Happy Birthday Dear Pushkin

On Pushkin’s birthday, eighteen-eighty-
Nine (ninety years old the bard
Would be, but for romantic fate he
Gave up his life, a cast-off shard
Cast off too soon), Seattle kindled
From gluey scrap where sharpies swindled
The downtown down-and-outers out
Of weekly pay for Skid Road clout
With seamstress’ skirts and garters seeming
Undone for doing what we do
When left to our devices, through
The rise and fall, the devil’s steaming
Pile of what you will, a choir
Of angels singing round the fire.


  1. Angelico Nguyen, Esq., OP says


    The collection needed some text to explain why it uses Onegin’s form to shape Seattle’s matter. And this stanza supplies that need beautifully (and funnily, cleverly, and musically). Bravo.

  2. Fits with the whole Pushkin/Seattle fire theme.

    A great poem to boot!

  3. Oh, I love the word play and rhythm in this one. Well done.

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