Making Krupnik on a Sunday Morning

good morning, Lev, Fyodor, Vladimir,
good morning poets of Poland, of Russian, of Ukraine,
good morning stary Dnierper, Vistual, Don,
good morning cossacks and bison,
good morning Polish horse,
I write to celebrate our love
of mountains,
lakes,
of forests deep and wide

I write to you,
good poets of another time,
another mind,
to let you know
I am alive

I drink a little vodka now,
to celebrate our ties
to times before
and after
women

The way we grow our beards
is not so different
than the way
we grow our minds

I live among the Nimjetzki now,
a people of great culture,
a love of art,
and a hatred of the French

I find them interesting
and warm
between
the rains and winds

I like their food
their beer
their women

They have the birch trees
that we love so well
because of the souls
which take refuge
in them
after love has died

and they have the dark, long winter
that drives us mad
with vodka
and sad music

they are not so different
although we name them strangers

their sausage lacks our pepper and garlic
but their humor makes up for it

but I have not come here to praise them,
I have come here to write about us,
about the Slavic poets and the snow
the Slavic soul
the lost days
or a winter's lonely drunk
a poet's need
for solitude
and the sad songs
or a morning
without
a woman's scent