Total Pageviews

Thursday, September 17, 2020

Poem by Karen Chamisso


Nouveau venu qui cherches Rome en Rome


O greenhorn who looks for Paris in Paris

Who comes to my house and looks for my home

Know: before the closed door our lares

Crouches, quiet as a, hungry as a tomb.


It guards the groans, ruckus future, ruckus past.

I pretended for years to be the ghost

Of my parents’ marriage. Also, Last

Of the Mohicans, hostess with the most



Until I came at last to be the proud proprietor

Of my own closed door.

To the Census: “Troubleman. Feed Pump Man. Field Operator.”

This quorumed I sez  to sleep: you are a bore.

No comments: