My boys- 5 and 6

Although military age is far away

Will they survive the fight today?

Whether at our door step OR far overseas

Can I protect them from what they will eventually see?

First a fight,

Then a battle,

And then full blown war

Into a draft

Can I keep my boys from leaving?

And then that time will come

From boys to men

When I hear them say,

“Mom I love you, but this is what I have to do.”

Introduction and translation from the original Russian by Alex Simand.

In 1957, Bardan Bagdassarian moved to Vladivostok, a city located in the province of Primorsky Krai, in the southeast corner of what was then the USSR. It is unclear what he sought or why he decided to move to this particular region, but he soon found himself performing the dangerous task of tracking a man-killing tiger through the Siberian wilderness. As the lore goes, Bardan and a group of international trackers (mostly British and French) teamed up to track and trap a massive Amur tiger that had been terrorizing local villagers: mauling hunters and fur trappers, killing cattle without actually eating the spoils, even snatching small children from their homes if their windows were open. These villagers warned Bardan and his team, imploring them to stay away from the tiger. They believed him to be deific, a manifestation of God’s justice, and personification of His Fury. As history shows, Bardan did not desist.

The team tracked the tiger in the summer of 1957, believing him to be inactive during this period. He was not—marks of his terror lay in his wake: trees with entire sections of bark scraped off; dead calves piled in rivers, sullying the local water supply; traps dismantled and dragged miles from their original locations. Bardan tracked him well into the winter and, as 1957 turned to 1958, there seemed no hope of catching the tiger. The Brits and the French soon gave up and travelled home, but Bardan persisted with a maniac’s obsession. In his journal entry from January seventeenth, 1958, he writes, “I fear this tiger will be my end, but I could not imagine a better one.” On February twenty-third at seven in the morning, a few miles outside the village of Paseka, Bardan strapped on a pair of snowshoes and, with his dog Sashka, walked into a dense copse of pines. At nine o’clock that same evening, he returned, alone. His face was bruised, his eyes darted wildly, and he was breathless. He carried Sashka’s harness in his hand but the dog was not to be found. The tiger ceased his rule of terror. Though sightings of the tiger persisted, he never again harmed a human.

There has been much speculation regarding what Bardan actually did when he trudged into that ill-omened cluster of trees. Did he kill the tiger? Did he make a pact with him? Did he maim him, rendering him lame? Perhaps the closest we can come to understanding what happened is to examine the poetry he wrote at the time.

Below is a poem extracted from Bardan’s personal journal during the period in which he tracked the tiger. The reader might notice that there is a sensual, almost erotic feel to the writing, like a blazon.

(untitled)

Tiger, I have warmed a seat for you at my table,
laid out my finest hand towels, lit the samovar,
lit the fire, placed down two glasses, two forks, two pipes.
Will you sit with me? Will you calm your disquiet,
put aside the rage you carve like love notes into tree bark?
I’ve read your work. I pulled out a knife and carved
a mark where you claws tore through the pines.
I want slip my brittle fingers between your giant pads,
compare palms and campfire stories, feel the death
that looms beneath your whiskers like the grating
of tectonic plates, the cracking of clavicles.
Please, sit: I’ve made a cake. I’ve put a little cardamom
in the tea. Something I picked up in India.

Tiger, if I asked you to kill me, would you?
If I stood before you naked, shivering, shriveled,
the snow building ice castles in my beard,
would you take my skull in your mouth?
They say dog bites crush; cats pierce.
You’ve done both to me from the shadows,
so you might as well come out now. Show me
the face of my tormentor. Do me this kindness.
I fall before you, withered, broken, full
of prayer: O please drag me into your realm.
Perhaps you’ll have a place set for me.
Perhaps we’ll play chess, talk strategy
over a glass of fine brandy, renegotiate
the price of our souls.

There aren’t enough valleys and whorls
on the pad of my index finger
to capture each curve of your cheek,
the lashes that frame jade irises,
the line of your jaw.

There aren’t enough patterns that form
behind my eyelids tonight
to fully erase the scent of your hair,
the lilting echo of the tune you sang in my ear,
the view of our embrace in the mirror.

There aren’t enough moments to pause
between how we are now and how we will be later
to siphon through each new layer of us,
so for now we’ll celebrate what has been shared,
and tomorrow we’ll call it all poetry.

I went to bed 
with glitter 
on half my body 
shiny in red curls

in the morning 
it’s hardly there 
on arm hairs 
bare legs 

and I imagine 
it will never 
completely leave 
my bedsheets

some will remain 
through washing 
and drying cycles 

and I wonder 
(if I ever take 
another lover) 
if that surviving glitter 
will cling to the one 
who made me sing

so I won’t have to

OUR TIME

Age of this universe
Is neither five thousand nor
Thirteen point six billion years;
But just this instant
Of light on dewdrop,
Sun rising over horizon

Trillions of years are rolled
Into this moment now present

How sweet then
That you loved me
For so many dewdrops
…………………………………………………….

Once, just once
did I have a blind date with you.
We flirted some,
and then you left –
I must have disappointed you,
perhaps you found me
unprepared…

The thought of you hits me
at night
when I wake up all in sweat,
and fantasize about your touch,
wondering what it’s like
to be in your notorious embrace.

Sometimes,
you walk past me
only to choose someone else –
prettier and younger –
leaving me jealous…

Why?
What is it about them that attracts you?
What is it about me you don’t like?

Sooner or later you’ll notice me, I know,
but when?
I’m so curious
and so excited…

Will you take me slowly and tenderly,

Death?
                                                                               Zlatna Kostova

At dinner the other night
my friend tells me
her boyfriends crazy ex
called to warn her.

Told her
once he hit me
in the face
with a glass bottle.
Gave her a black eye.
One that everyone joked about.

My friend assures me
and herself.
Must have been an accident
I know what kind of guy he is.
I tell her me too.

I know the type;
Turn women’s faces into punching bags.
Women’s teeth into bottle openers.
And still convince you it was an accident.

Know the type;
to leave
The type to leave cigarette burns
On upholstery.
Cigarette burns on children’s skin.

They must have been flailing,
The children..
Not cigarettes..
Must have been an accident.
The burnings,
Not children.
Must have been love
or something close enough.

I know the type;
To steal libraries and dictionaries and vocabulary.
Leave you tongue-tied.
The only words they Forget to take,
“I’m sorry”

The purple pills make
sadness go away but they 
take the poems too. 

The crock pot is staring straight ahead
with a fat, shell-shocked face:

logo eyes, nose of knob set on low,
brain of lean beef,
cooking slow.

Electric poet of
metal and clay skull.

Me, I’m made of
what you’re thinking is meat,

my brain the fatty part, made
perhaps more interesting
by the fact

that I’m interpreting
cooking like this,

and that I once considered for hours
which part of myself I would eat first
if I were starving to death.

I settled on my uncommon calves.

Slow cooked,

they could supply
loads of protein.

The pine board in my kitchen
smells warm: new growth.
Rain at dawn—one of the dogs
crapped on the carpet. The floor
hops up and hits me: I’ve slipped
on disinfectant in a puddle
where I left it overnight to dry.

One flea at a time, we’ll get
through summer. I’ve missed
the solstice. My year’s half alive,
half spent. Light new growth
against white sky, I see midsummer
springing, rivers and their tributaries
tap into the water pulled from sky.