Igor Kadinsky's mug
Is green and tin with literary pretensions.
It yearns of setting its lip to
Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Yevtushenko.
When steam curls up its sides
It thinks of trains, a hedonistic frisson.
Father 0' Rourke's cup
Is stained, with hidden depths.
Its hand is placed on its hip,
Like Marilyn Munro
Descending the stairs
Into a roomful of partying politicians.
Mary Brady's tumbler's secretive,
Hasn't been out for years.
It's in a locked cabinet,
Giving nothing away.
The Laird of Inverquhomerie's silver quaich
Dreams of multiple salivations,
When a quaich was an item
Revered by congregations,
When tongues like little fishes
Licked its sides.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem