First Poem of May

In Vely Novgorod, A Thousand Years Ago

A boy of seven writes and draws pictures of himself,

his dreams and his parents, writes on a piece of bark

in the middle of a medieval Russian camp:

his parents have hands like rakes,

he sees himself as hero, beast and child;

the horses’ hoofs are backwards,

the creatures are bloated sausages with legs,

he is only learning to spell in simple runes.

My friend, he boasts, I am a beast.

I can frighten you with my powerful sword and lance.

I stand taller than my father and my teacher

but they take care of me, my mother croons in the night.

Look, he goes on, I am sending to you an adventure,

with magic letters scratched on birch from the forest.

Can you see my thoughts and hear my songs

when you hold the writing in your hands?

Dear friend, he says in runes, you have not answered me

and now the winter has come and we are going elsewhere

in the world across the mountains where there are

so many people they hide in wooden caves

and make fires in little boxes made of stone.

I am afraid they will not like me because I am so little.

My father says I must be strong, must learn to sing

and fight with a sword, and forget my mother. A man,

he says, cannot put his feet on backwards or dream.

If you sent me a piece of bark with your magic words

I would know you remember me.  From your friend.

In Vely Novgorad, a thousand years ago

children were children and games were games;

they dreamt their dreams, day and night;

they feared the world, anticipated death,

as we do now, we who cower under sheets,

hide in the closet, and scribble our hopes.

Our messages lie in ruins, our beasts unmasked,

the barking of the hounds of hell, the yelps

of all those friends we had to leave behind

in underground shelters that were unsound.  We ask our

parents how to grow up quickly, our teachers

where to hide our dreams.  Our mothers croon

the ancient songs to soothe us into silence

but we have become too wise, and scribble

messages on pieces of wasted life. We sketch

and scratch impossible images, finger rakes,

sausage animals, oversized lumps of bravery.

Tomorrow, when the winter comes without snow

and the reindeer run away into the melted oceans,

and the mounted enemy swings down on us,

we shall no longer be afraid: for if we know

there is no hope and lances always splinter,

we can relax into our final sleep.