Tag Archives: vladimir augustine

Street Poet revisited

Vladimir Augustin near First & Main
Vladimir Augustin near First & Main

Vladimir Augustin, whom some may remember from an April post, walked into John Siscoe’s Globe Bookstore, looking cold and a bit blurred around the edges.

He writes poems on cards for passersby and lives rough. For the most part, the tourist trade has dried up, but he carries a small boombox (which was playing a Mozart concerto), and continues scavenging for customers.

Needle postcard
Needle postcard

John gave Augustin a postcard of the Space Needle and when I found him in front of the soon to be evacuated Elliott Bay Bookstore, he wrote me another poem. It was night and hard to decipher under the streetlight, but he read it to me aloud. ‘A Masterpiece of Christmas’ he called it, and I’d share it with you but I can’t quite make out the script.


As per Maria’s request, a photo of the postcard poem — ‘A Masterpiece of Christmas’ – note it contains an acrostic: “The Collective Purpose” (click to enlarge):

'A Masterpiece of Christmas'
'A Masterpiece of Christmas'

Street Poet Vladimir Augustin

[Editor’s note: The following post was put up in Spring of 2009. For a more recent post about Vladimir, from late December ’09, click here]

(as always, click to enlarge)

Street Poet Vladimir Augustin
Vladimir Augustin presenting my poem

This evening, stopping by John Siscoe’s Globe Bookstore in Pioneer Square, I’d just paid for parking in the half-deserted streets, when the fellow above suggested an exchange – poetry for a meal.

“What’s your name?” he asked, “I’ll write you a poem using your name.”

“Deal,” I replied, “but you have to guess my name.”

“Interesting,” said the poet, and I went into the Globe to chat with John.  Ten minutes later, my poem was finished, hand-printed on the backside of a borrowed business card.

Understand the
Roads that
Belong to us
Under a sky of dreams in the
Light from the garden in an
Embrace that
Never ceases to leave from a
Tender touch of winter.

“Very nice, but where’s my name?” I asked.

The poet pointed.  “Turbulent,” he said, “Your name is Turbulent.”

(For more poetry by Vladimir, click here)