Lines From Somewhere In Medieval Russia

We murdered the village's man in chief;

then martyred that pesty Orthodox priest,

and burned down his church and melted the bell

for its brass for a statute of a great horse's ass---

that failed notary who led our revolution

(along with his horse-faced wife).

He promised that at the end of our strife, 

our multitude of problems would pass

out of the controus of our collective life,

and everything would become well.

He promised us the ultimate relief

from our poverty, with enough---at least---

to eat.  But to our confusion,

we could not create the villagers' paradise:

not on the foundation of his wishful lies.

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patriciajj's picture

Your poetry often reminds me

Your poetry often reminds me of what Boris Pasternak wrote in 1960:


"Poetry is a rich, full-bodied whistle, cracked ice crunching in pails, the night that numbs the leaf, the duel of two nightingales, the sweet pea that has run wild, Creation's tears in shoulder blades."


He would have applauded your unsparing indictment of a social experiment turned into a cruel, colossal failure. With the right touch of wit and searing reality, your poem is an excellent cautionary tale. Great one! 

S74rw4rd's picture

Thank you so very much for

Thank you so very much for that comment.  I just tried to imagine Lenin's version of Marxism applied to a rural village rather than the entire Soviet Union.  I think the results would be the same---regardless of the scale---because no good thing can be founded on wholesale murder..