Best Natasha Poems
The story became too heavy
I did went on to empty it
But I was timid
That the outcome could be negative
Which could undermine my dignity
A few days down the line
I did shake heaven and earth
And thought it was fine
But I invoked your wrath!
And heard you wanted to slap me!
Principled Ladies, right?
But it was my desire
To work day and night
To lift those principles higher!
Self denying ordinances
Mom loved daughter and needed no silliness
Lest the wedding feast be omitted?
Okay! I get it !
And then, where is this coming from?
Wait… I hear a whisper about classes
Do I belong to the third estate
And you? First estate?
Oh Lord! But Muhammad married Khadija.
So if I earned a billion dollars a week
And you earned half a billion
Was it gonna be okay?
But such that its vice versa
I look stupid, right?
Is it about the Ferraris, Cadillacs and Jaguars?
Of love & intimacy dashed away
Cancel the obsession, the infatuation, the crush, the love.
Cancel the combination of these
And usher generality?
Too blind to see?
Too bleak to understand?
Cast your glance at my heart
Hope you see the real me
But you won’t understand anything!
Lord….
So I gotta shut me trap?Huh?
Lest you snap(mbama)?
Then I feel stupid.
I’m hurt, hurt, hurt!
Hurt, hurt!
Hurt!
(For Miss Natasha-who is principled)
Natasha will be going to Rio, most definitely,
Without a doubt, she won 2 golds in Belgium,
At the 2011 European Championships well tall,
In the freestyle grade II event and individual;
Then she set a Paralympic record no question,
When she rode in the 2012’s on horse Cabral,
To score 76.857%, and after that very elegantly,
Took another gold in the freestyle with vocality.
She was born in Hammersmith, busy London,
But when she was aged fourteen months only,
Got transverse myelitis, an inflammation spinal.
Baker was appointed MBE in 2013 for her gaul,
In equestrianism and for noting GOSH hospital.
Hey there small fry,
how do you do?
Today you are small,
but tomorrow belongs to you.
You take such short steps,
but you can rest assured,
though today relies on mom and dad,
tomorrow will be yours.
I know this world is very big,
but do not be afraid.
I promise you will have it all,
tomorrow is your day.
Moscow 1990s. The Soviet Union has collapsed, bare shelves in the shops, no wages - nothing. People line the streets trying to sell what few possessions they have. Natasha is one such citizen. Like many other respectable women, she turned to prostitution.
Natasha
She descends from en-suite and the balcony-shops,
sways down the stairway, leather-mini concealing,
sometimes revealing, lace stocking-tops;
carries her bruises where nobody sees.
In the hub of the foyer the faces are probing,
sharp as the glare of the night-patrol's lamps,
as she sprinkles a vapour of perfume around them.
Where has she been? What has she seen?
Edge ever nearer, want her but fear her.
From the shelters and hides of their devalued lives
the other girls know what she carries inside,
science degree, career that tumbled when the
foundations supporting the Motherland crumbled.
The Westerner sits and weighs up the scene,
wealthy vibrations of pleasure and ease.
''Are you looking for fun?'' almost a prayer,
crouching before him, hands on his knees;
smouldering eyes hide the pleading inside;
bleak deserts of poverty stretching before her,
murk of the tenement, queuing and crying,
pauper-line selling, pauper-line buying.
''How much?'' he demands. Heart skips a beat, will he
be the one to be swept off his feet? Will he
whisk her away? New York maybe? Somewhere D.C.?
''Two-hundred,'' she blurts, ''American-bills...''
She suddenly chills. Pitiless tips of cruel
icebergs drift-in from the Muscovite mist
to rip-off the fees she must squeeze from
the floating unfaithful who crawl through her knees.
''Too dear,'' he waves her away.
‘It's me!’ She's crying inside. ‘It's me – every-
man's bride.’ “What am I worth?" she wonders aloud.
"Seventy-five," he replies, "one of the crowd."
She rises before him, standing head bowed,
defeated, not cowed. The girls turn away,
back to their chat. At the bar, double
Scotch-on-the-rocks is served to a rat.
Natasha, Do not trick me into love
with keen dark eyes and warm sex.
Do not purr all hot and lusty
into my ear, let love rest.
I can not breathe with blades of love
tearing into my chest. My lungs fail
to expand, my stomach collapses
under the pressure of your thin skin.
Up against my hard bones, I feel your
fine breasts, your hips, your legs,
and they are knives thrusting crazy,
deeper than you can imagine.
Your milky flesh, straight black hair,
your slender frame, honed curves,
your insistent rousing whisperings
are no different than the guillotine.
I am unclean. My heart bleeds endlessly.
My mind is tormented by dreams.
I have everything and nothing
and the last thing I need is a woman
willing to pierce my soul, kiss me tenderly,
take me to the movies, take me dancing.
Damn straight, the last thing I need is
the loving arms of a woman holding me.
Dean Walker
Boris, too short
Natasha, too thin
Which fairly describes
the pickle they’re in
Rocky’s got them surrounded
with friends tall and/or fat
including Bullwinkle Moose
~ who on both of them sat
Natasha, the Fearless
Media and masks made her fear,
Thus she instead chose to smile broadly each day.
Walks as God created her~one to pray.
Music and butterflies, and nary a tear!
August 3, 2020
11am PST