The Black Russian

is a drink, but this poem isn't
about some coffee/vodka thing.
Nor is it poem about some peasant.
I know no serfs. Instead, I'll sing
Of how I love great Russian fiction—
Confusing patronymics, diction,
Political intrigues, and loves
(And usually, all the above).
I'm anguished without Dostoyevsky.
I miss Turgenev and Tolstoy,
And Nikolai Leskov's the boy
Whose Mtsensk lady's very sexy.
But black? That's Artsybashev, sure.
God, Vladimir Sanine's impure.



Survivor Poetry Contest
Trigger 50, Poet's Choice (Onegin Stanza)