What If ?
If you came back, we’d have tea or some wine,
or we’d go for walk and we’d chat.
You’d tell me your triumphs, show me your art,
catch me up on the humdrum details of your life.
If you came back, you might remember to ask
what I have been doing, how I’ve been all these years,
and how I spend my time now.
We’d have tea or some wine, or go for a walk,
and then it would end once again.
But if you came back and wanted to really come back,
I’d politely say no, and then it would end once again
Yet I would remember our times on the beach
in the night, when waves washed ashore
as we sat close on cold sand, sharing cognac,
black chocolate, and our cigarettes.
I’d remember our talks, and time
standing still as waves whispered about
catching scatters of rippling moonlight.
I’d think of our walk on wet sand,
our drive through the night, and the night,
our night, when your touch turned to song,
and our slowly ascending duet liquid fire
as we burned together to embers.
I’d remember all that and wish it still were,
but if you came back asking to really return,
I’d politely say no, and then it would end yet again.
Leningrad Days in St. Petersburg
for J _________
Propelled by pedestrian flow on the Nevsky
into alleys murmuring Raskolnikov’s crime,
hemmed in by dark columns of stone
in shadows of balconies sighing of Pushkin,
past cupolas rippling gold in the sun,
adrift on embankments lining the waters,
across bridges embracing the River Nevá,
through pathways of green with nowhere
to rest but a park bench, or a barstool
that hides in a mound in the wood,
to a smile at the top of the stairs,
a bowl of tomatoes, cucumbers, and dill,
black bread, pocket bottle of brandy to share
—our small room, a retreat from the fear.
Marina Romani, child of Russian émigrés, spent the first part of her childhood in wartime and civil-war China; those early years are the focus of Child Interwoven, a memoir in poem and prose she is currently assembling. Marina’s early work appeared in Poetry Shell magazine; her recent work has been published in Homestead Review, Porter Gulch Review, Monterey Poetry Review, and the Tor House Newsletter. Since 2008, Marina’s poems have twice been finalists in the Central Coast Writers’ annual writing contest.
If you came back, we’d have tea or some wine,
or we’d go for walk and we’d chat.
You’d tell me your triumphs, show me your art,
catch me up on the humdrum details of your life.
If you came back, you might remember to ask
what I have been doing, how I’ve been all these years,
and how I spend my time now.
We’d have tea or some wine, or go for a walk,
and then it would end once again.
But if you came back and wanted to really come back,
I’d politely say no, and then it would end once again
Yet I would remember our times on the beach
in the night, when waves washed ashore
as we sat close on cold sand, sharing cognac,
black chocolate, and our cigarettes.
I’d remember our talks, and time
standing still as waves whispered about
catching scatters of rippling moonlight.
I’d think of our walk on wet sand,
our drive through the night, and the night,
our night, when your touch turned to song,
and our slowly ascending duet liquid fire
as we burned together to embers.
I’d remember all that and wish it still were,
but if you came back asking to really return,
I’d politely say no, and then it would end yet again.
Leningrad Days in St. Petersburg
for J _________
Propelled by pedestrian flow on the Nevsky
into alleys murmuring Raskolnikov’s crime,
hemmed in by dark columns of stone
in shadows of balconies sighing of Pushkin,
past cupolas rippling gold in the sun,
adrift on embankments lining the waters,
across bridges embracing the River Nevá,
through pathways of green with nowhere
to rest but a park bench, or a barstool
that hides in a mound in the wood,
to a smile at the top of the stairs,
a bowl of tomatoes, cucumbers, and dill,
black bread, pocket bottle of brandy to share
—our small room, a retreat from the fear.
Marina Romani, child of Russian émigrés, spent the first part of her childhood in wartime and civil-war China; those early years are the focus of Child Interwoven, a memoir in poem and prose she is currently assembling. Marina’s early work appeared in Poetry Shell magazine; her recent work has been published in Homestead Review, Porter Gulch Review, Monterey Poetry Review, and the Tor House Newsletter. Since 2008, Marina’s poems have twice been finalists in the Central Coast Writers’ annual writing contest.