Month: March 2022

Your Mother Is Not So Typical (Draft 0)

Your Mother Is Not So Typical (Draft 0)

Mother-in-War (Draft 0)

A rocket wounded you.

In tragedy this is a fat year.
The war has bloated our sorrow,
and your Mother is so gorgeous
in her smile for you I can see
and I agree that we love you.

She had held you inside her,
praying you into life
screaming for you
like a cheerleader
and you are
of cheer always
and we love you.

She has conspiratorially
told me how mischievous
you were, and I can only say
you must have been so cute
and I tell her that
if I were you I’d forgive her
for every exuberance, because
there is a divine dance to love
that plays many games in jest
until we find a solemn hug
and I would ask you to live
even if the war is not over, and
as we listen for your heartbeat again
scream loud for us,
be born because
your Mother says so
and beyond what they say
is the typical
I love you both so much

The last battle is soon
and I must go my loves, so
come let us scream for glory together
and when I return, we will
buy you the toy you never had
so all of us can play like children
with a laugh
with a mischievous love
in peace.

Vladimir’s “Art of War” [Revisions] (Draft 2)

Vladimir’s “Art of War” [Revisions] (Draft 2)

[From copies of drafts smuggled out in vodka bottles thrown into the Black Sea and picked up by Turkish ships, here is a new draft excerpt from Vlad’s new book to be published after his hoped for final Ukraine annihilation. This new scrap was forensically restored showing several changes from the first draft.]

    Vlad Solntzevich Putnik’s Art of War (Draft 2)
     [satire by Douglas Gilbert]
     Chapter 76: The Siege

If a warrior’s leaders can well tolerate the
indignant kerfuffles of useful diplomats, then
a supersonic missile is mightier than a missive
and in the leisurely pace of a useful psychopath,
a siege can be won by targeting children, note

eighteen months old is a good age
for tiny orators to learn to pronounce “bomb,”
and for a pogrom program, to say
“Mommy is dead.”

The slaughter of toddlers is easy:
it only requires strategic distance
and a rebranding of key concepts
to be read as “collateral damage.”

Bombing both schools
and Maternity Hospitals
is a classic maneuver
in this genre, but

remember that propaganda
is mightier than a kernel of truth,
and artillery shelling uncouth
is more effective than shelling
those western peas in a pod

remember propaganda feuds
should be flexible and include
ridicule from false histories, while
projecting blame on the enemy
for a first strike provocation

Always pretend to negotiate
until all buildings are destroyed.

As Tzusvet Luny said,
if there is resistance,
siege from a distance.

If it takes time,
be patient knowing that
nuclear and chemical weapons
are options on the table of crime

Imperial crime is grand.

The journey of a thousand missiles
begins with the first Ukrainian stepy
and in the Black Sea, a long walk
off a short pier should be avoided
until the Emperor’s fleet arrives

Vladimir’s New Book Rivals Sun Tzu’s “The Art of War”

Vladimir’s New Book Rivals Sun Tzu’s “The Art of War”

[From copies of drafts smuggled out in vodka bottles thrown into the Black Sea and picked up by Turkish ships, here are pre-publishing excerpts from Vlad’s new book to be published after the final Ukraine annihilation. Note these are early water logged drafts that had to be dried out and preserved under glass. There may be later “improved” versions.]

    Vlad Solntzevich Putnik’s Art of War
     Chapter 76: The Siege

If a warrior’s leaders can tolerate
indignant kerfuffles
among puny diplomats,
then a siege can be won
by targeting children

Eighteen months is a good age
for learning to say the word “bomb.”
and a few will say, “Mommy is dead.”

The slaughter of toddlers is easy:
it only requires strategic distance
and a rebranding of concepts
to read “collateral damage.”

Bombing both schools
and Maternity Hospitals
is a classic maneuver, but

remember that propaganda
should be flexible and include
excuses from false history, while
attributing attacks to the enemy

Always pretend to negotiate
until all buildings are destroyed.

As Tzusvet Luny said,
if there is resistance,
siege from a distance.

If it takes time,
be patient knowing that
nuclear and chemical weapons
are options on the table

The journey of a thousand missiles
begins with the first Ukrainian stepy
and in the Black Sea, a long walk
off a short pier should be avoided
until the Emperor’s fleet arrives

Naming Propaganda for Ukraine and the Devil

Naming Propaganda for Ukraine and the Devil

[Draft 5]
Pregnant Silence
    by “Inna”
    (Douglas Gilbert)

Grygoriy and I are not deranged
permanent members of humanity
because names can be changed.

But I name my tears compassion,
yes, my soul streaming out like a jet
and I am a splash and a giggle smile

Seems like a dream, but
I believe, I met Grygoriy
a lifeguard in my stream
in magnificent Kyiv
when I eyed him on
Khreshchatyk boulevard, he
standing beneath the empty marble plinth
more virtuous than any Lenin,
his proud handsome self smiling at me
that glorious day when the Maidan revolution
was still full of excitement, of fun
of blue and yellow-golden flowers on sale,
and I said coyly into the air: hey I am Inna.

Yes, of this you know, every revolution requires
a dream and a kiss of consummation

But still, romance takes time
and names change beyond the Summer,
but he had bought me a blue and yellow scarf
as buskers sang to my heart with glee and glory
and Grygoriy was so cute

But all of us in our glories of blue and yellow
have come to know that we
are not permanent members of humanity

We are not permanent members
of the UN security council

Grygoriy is so cute, but he,
is not a permanent member
of any council
and I am pregnant

Like editors of a love doctrine,
Grygoriy and I have been
thinking of names with furor
and we’re not so young anymore.

Yet, finding my splash and panache
in blues with yellow flower tickle belly,
my soul is streaming out like an inner jet

Kicking.

Outside,
the Russians have
made name changes:
The Maternity Hospital
is now “The Nazi Military Center.”
Food and water are
“enemy Nazi supplies.”

And it’s been a long time since the Summer when
Grygoriy and I were served sweet green tea, and
a simple slice of rye bread with pork lard

But there are pigs who serve on the security council
and the swine have proclaimed that Ukraine doesn’t exist.

We are not permanent members of humanity
because the svyni have nuclear weapons and
the West is afraid to call out names in sanity

I am a fast flowing stream of tears.

The svyni have told the Russian people that
there are locusts in the province of Ukraine
and it threatens Russian wheat gains, so
for the safety of the crops stolen, these
insane name regimens mean
chemical weapons will reign, ’cause
there is no dratted locust that
is a member of humanity.

I, Inna, am not a member
of the security council or NATO
and I have no water in the basement
of the renamed Maternity Hospital.

I have not chosen a name,
and Grygoriy misses my kiss.

“Pregnant Silence,” a poem, has been started in draft outline form

“Pregnant Silence,” a poem, has been started in draft outline form

Pregnant Silence [Draft 0]

Grygoriy and I are not permanent members of humanity
because names can be changed.

I met Grygoriy in Kyiv on Khreshchatyk boulevard
when I spotted him
standing beneath the empty marble plinth
and he was more virtuous than any Lenin,
his proud handsome self smiling at me
that glorious day when the Maidan revolution
was still fresh with excitement,
blue and yellow-golden flowers on sale,
and I said coyly hey I am Inna.
Yes you know, every revolution requires
a dream and a kiss of consummation

But still, romance takes time
and names change beyond the Summer,
but he had bought me a blue and yellow scarf
as buskers sang to my heart with glee and glory
and Grygoriy was so cute

But all of us in our glories of blue and yellow
have come to know that we
are not permanent members of humanity

We are not permanent members
of the UN security council

Grygoriy is so cute, but he,
is not a permanent member
of any council
and I am pregnant

Grygoriy and I have been
thinking of names
and we’re not so young anymore.

The Russians have
made name changes:
The Maternity Hospital
is now “The Nazi Military Center.”
Food and water are
“enemy Nazi supplies.”

And it’s been a long time since the Summer when
Grygoriy and I were served sweet green tea, and
a simple slice of rye bread with pork lard

But there are pigs who serve on the security council
and the swine have said that Ukraine doesn’t exist.

We are not permanent members of humanity
because the svyni have nuclear weapons and
the West is afraid to call out names.

I am a fast flowing stream of tears.

The svyni have told the Russian people that
there are locusts in a former province of Ukraine
and it threatens Russian wheat. The name changes mean
that for the safety of the crops
chemical weapons must be used, because
there is no locust that is a member of humanity.

I, Inna, am not a member
of the security council or NATO
and I have no water in the basement
of the Maternity Hospital.

I have not chosen a name,
and Grygoriy misses my kiss.

The Trauma of Children in Ukraine and the Monster Putin (Guest Post)

The Trauma of Children in Ukraine and the Monster Putin (Guest Post)

When Kids Make Drawings
[GUEST POST by Danylko Maksymenko]

My little cherub in a shrub.
when she draws a meek flower
it is blue, but she doesn’t speak

Little baby,
when she plays
she is a monster, and
she growls, burdened and
she doesn’t say words anymore

We think she is angry and
with her chubby hands
she is scribbling the national anthem
in her version:
‘We are not dead yet,’ ’cause
the blue and yellow unicorns drawn
will vanquish the Monster Monstriv Dragon too
and dew drops will put out the dragon’s fire.
Ukrayintsi are family in dire need,
but the little stick figures
are lying down and there’s
only one tear drop on the red scribble

She is hissing like a snake she draws
or maybe it’s a missile, but
she doesn’t speak anymore
and her sister is dead at the bottom of the page

A Toast To Silence

A Toast To Silence

It Is Good To Be Buried

A day of reprieve from the battle
because I have the bottle I saved for celebration
but though it’s very expensive, I drink to be high
and I imagine that my wife and child are not dead.

There is a window of opportunity to form a plan
before I fall asleep in my bloody clothes, and
try to remember where I am and why I am alone.

Under the rumble it is quiet
and I don’t think more will happen soon
so I hope no one will rescue me, and
I can remain underground alone with my sorrow

Can I die now
and remember my dear love and child
who in my dream are not dead.

I think it is a good thing
if I bleed to death, because
I don’t want to wake up

His Majesty Vladimir Stalinovich Putin Can Not Sing (Draft 2)

His Majesty Vladimir Stalinovich Putin Can Not Sing (Draft 2)

When a Song Explodes (draft 2)
    [I haven’t chosen a final title]

Some in the bomb shelter say
Larysa is delusional because
she says her baby Lyudmyla
wants to hear her father
sing her to sleep
one last time, and
play his cello for her
because she will be a musician
and in happy times in the womb
heard a mellow cello of love

We are all warriors she says
and Panas needs me
to love his every song, to feel
my hands on his heart strings
to pluck his every note until
we sing a melody of peace

Some in the bomb shelter say
Larysa is delusional, and
she should stay to protect her baby.

When a cello plays itself,
it is the music of agony.

The street musician Panas
stood on a corner
holding a gun

A tank came within inches of his face.
A driver opened the hatch but
looking straight at him
didn’t see anything.

A rocket hit the corner, but
Panas propped up his cello
and it played “My Love Is Near.”

Larysa, his wife, holding
Lyudmyla, his child,
ran out from
the bomb shelter
to hear.

Pavel, a Russian saboteur
saw the two, aimed
and shot them dead.

Then when Panas touched the bow
all the strings flew off and wrapped
around Pavel’s neck unexpectedly

But,
the cello still plays itself
in the middle of a fountain of tears
and a headless body wanders aimlessly
because it is lost.

Lost souls

But Lyudmyla
still cries like a
baby ghost of war
who wants to hear
her father’s cello.

Children of the world
sing her a lullaby

The dead call out to you
to sing a new tune, and
hear not the tyrant’s
naked propaganda

Mock this Emperor
a putative Greek god in Russian clothing
who thinks that Russia is his trophy wife,
and the Sirens are his mistresses

Steal the Emperor’s clothes
and let this sputtering old
Vlad Stalinovich Putnik
crash and burn
like a feeble Sputnik
into the fires of hell.