Happy Birthday Anna Akhmatova

Chimera Poetry

She glides into the room with eyes of smoke
the lady of Leningrad wrapped in scarlet
do your words burn and smolder
like your notebooks?
harden your heart for lover, husband, friend
and fickle country will turn their backs
and leave you to the wolves
hiding their eyes while you turn,
run in hopeless circles
whore? nun? the papers made no distinction
and yet you reigned over every room you entered
you wrote and spoke the festering truth
which fell like black agates from your pen 
and celebrated lips
despite the mad
and jealous scraping
chiseling your name from the stone
like deposed pharaohs
you could not be wiped from the memories
of the people
gagged and starved and shunted from coldness to coldness
and yet
you penned your own requiem
you, yourself
even with faltering stuttering heart and bones
could not be silenced
noble lady, poet without a…

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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