End of May Mayakovsky

 My recording of Mayakovsky's last poem, in my translation.

Already One, Vladimir Mayakovsky, tr. and vocals Larissa Shmailo

Donald Trump (sung to the tune of “The Yellow Rose of Texas”)

Trump doesn’t like most Muslims,

Or women, ‘cause “they bleed”;

Calls Warren “Pocahontas.”

(Next, will he say “half-breed?”)

He bullies rivals for his crowds;

His insults are fourth grade.

He tells them, “I will build a wall"

Apparently, without aid.

He bellows out his speeches,

With hate a cardinal part.

Abortion may be legal

Until his change of heart.

 

He“doesn’t know” re: Klan support;

It seems a crying shame

To give someone who's so confused

unsettling press and fame.

Trump says he has done nothing

That God needs to forgive.

Then live and let live, Donald Trump,

And go with God to live.

Poetry documentary, "Nomads of New York," Friday

Larissa's YouTube channel

Please check out my new Youtube channel for readings, lectures, interviews, and audio poetry!

Larissa's Youtube Channel

Nomads of New York -Documentary on the lives of New York artists

I am pleased to be included in filmmaker Mitch Corber's documentary, Nomads of New York, about New York poets. The film screens Friday, May  20 at 7:00 pm at Film Maker's Coop, 475 Park Avenue So, 6th floor (at 32nd Street).

Larissa Shmailo "In Paran"

In memoriam Steven Charles Werner 5/3/55 - 3/26/85

Death at Sea

The heart, someone wrote once,

Couldn’t walk a straight line,

Couldn’t pass the drunk test if it tried.

Some men play the odds; their heads count cards

But their hearts play inside straights.

They can’t bluff, ever,

Show their hand, most times,

And always give the pot away.

Steven died at sea

Holding the dead man’s hand, aces up.

A poker-faced corpse surfaces on the water:

I see

The orange safety vest

Inflated around his neck

Mocking God and me

Now, now, now, now, now---

Too late.

I held his wake in Vegas,

Sat Shiva in casinos

Where there were no windows, no daytime, no peace.

I put him in a casket,

A greedy one-armed bandit

It still asks me for coins

For its insatiable slot.

I hate the beach

The deadsea beach

The sunblocked snorkeled oily beach

The scuba lungs

The deadgrass skirts

The blind bikinied sunglass beach

I hate the sea

The soulless sea

The sentient, malevolent swampy sea

It don’t care if you live

It won’t cry if you die

It boasts like Yaweh

It spits in your eye

The sea

The stupid sea.

But I love the albatross

That took Steven’s soul,

And I love the lighthouse and the shore,

And I love all sailors, both sober and drunk,

That won’t kill a bird no matter what,

And I love the salt and I love the storm,

And I loved Steven, beyond most doubt,

And if I knew then

What I know now

Could I have walked on water

And pulled him out?

My poems, The Trick Wants to Go to Plato's and Bhakti, in Unlikely Stories Mark V

Pleased to have poetry in this brilliant new issue of Unlikely Stories Mark V. Thanks to editor Jonathan Penton!

Read here:
The Trick Wants to Go to Plato's and Bhakti