Petrograd, 1917

 

His walls lit by October sun,
he pours away his coffee,
watches as the rust
chafes dirt from the basin.

Yet, he cannot rid this room of the stench
greased into his marble statue,
and a Louis VI chair
smuggled from that guillotine-sharp France
into this frozen Russia.

Beyond his window, scarred fists smash
the panes of ice-light,
and the snow is thinned
by scudding boots on Winter Steps.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I like the description in this poem. I'm a history fan. War left most of Europe in a mess in 1917. Your words make me want to do some research now. A excellent poem. You made me think.
Coyote

[Judy Ponceby]

Sel, most excellent. I had no knowledge of the events in Petrograd, and through your poem was inspired to do some reading. Strong images.

[Steve]

Your poetry makes your readers think and imagine your words. Then, re read and try to see other items of interest. :0)