Nursery Rhyme

Cecilia and Kostya
Went up the coulee
To see the autumn leaves
Kostya saw Rudy's and wanted a root beer float
But Cecilia wanted to go on a riverboat

Translator's Note: Dima did not write this poem. It was actually written by Autumn Slagoski and her father just a day after she was born. Dima wanted to feature this poem to celebrate her birth. The inspiration is obviously "Jack and Jill," and it uses the first three names of the newborn--Autumn Cecilia Coulee. Rudy's is a drive-in restaurant in La Crosse. It is famous for its root beer floats.

The King of Caves

Call the chaser of laser lights,
The slender one, and let him scratch
On the corrugated cardboard box in the corner.
Let the expected slouch in maternity dress
As she has become used to wearing,
And bid the husband her bulging stomach.
Let the grocery bag fall to the floor.
The only king is the king of caves.

Take from the nursery in waiting.
Lacking the most important guest of all, that sheet
Of which is made from softest fleece and place it
Over the swollen legs that beg for scratching.
If more baby blankets balloon, they show
How easy they become tunnels worth exploration.
Let the paper bag sit on its side.
The only king is the king of caves.

Translator's Note: Dima felt like the stealthy caves when this picture was taken. While sitting in that paper bag, he recited "Sunday Morning" and "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" by Wallace Stevens. I asked him if he knew "The Emperor of Ice-Cream," and he said he didn't. I told him that it was a poem I had to analyze in college. He called for me to recite the poem, and instantly he was inspired. Here is his homage.

Where Are You Going?

Is today the day?
Are you off to great places?
Are you off and away?

Let me tell you that I have brains in my head.
And although you have feet in your shoes,
I can also steer myself in any direction I choose.
Are you leaving without me? Say it isn't so.
Who are you to decide where to go?

Please take me, Dima your cat
I know the best places are where I'm at
You shouldn't be without a cat at your side
Your life will be better with me as your guide

But if you're alone, there's a very good chance
you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
But if you're with cat, you'll be traveling in style
You discover that coming with me was really worthwhile

Without me, you'll get confused, as you already know.
You'll be surrounded by mice, fish, and birds as you go.
So be sure when you step, step with care and a great cat,
And remember all those things I chase away just like that!

And will we succeed?
Yes! We will, indeed!
With Dima, you're 100% guaranteed.

So if you decide to go without me,
Remember that you're better off not going at all.
Because traveling without your cat
Will be your greatest fall.

Translator's Note: Dima had been writing draft after draft of this poem after Jenevieve took off for Maryland for 3 weeks this summer. He doesn't like any of us going out on our own, which is contrary to the Dr. Seuss book "Oh, the Places You'll Go!" He turned Dr. Seuss' words around to suit his own purpose. It's a bit convincing, I think.

The Giggling Plateaus of Zumgl

Your gorilla passed down the entryway
Fastidious herbivores cooking in the kitchen
Velvet milk with astral feathers
Teaspoon rollers in a half-winged pompous flight
Bocce jars and ice-cube liars swiping colors
Weighty ocular sheepskin diary juicers
A bat-winged chimpanzee swallowed spider resin after giblets
Penny igloos for the ones who might just be on time capsules
Roaches and windy bags of fear shall shut the muffin hut
Porcelain idols leaked upon the brass foam encountering a liaison
A disabled athlete’s finger and toe collection for a bush the size of a tree
Mortgage clipping swept away by the jester’s pretty city
Beware of the pockets of drool and despair, my ogre
Could a screwdriver agree to any hand-me-down trade?

Translator's Note: Dima is dabbling in surrealist poetry. Is it strange enough for you? It's certainly interesting coming from a cat, a surreal situation in itself. It was even Dima's idea to have this picture to intensify the surrealism. No, he's had no overdose on catnip.

Love Poems

Some cats are black
And some cats are gray
But you're the most beautiful cat
That I have seen all day

Some cats are striped
And some cats are solid
But you are the cat
Whose purrs have to be followed

Some cats are yellow
And some cats are white
I don't care what they say
But you're a cute cat who's out of sight

Some cats have claws
And some cats don't
Most cats leave their lovers
But, I'm telling you now, this one won't

Some cats are neutered
And other cats are spayed
Although we can't have kittens
(the last line has been censored by the translator)

Translator's Note: Dima came by telling me that he'd written a few poems inspired from the old "Roses Are Red" routine. I asked him to read me one, and I thought it sounded cute and endearing. So I started to translate them on his blog. And then suddenly, he's reading the last line of the fifth poem and I say, "Whoa!" Where did that come from?

Dima's usually a sweet and harmless cat, and that's the image I want him to keep on this blog. But we also must be reminded that cats are animals. And all animals have their urges. I guess life's not as easy for him as I thought it was.

Baby On Board

Cute and cuddly:
Traits soon to be shared
With the proudly anticipated
Autumn daughter

Love and affection:
Emotions soon to be split
Between a favorite cat
And the wildly expected child

Clean and quiet:
Attributes only I can claim
A litter box instead of endless diapers
A soft meow instead of a demanding cry

Baby on board:
The parents are eagerly waiting
But I am reluctantly patient
Nevertheless the cat is on board as well

The Red Chair

Unoccupied temptress
Spinster!
Swiveling scratch-pad
Stoic!
Dizzying movements
Wheels!
Pushed around
Taciturn!

April

Bluff City of the North,
Under the ashen fog of a mid-spring dawn,
The Autos parked gently in a row, like a new game of Solitaire,
Being spat upon by the insults of a winter refusing to retire
Seeds huddle beneath the frost that may give way to muddy mire

The drizzle freezes.
The icy breezes
Keep everyone's temperament low-key.
The gray clouds hover above the darker clouds,
Which threaten to bolster the air hammer
That pounds the heads of citizens of depressed Midwestern towns

My friend, the hot blood
Flowing from ear tips to claws,
Keeps me warm and alive
I thank no one else

Translator's Note: Dima is obviously depressed. Secretly his heart sings for spring. Don't worry; warm weather is a-comin'.

Birthday Poem

It is still great to be alive
At the ripe old age of five.
In cat years, that's thirty-nine,
Anyway you have it, it's just fine.

Translator's Note: Indeed Dima has turned 5 on this day. He will get some nice kitty treats for his special day.

Bast

Ah, Bast!
Say how at last
Shall we, thy cats
Meet on your lyric mats
Made in the sun,
The Cat, the Holy One
Where we such felines had
As made us nobly wild, not mad
And yet each verse of ilk
Outdid the fish, outdid the frolic milk

Translator's Note: Dima was inspired three ways to compose this poem. The first inspiration was the title of his previous poem, "Bask." It reminded him of the cat goddess of the ancient Egyptians, Bast, his second inspiration. His third and final inspiration was Robert Herrick, a 17th Century English poet. He's the one who wrote "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may..." For some reason, Dima has been reading his poetry this past month. I cannot explain why.

Bask

Midwinter sun
Peers into the room at sharp angles
Midwinter sun
Warms a spot for not too long

I take it upon myself
To find the warm spot before it cools
I take it upon myself
To request the sun to stay a little longer

"Midwinter sun,
Your warmth is dearest to me
In the middle of the day
Please do not send your light astray"

The sun complies for only an hour
It is in that hour that I bask
In the warm spot provided by the stubborn light
Of the midwinter sun

Mac Cat

CAUTION: This is not a poem.

Since Jeremy and Jenevieve have made the PC their primary computer, I haven't had much access to my poems and my pictures on the Mac. I'm still writing a lot of poetry, but I can't get it on my blog as often. I'm trying to convince Jeremy to alternate the computers, so I can put my claws to work, clicking on the keyboard.

Thank you for your patience,

Dima

Snow Fall

Drifting slowly downwards

Puff balls of white

Gently float near the window

Before alighting in the parking lot

I try counting the number of flakes

That pass near my nose

Losing myself into the continuous

Snowstorm

Returning my consciousness to

Where I am

The falling snow seems to have grown

To the size of baby mice

Wishing I could open the glass barrier

Between me and the snow-mice

I make another wish--

To have a parachute or a pair of wings

I would descend with the millions

Of tiny white fluffy mice

Trying to bring them into my claws

What a wondrous playground the air would be

Translator's Note: Dima did in fact leap at and claw at the window as if the snowflakes were entering our apartment. The falling snow did mesmerize him for nearly an hour. That was over a week ago, and the snow still remains unmelted.

Queen of Yarn

Miles and miles

of potential playtime

bundled up beside her

Between two prongs

she produces

another layer of

human fur--a curious

thing I don't comprehend

A pleasant reverberating tone

emanates from her face

I can't tell exactly where it comes

From her

comes fur and song

but what I love most

is her company

Translator's Note: Dima thought it only fair to write a poem about my wife after writing a poem about me. The "human fur" he refers to is clothing. That "pleasant reverberating tone" he refers to is her humming an opera piece. He wanted to let his fans now that this poem was also written to make her feel better. She hasn't been feeling too well these days.

My Master

My attention is a tall

person: he will if idle

make a string alive where there

was no life: he will

type and edit my

ethereal poetry:

he will wind his mind tight

around my meaning

or, undistracted by

other media, translate

cat perfectly: he will

pounce on a stalled riddle

and wrestle the mind numb:

attention, calm human

I see, as he coughs in my

face, dislodges string

in my belly; lie down, be

still, have mercy, here

is poetry, mews of poetry, write

it out, run with it

Translator's Note: While I was away on vacation, Dima was studying a lot of poetry by A.R. Ammons, whose works were recently donated to East Carolina University. Although Dima is a fine poet, I had to repeatedly explain to him that East Carolina was not a state. This dampered his spirit to visit the place on his vacation. Nevertheless, he produced this poem with me in mind. Additional note: the title is not "My Translator."