My poetry looks like a heavensickness.
The paradise from which I was exiled
is locked up tight. Nor luck, nor mental quickness,
nor tractable iambuses, nor wild,
limped on their right leg trochees, nor bad English
(oh, those “which” and “that” I can’t distinguish,
or, say, the tenses. What a hellish tongue!
Sometimes I wish I died when I was young),
nor Russian, my insane experimenter
and faithful servant (though, some dura'ki*
find it's not true) – that’s not enough to enter,
and all I really need is just a key.
Alas, I haven’t. But through the keyhole
I see footprints of angels on my soul.
* (rus.) fools
You think you landed on the wrong planet?
You don’t fit in with the (other) humans?
Hate to tell you, Buddy,
But it was your choice (and mine)
To come here
Maybe we had something to learn
Maybe we had something to teach
Or, most likely, both
I think most folks came here for the Earthly experience
Of solid matter
For sensory fun
Somewhere along the line
We got stuck
Like Smaug (of the Hobbit stories)
- He was attracted to bright shiny stuff
And stayed with it too long
Until it became an obsession
A killer addiction
Which he killed to keep
One of our unexpected troubles
Is bumping into Other Smaugs’ addictions
Nobody wants to share
And that’s not fair
Please note:
Nothing lasts forever
Not even gold
So if you realize your place in things:
As a Witness
As an Experimenter
You may finally feel free to donate all your toys to charity
And go Home