Mike Ravdonikas: Poems
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An account of my father /
I have no demons,
save for those
with horns of plush.
Nobody hit me,
and my father
walked out gently:
took me months,
to notice that
his gradual withdrawal
was complete.
We stayed in touch
over much email,
up until my girlfriends
took away all bandwidth
(at about 15). He got me
residence in Canada,
I moved, we saw
each other sometimes,
he became a
grandfather (another
duty to abandon
10 years in). I left
the country, lost
my residence to greener
pastures (walking out
on him?). The pastures
turned to sands,
if greener than before.
More years passed —
then he disappeared,
six months ago.
Today his Telegram
account got wiped.
A silent well of email's
all that's left for
my unanswered stones.
@verse by MR
The Ultimate Antidote /
Marry someone you talk to
for hours, and hours
— until it is dawn —
over weeks, over months
upon months, upon months,
upon months, upon months.
You'll stay married for years
— upon decades —
till death do us
spare
(lest our chatter
should stir up its waters
and fuck up its shores).
@verse by MR
Bonded /
Travel enough,
and destinations
will dissolve to little more
than movie sets,
another 50 seconds
of another chase
through a bazaar,
a village, a hotel,
a bamboo forest –
then a tackle
or a shootout,
and there comes
another clue:
a note, a briefcase,
a confession –
leading to another
point
on your paper globe
with pins,
which gets
one needle closer
to a hedgehog.
@verse by MR
Tropic of Concert /
The Caribbean night
attacks with sound
from every quarter –
from the patter of the rain,
to the cicadas’ whistling
altos (you would think
they’d take a cheque,
the weather being…)
to the backbeat
of the sea’s insisting
check-ins, wave upon
wave, a pause, another wave.
I’m waiting.
Might the next one break
this night’s reluctance to tuck in?
@verse by MR
Uncomfortable wonders /
If you knew you were one of the few
who could practice the art of
necromancy – raise undead
with the magic of blood,
bone and grave dust –
would you dare to do it?
Or would you pretend
to remain in the world of the “normal” –
and do what mundane stuff
you normally would?
@verse by MR
Swallows in flight /
Hurtling back-first
into the morning
of another day and
soon – another sky.
The airport express,
a bullet train to hit
the scaleless sides
of lightweight metal
dragons – waiting,
wings outstretched
upon a field of
anything but field
to swallow up
my bags, my me
and jet lost, thankfully,
like anything but swallow.
@verse by MR
Swallows in flight /
Hurtling back-first
into the morning
of another day and
soon – another sky.
The airport express,
a bullet train to hit
the scaleless sides
of lightweight metal
dragons – waiting,
wings outstretched
upon a field of
anything but field
to swallow up
my bags, my me
and jet lost, thankfully,
like anything but swallow.
@verse by MR
Paper Plane /
I found an unsent letter
to my grandpa
who is dead;
stroking the surface,
like a cheek,
or wrinkled knuckles,
made the sheet
into a paper plane —
the balcony! —
and I won't watch it land,
because the true one
is still flying.
🎂
Milan, July /
(you may want to turn your phone to horizontal mode for this one)
It's just me and the silly soft, feathery clouds,
like a pillow undone on the backdrop of night:
not a star to be seen and my feet feel the wet
of the balcony tiles. Rain has brought some respite
to this city that's stuck on the plain — like a shot
in a sling — between mountains and mountains, and on-
ly the East is a vent to the sea (and to Ve-
nice), the rest is too steep for the heat to move on.
On then!
Rise to the wind like a silvery sail,
pierce your back with this moonlight,
fall home with the dust,
drive your comet to fiery endings,
shrug dragonly scales — eat the Earth
to the fullest, to crispiest crust.
(And a happy birthday to me 🥮)
I’m reading haikus
Marking a page here and there –
Summer afternoon
#throwawayhaiku
Casualties /
A body, dead, with open eyes;
a body, dead, with open eyes;
a body, dead, with open eyes;
a body, dead, without a head...
This poem doesn't have the lines
to fit a hundred thousand. Yet,
the only way past stats and lies
is counting each of those lost lives:
a list of graves, page upon page,
a line to each.
With open eyes.
@verse by MR
General store /
Recall the silence of a shop
before the malls: maybe
the hum of freezers,
creaking floorboards,
or the flapping sound of
feet upon linoleum,
a muted conversation
from the backroom,
maybe radio, the jazz
standards of payment:
stroke of till keys,
yawn of money as it opens
and the clang of closure
when it shuts. A swing of door,
a chime — and you are out,
consumed by sun,
supported by the pavement.
@verse by MR
