exist!
Again I sing to praise
men used as hospital beds,
women worn out as cliches.
These are a few of her favorite verses. You can read the full poem here.
Until next time,