A Moving Estimate

Historical Tours of Cambridge for the Discerning

On Poetry

On Poetry

…For really, I am but full of thanks,
To all the people that collect the garbage,
Their couches, their dressers, and their chairs,
And I can go on, and on, and on…

Bookshelves, and night stands, tables, and the stools,
Book boxes to the fifth are but the best,
They let me carry them, and even pay me, (blessed fools),
The pianos, armoires, their beds, and all the rest,

The rest of the possessions that become extensions
Of our own being, as we cling,
To all the things, as if in a retention
We can preserve, all of the past, in things…

I love you all, with all of your possessions,
For it allows me to wander through,
This raging life, with a few sweaty sessions,
Of making love to pianos, through and true…

For I am making love to all I see,
To women, men, the forest and the sea,
But most of all, I love to conquer,
A moment, a female, a fear within,

When nothing makes me move, and life is darker,
Than other side of moon, a deadly sin
Possesses all the fibers of my soul,
And whispers … “there is nothing left at all…”

I try to stand, and when I do, I cry,
Victoriously over nyets and neins,
And Vicky says — “Just follow your bliss”
Oh how much I love them moments, just like this…

A lover with a beloved, a great hotel,
A crowd of the vagabonds, and scholars,
The Mother River, cobble-stones, a bell,
A kissing couple, a pocket full of dollars,

And on the hill, a statue to a scholar,
Who was rejected by the very school,
Above which he is soaring right now,
Because he was but an Estonian, not cool,

To spend the knowledge on a poor peasant,
Was but a waste, in certain circles then,
A popular opinion was held, that creatures of the forest,
had to stay, in their stalls, in their farms, in pens…

The other pen was dear to his heart,
He walked to Riga, and got sick and died,
But no one could stop that speedy dart,
From reaching knowledge, and … but what a sight…

The school that rejected him, is proud,
That he had walked away from it one day,
Kristjan Jaak Peterson, I bowed,
And loved them all, the man, the night, the play…

But more than that, I loved my fair city,
I loved my friend, and even more than that,
I loved someone, who was so deadly pretty,
That it had raised me, raised me from the dead…

I had been dead for quite a few of years,
And did not even know I was dead,
And then I saw her, and blinded by a flare
Of her amazing beauty, almost fled…

Back to the tomb of safety and sarcasm,
Back to the safety of enclosure,
Back to myself, a self-induced orgasm,
Back to disgust, and waiting for a closure…

But curiously (that had killed a cat),
I made a step, too old, too lame, too fat,
And … what a rapture… what a stranger in the night…
She turned her head, she saw me — and alive!

I just woke up, I was alive again,
She was a lady, and I was but a man,
She had the key, and opened me right up,
She turned her head… and gone was deadly trap…

I am, she is, we are, but as one…,
I love you Tartu, I am singing you,
A city where all can be but gone,
But dream is old and yes — forever new.