Cassandra to Agamemnon
I've warned you of the bloodbath:
a bath, with your blood in it, literally.
But there you go, blundering right in,
no hand of fate can stop you,
the hand that wants you dead.
And I, who will be killed soon after you,
why should I care--when, or of whose hand?
So don't stall--go on, go in,
step blindly into your matron's trap,
hero of the great war, great murderer yourself.
Before I die, I'll see you flounder,
like a fat carp, in the fishnet of your queen.
But what is this water in my eyes?
My eyes that have seen my brothers killed,
My city razed, before and after.
Nobody here weeps for you, therefore I will,
I, Cassandra.
A New Love
I have a new love, a new joy,
You can say, it’s a new affair:
Not with a man or a woman,
And this time, it’s not even a cat.
I've warned you of the bloodbath:
a bath, with your blood in it, literally.
But there you go, blundering right in,
no hand of fate can stop you,
the hand that wants you dead.
And I, who will be killed soon after you,
why should I care--when, or of whose hand?
So don't stall--go on, go in,
step blindly into your matron's trap,
hero of the great war, great murderer yourself.
Before I die, I'll see you flounder,
like a fat carp, in the fishnet of your queen.
But what is this water in my eyes?
My eyes that have seen my brothers killed,
My city razed, before and after.
Nobody here weeps for you, therefore I will,
I, Cassandra.
A New Love
I have a new love, a new joy,
You can say, it’s a new affair:
Not with a man or a woman,
And this time, it’s not even a cat.
What a joy to admire
My love’s darkly red face!
Although strictly speaking,
It is not a face but a sexual organ,
Male and female combined in one,
Resulting in sheer beauty.
I say to my love:
How can such beauty exist?
It can’t. You are an annual.
You will be gone in the fall.
This world is not a place
For a beauty that lasts.
I say to my love:
You and I, like all lovers,
Are aware that we must part.
She listens, mute and serene,
Understanding nothing.
Stay healthy and fill me with joy
Until the end of November
When your brief life will end
Where it began: In this brown soil.
Pebbles
Pressed in her hand, pebbles,
leap out of their clustered past,
scattering skyward the warmth
of her child-pink palm;
swiftly, they fall into an assigned pond—
to remember the air made visible
in the many wings of her eyes,
the rehearsal of life made audible
in her ripening lips,
and the body of time underneath her skin,
still, yet living
Author’s Bionote:
*Nina Kossman, born in the former Soviet Union, is a bilingual writer, poet, playwright, and painter. Her published works include two books of English-language poems, two books of Russian-language poems, a memoir, and an anthology she compiled for Oxford University Press. She received a UNESCO / PEN Short Story Award, an NEA fellowship, and grants from the Foundation for Hellenic Culture, the Onassis Public Benefit Foundation, and Fundación Valparaíso. Her work has appeared in over 90 magazines and anthologies, including The Virginia Quarterly Review, Columbia, The Threepenny Review, Tin House, and Pen International, and has been translated into twelve languages. Her short plays have been produced in New York, London, and Sydney. She lives in New York (USA).