A LETTER TO A WILD SCYTHIAN Poem by Damir Šodan

Je pense à toi
the wild Scythian who roam the steppe
with enemy's ears in your purse,
but I can't - for the life of me - remember
where exactly you figure in that quote
by Herodotus, ‘the reporter', as he was called
by our old professor, M. S., an expert
on Old Ages, Solon the law maker and the land
reforms under the Gracchi brothers,
about whom the freshmen maliciously
gossiped behind his back
that he was the partisan accordionist
who had an illegitimate daughter . . .

. . . because History
as a speedy barmaid
(Magistra Pipae)
dutifully wipes off her best and worst
children from the face of the earth
pushing them like wiped-clean
wedding plate
into that Common Place
(Locus Communis)
so notorious and empty
that you could, for eons on end,
perfectly legitimately
serve the remainder
of your so-called compulsory service
to the Cross there.