Pushkin

I'm taking a literature class on the Russian Masters, and we just read Pushkin's Eugene Onegin, a novel in verse. The entire book, chapter after chapter, is written in perfect iambic tetrameter, (Well, not always perfect, but if it isn't, it is a hint to pay attention, because there is a reason for it.) but the form is not like an epic poem, but with the characters and plot of a novel. The professor had us do the following exercise to give us a better understanding of Pushkin's genius. First, during class, she had us take out a piece of paper and write about anything for five minutes. Then we took that and turned it into a Pushkin stanza. I have some sloppy rhymes, stuffed tossed in just because it rhymed, bumpy meter, and my attention to masculine/feminine accents is atrocious, but here it is, first the free writing and then the Pushkinized result.

"The great and shiny world rolls away from my motorcycle tire, stretching broader and fuller the faster I go and the harder I twist my wrist, revving the small engine to its most energetic potential. In the early morning sun, the dripping green world looks as soft as its new spring grass, but the air is as cold and brisk as the aftermath of a winter’s gale. The asphalt smooths itself into glass under the speed of my passing. The wind fills my sluggish brain waves, and they billow out like a taunt sail under full wind."

The world begins with my front tire,
I watch it grow and multiply
Like dough expands, rising higher.
I twist my wrist and I can fly.
The early sun is dripping green,
The grass brand-new, the cold air keen,
The world is shiny, bright and new,
Spring is young and I am too.
The asphalt smooths from rough to glass,
My brain waves billow in the gale—
Like a taunt and wind-whipped sail—
From the speed with which I pass.
The day is young, the road is mine.
My motorcycle and I feel fine.