Tonight's Poet Corner: Sonnet Solstice #100
The Soviet Man: A Story in Five Sonnets
by Belinda Roddie
The Soviet man's hands were tinted blue
as he took time in the snow dumping dead
in holes after the great Bolshevik coup
that painted all the banners crimson red
with the Tsar's death. But sympathy took stealth,
for revolutionaries donning black
could not pity those who once held their wealth
in manors. They were killed in each attack
upon rich courtyards once teeming with green,
now dried and sticky with borgeoisie blood.
The man, braving the weather cold and mean,
preferred to work away from ragged scud,
but he was given tasks more for a dog,
digging graves, part of the Soviet cog.
When done, he met with an old comrade. Gruff
and surly, the comrade still gave him warm
tea and dry bread to savor under tough
conditions, both their coats and trousers torn.
Frost drifted in, and the man's heart would thump
loudly from time to time within the dark
shadows of his ally's home, and the stump
of what was once his friend's hand made an arc
as it swung against his hip. Soon, the smell
of tobacco filled the room, dry as grass
and bitter, and it tasted just as well.
"Come, friend," said the comrade, "prepare a glass.
Drink heartily, for heat is what you lack.
You should not freeze like any common Jack."
"Corn," replied the Soviet man. "Da, corn
is what I crave so strangely, to fulfill
appetite and fiendish whims, much like porn,
that haunt me and cannot be cured by dill
or fennel on my plate. This current wave
of communist pride should cast a new light
upon my visage, but each wimpish knave
we shoot in nooses take their somber flight
and crawl about in my nightmares. No. Crab -
I'll break its shell and drink its guts for grog,
for it'd be better than for you to nab
me as I succumb to pathetic fog
of the mind. Sympathy is rather risky
and cannot always be drowned by good whiskey."
He set his glass, still wet, upon its coaster
and flinched, worrying he would hear the crash
of his friend's anger, avoiding the poster
of Stalin's face, which only made him gnash
his teeth. But his comrade offered a flagon
to return a lively pink to his nose.
"We must learn to adore the mustached dragon,"
he said, "and preserve the new Russia's rose.
It's better to live long than be the Yeti
and stay reclusive, left without a polo
coat to keep you warm like old Jean Paul Getty,
the wealthy bastard. No, we'll not work solo,
for to lose comrades makes life dim and damp.
Do not let dumb compassion light your lamp."
The Soviet man would feel his thoughts blister
and fester in the upcoming years. Down
to docks he went. He took a boat from Mister
Belinsky, wrote one faint, singular noun
as his goodbye, traversed a smaller creek
until it turned to ocean, and drank beer
as he sailed for Iran to find a Sheik.
Through conversion, he lost all shards of fear
and doubt, turning away from words that bored
listlessly into his head from red king-
turned tyrant who loved murder and ignored
the songs of poor men that were meant to ring
across the Russian tundra. So the ballad
of this man is best served with calm and salad.
The ending rhyming words for each meter were provided by Justin Tack, Daniel Bulone, and Sarah Becker. Thanks for making my one hundredth sonnet solstice a pleasure to write!
by Belinda Roddie
The Soviet man's hands were tinted blue
as he took time in the snow dumping dead
in holes after the great Bolshevik coup
that painted all the banners crimson red
with the Tsar's death. But sympathy took stealth,
for revolutionaries donning black
could not pity those who once held their wealth
in manors. They were killed in each attack
upon rich courtyards once teeming with green,
now dried and sticky with borgeoisie blood.
The man, braving the weather cold and mean,
preferred to work away from ragged scud,
but he was given tasks more for a dog,
digging graves, part of the Soviet cog.
When done, he met with an old comrade. Gruff
and surly, the comrade still gave him warm
tea and dry bread to savor under tough
conditions, both their coats and trousers torn.
Frost drifted in, and the man's heart would thump
loudly from time to time within the dark
shadows of his ally's home, and the stump
of what was once his friend's hand made an arc
as it swung against his hip. Soon, the smell
of tobacco filled the room, dry as grass
and bitter, and it tasted just as well.
"Come, friend," said the comrade, "prepare a glass.
Drink heartily, for heat is what you lack.
You should not freeze like any common Jack."
"Corn," replied the Soviet man. "Da, corn
is what I crave so strangely, to fulfill
appetite and fiendish whims, much like porn,
that haunt me and cannot be cured by dill
or fennel on my plate. This current wave
of communist pride should cast a new light
upon my visage, but each wimpish knave
we shoot in nooses take their somber flight
and crawl about in my nightmares. No. Crab -
I'll break its shell and drink its guts for grog,
for it'd be better than for you to nab
me as I succumb to pathetic fog
of the mind. Sympathy is rather risky
and cannot always be drowned by good whiskey."
He set his glass, still wet, upon its coaster
and flinched, worrying he would hear the crash
of his friend's anger, avoiding the poster
of Stalin's face, which only made him gnash
his teeth. But his comrade offered a flagon
to return a lively pink to his nose.
"We must learn to adore the mustached dragon,"
he said, "and preserve the new Russia's rose.
It's better to live long than be the Yeti
and stay reclusive, left without a polo
coat to keep you warm like old Jean Paul Getty,
the wealthy bastard. No, we'll not work solo,
for to lose comrades makes life dim and damp.
Do not let dumb compassion light your lamp."
The Soviet man would feel his thoughts blister
and fester in the upcoming years. Down
to docks he went. He took a boat from Mister
Belinsky, wrote one faint, singular noun
as his goodbye, traversed a smaller creek
until it turned to ocean, and drank beer
as he sailed for Iran to find a Sheik.
Through conversion, he lost all shards of fear
and doubt, turning away from words that bored
listlessly into his head from red king-
turned tyrant who loved murder and ignored
the songs of poor men that were meant to ring
across the Russian tundra. So the ballad
of this man is best served with calm and salad.
The ending rhyming words for each meter were provided by Justin Tack, Daniel Bulone, and Sarah Becker. Thanks for making my one hundredth sonnet solstice a pleasure to write!
Comments
Post a Comment