I guess my pervious poem didn't fly, which is quite OK. Here's another (set in Cambridge, Mass. -- not Cambridge, England!). Let me know if it's of interest.



Cheers,



Philip Nikolayev



 



CAMBRIDGE AT SNOW

 

 Come, February, evicting through our windows,

 hoarfrosted over with a Rousseau jungle scene

 (a white and white little-known version, too), 

 with chilly lions sprung to life, chasing

 the lackluster reminiscences of room comfort

 away into the epistemic night

 with a relentless Massachusetts harshness. Officially

 external navigation ends in the showcased snowstorm

 whose quicksilver-slinging tentacles and aplomb

 enmesh every square inch of a pitfall-filled sidewalk.

 Yet I must go, love, I must venture outdoors and catch

 the rigors of Charles River in its raw abandonment

 and pride, measured out to hallucinatory imprecision.

 I must go and explore the bridges

 besmeared with an ashen moonlight and remark

 a snow-swamped, streetlamp-looted pandemonium

 confronting the First Church and abnegating

 the Commons into a stewardship of stripes of destruction.

 But a new synthesis is already being adumbrated

 by the rollicking present. I must

 bring home the groceries! Tomorrow

 vagaries of the climate will be mentioned more than once

 yet little understood by the local intelligentsia,

 agreeable, swapping jokes and generally bent

 on freeing their motor vehicles 

 from under hefty drifts of soft predicament.