coming from the motherland of relentless cold,boundless danger,  history, and
risk,
has made me see the world in
shades of ivory,
trembling,
waiting
for me
to carve
an adventure
not yet
had.

i take after my culture more than I’d like to admit:
seeing men burst into pubs,
intentions hidden in layers of fur,
the way they do not ask for hot beverages but instead beg for cooled vodka,
making skid marks in their throat and igniting the candle wick twists of their innards
to remind them of the glory they once had when the world
pushed fiery swords down their lungs, and
they savoured
it.

i am like this in a way-
a heart of fire and
fingers frost,
lava stream veins clogged by
numbing love and
writing my name in biting snow

it is because of my culture that makes me
ache for the
conventional inside the
unconventional.
to find the normalcy in my
abnormality,

yet.

I would rather have the viscous
nectar of my brilliance
splatter upon
empty black boards
than be among those that
do not possess my
finger print.

it is my russian pride
clogging my intuition
and making me think I
must keep candy in my
mouth even after
it has gone
sour.

it is my russian pride provoking me to be apologetically not myself,
only letting people know the
headlines,
the rumours,
the lies,

that my country is full of
spies

the russian resistance
i have harbouring
in the crevices of my brain
cause me to feel like i am stuck
in between two extremes:
the light Gray space,
of possessing an
imperial heart and
an intelligentsia mind,
and i fear i don’t know the
limits and I’ll end up
killing the family of
innocents I have lodged in the unpolluted spaces
between my
skull and my
skin.

and now my train of thought
has left the station,

and i hope it’s not bad omen and so i
read and
write
in defense of
not knowing
the answer, of not knowing
history
and how to make it.

i just want to make it.

i just want to make it
in a world hateful to the fact that i
see it in
shades of ivory,
trembling,
easy to carve.

in a world annoyed by my syntax and that i need prozac to keep going when it gets real hard and im feeling under attack

but it doesn’t try to
stop me, because
it knows where
i come from,

and where i come from isn’t so nice, especially in the winter, and even in the relentless cold, i am unstoppable: бешеной собаке семь вёрст не крюк. (((seven miles isn’t a long route(hook)for a mad dog))))

i am undomesticatable: Сколько волка ни корми, он всё в лес смотрит. ((((however much you feed a wolf, he keeps looking at the woods anyway)))

i am recklessly russian.

~~~

This is my ode to my heritage. It is my ode to myself. It is an ode to my flaws and my perspective on the world.

I see the world as a playground, in a way. I see the world the same way I see a blank page. That is why my poem is so spindling and my ideas seem to be erratic and spun out of control. I desperately try to cram everything I think in poetry so I can move on to the undiscovered parts of myself: I only care about what I haven’t discovered. I find pleasure in the journey to the uncharted because I’ve always lived outside my comfort zone, causing me to become accustomed to it, and, ultimately, I get bored.

This is why I am so drawn to theatre, philosophy, history, literature, film, directing, and writing. There is so much I still do not know in those fields and so much I do know that I keep in my pocket. I know I will never run out of the unknown and while this may scare others, it comforts me.

I wrote this poem, keeping in mind everything I know myself to be, concentrating on my Russian origin. I was influenced by the rhythm of the Beat poets and took inspiration from the contrasts and comparisons of Imperial and Soviet Russia, as well as components in my own life such as mental illness, creativity, and the aspects of my life that I’m passionate about. I included Russian idioms and phrases that I relate to and personally love. Russian is such a clever language that a lot of life lessons can be learned from everyday house-hold lectures, and it is one of the factors of my nationality that I hold very close to my heart. Within my poem, I also touched briefly on my fear of being mediocre or not living up to my potential- a huge symptom of being a perfectionist- and so I struggle with my self-worth.

Writing free verse helps me locate and define my problems, so I can string them up in pretty lines and phrases. It helps me pick out what I know and set it decoratively in holiday boxes, so I can stride into the next season with wide eyes and a magnifying glass.

Welcome to my Russian mind, heart and soul.

Welcome to my Russian madness.

Feature image:

Scene from Russian Ark, directed by Alexander Sokurov. Cinematography by Tilman Buttner