Serge's lousy poems

На родной Руси не бывать врагу:
Если враг придет, попадет в рагу.

-- Me, at some single-digit age

Being trilingual means you can write bad poetry in three languages! Well, I've done exactly that. (A very long time ago.)

Russian

(circa 1984, vaguely Mayakovsky-style)

Птичка поет, а мы работаем.
Зачем же зря убиваться-то?
Поколенье двухсотое за поколеньем сотым,
А наше дело -- шестнадцатое.

(circa 1984)

Сел за машинку, бумагу вставил;
Тупо гляжу на стену я.
Дела мне нет до законов и правил,
Надоела мне жизнь бренная.

Все б хорошо, только вот заусеница:
Слишком много людей развелось.
И, как пиво в кружке, пенится
Моя неудержимая злость.

Люди рождаются: закон природы.
Тут и поделать нечего.
"Клал я на нации, клал на народы!"
Твержу я с утра до вечера.

Лежу на диване -- сил моих нету.
Чешу у себя под рубахой.
Хочется крикнуть на всю планету:
"А пошли бы вы все на ...!"

French

(1984; written for B.B., a pal who wanted to flatter one of his chicks)

Je pense à toi
Des millions de fois,
Je te fais la cour
Partout et toujours.
Comme un, deux, trois,
Sont simples les lois
D'amour.

Sans toi, la Terre
Est un grand désert;
Sans toi, les jours
Sont aveugles et sourds.
Aujourd'hui comme hier,
Je me noie dans une mer
D'amour.

De ta splendeur
Tu rechauffes mon coeur;
Il est chaud comme un four,
Joyeux mais lourd.
Prête-moi pour une heure
L'ultime bonheur:
L'amour!

(That's all I remember.)

English

(1985)

Stranger in town, I've got no-one to hate.
Useless pretenses are too much to handle.
If you let go, I will burn like a candle;
Come to my rescue before it's too late!
Intimate friend and unscrupulous lover,
Death will walk by if I stay undercover.
Enter eternity, Heaven can wait.

(It was actually seven verses filled with random crap, with the same meter, rhyme scheme, and acrostic -- but this is all I remember, or, rather, care to.)

Hacky-sack in New York (circa 1995; to J.K., who gave me the topic and challenged me to write a poem about it)

I met a girl on Fourth St. West;
Her lips were soft and sweet.
She ripped my heart right from my chest,
And bounced it with her feet.

An Ode to Blaise (circa 1999; seven couplets pretending to be a sonnet)

From "the Fray," Slate's reader forum at the time. Some female going by "Blaise" asked people to write poems about her, declaring herself to be "the Muse of the Fray." I wasn't sure how she wanted her moniker pronounced (as in English, vs. as in French); her answer, "like in 'Blaise Pascal,'" wasn't of much help. So I decided to write a poem about that.

I penned, in seven fretful days,
A thousand lines that rhymed with "Blaise."
But still, a voice inside me says:
"You dolt! You should pronounce it 'Blaise'!"
My effort did my spirits raise,
Until I thought of facing Blaise.
Few graver sins poetics has
Than rhyming "Blaise" instead of "Blaise."
I Blaised a trail (to coin a phrase),
But now, I fear the wrath of Blaise.
She'll stare me down, like stout Cortez,
And give me hell for garbling "Blaise."
Goddamn this Fray-pervading Muse!
Because of Blaise, I've got the blues.

An ode to Vijay Singh and Stewart Cink (2004; on the occasion of their winning, in consecutive weeks, the PGA Championship and NEC Invitational, respectively)

Putts sink,
Hearts sing.
Yay, Cink!
Yay, Singh!

You've synched
Your swings.
On links,
You're kings.

Glow pink!
Spread wings!
Pour drinks!
Kiss Pings!

Mugs clink,
Bells ring.
Yay, Cink!
Yay, Singh!


Also, check out my various translations.

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