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."