Collection of Poems, Part II
translated by Alec Vagapov
It's
autumn time inside me, as I feel.
It's
cool and lucid, and I see quite
clearly,
although
I’m sad, I am not despaired, really,
and
I am filled with patience and good will.
I
do it when I fade and leave my
foliage,
and
then I come to sad and simple knowledge
that
rage and rampage isn't what we need.
to
see the raging world and our own selves
in
all the bareness of autumn spells,
when
we can see all through,
at once.
So
never mind if we don't rage and
riot.
We'd
better shuffle off all wrangles and keep quiet
in
order that we see new foliage come.
and
I rely exclusively on silence
where
leaves pile on the ground, tired
of violence,
and
turn, inaudibly,
to earth and dust.
when
you can drop your foliage duly,
and
when your inner autumn gently, coolly,
will
put its airy palpi on your head.
***
I
fancy, I've already loved you.
I
fancy, I've already killed you.
as
an ingenuous figure on a ball;
your
body bent, you try to keep your balance -
as
if you were from Picasso's canvass.
You
ask me with your heart and soul :
"Do
love me!", like " Don't
push me off the ball !"
my
muscles make me look a humpbacked one
who
knows that all advice is false and leads astray,
and
you are sure to fall down anyway.
it's
like announcing : "I'll kill you,
dear".
I
see no end of faces, full of grace,
of
which I've loved and killed a lot,
by
torturing, or crushing
on the spot.
"I've
been among them, and I know it all.
I
know that you've already loved me.
I
know that you've already killed me.
But
I will not reverse the world. I
won't.
Love
me again, then kill me if you want".
I'm
tired of killing,. I'm too old.
and
saying : "Love me do", you
fall off it.
And
deep inside the eyes, - so much
like yours, -
I
read : "You will not kill me, I suppose !"
should
give account: is he done ?
Is
he worn out and beaten? ,
and
answer for each
year he's lived,
each
drop of milk he has received,
each
crumb of bread he's eaten.
expect
allowances from God
and
be too self-assertive,
for
all the feelings he has hurt
and
every scribbled lying word
rebound
on him, for certain.
should
have to put up with a ban -
no
pleasure is allowed.
For
if the body overcomes
so
smug and happy it becomes :
the
soul has been devoured.
when,
gradually, you’re frayed and worn
like
pseudo Christ, from kisses.
Perpetual
love affairs will end
in
haziness, confusion and
a
crowd of naked misses.
and
live the life of a carouse,
at
forty we are crapulous.
Our
feet are heavy, we’re tongue tied.
Words,
failing us, can’t
be combined.
Our
new home is lightless.
we
hurry to the market place
to
vanquish fortune there.
At
forty tediously
we drag,
back
home with our empty bag :
we
have been robbed at
fair !
should
tell himself and everyone :
do
not set foot on fairs.
You’ll
never sell if you don’t cheat
and
if you cheat, you’re in for it,
such
are the trade affairs.
you
neigh, tied by your trading
boss,
the
crook that gets you round.
While
you feel equally ashamed
both
when you are involved in trade
and
when they sell you out.
well,
if you cannot be a bay
be
grey such as a dapple;
and
bear in mind one little thing :
do
not sell out off your skin
a
single spot, called «apple».***
you
should remember that the world
is
not just trading session.
The
best is yet to come your way,
avoid
a comedy,
and play
your
part with self-possession !
decide
if you should bloom or fade,
which
is a better virtue ?
You
can’t escape the day of doom,
however,
if you choose to bloom
no
power can prevent you.
of
parodies and rhymes that rail and scold.
With
one accord they claim that I’m a bearer
of
all the sins and vices in the world.
in
chase of
cheap success and popularity.
They
will be claiming shortly that I breathe
in
chase of cheap success and popularity.
to
do it quietly, it won’t be loud.
I
hope that in that way I’ll mollify
and
soothe the crowd of the haggard and worn out.
But
someone, in a rage, will say ,with clarity,
contemptuously hissing, that I died
in
chase of cheap success and popularity.
New
times have set in nowadays,
and
they have brought along new names.
make
enemies and kick up rows;
they
cause discomfort and privation,
stir
up annoyance and vexation.
awaiting
them in rains and whirls,
and
peer through the darkness,
collating
their smartness.
It’s
hard to find them, I suppose.
Oh
there they are ! Looking so friendly,
they
smile and nod approval gently.
It’s
raining, and they should take care,
bewaring
of getting wet -
they’ll
have to nurse grandchildren yet.
the
gentle footsteps which you miss,
they’ve
stolen someone’s whisper...
All
that remains is wisdom.
Haven’t
you stolen anything
from
anyone without
even
keeping count ?
and
that’s the miracle of life :
there’s
no evaporation,
there’s
only transformation.
Just
spare the happy thievish guys.
No
matter how they fool about,
they,
too, will be cleaned out.
and
they will bring along new names.
Don’t
waste your time, don’t keep the bad in mind
for
it impedes your freedom, at your instance.
In
fact, it hampers work and causes hindrance,
it’s
much too troublesome, a real bind !
to
God and all around you for endearment.
Just
try, and you will see it isn’t hard to do,
and,
incidentally, it all won’t take
a minute.
I
can’t digest extremists ... I’m sick with
their
twaddle and perverted scope of mind.
Those
ultra left and ultra right
are equals :
smell
of routine of the
unvarying kind.
where
they fight for power, bombs up the sleeve,
there’s
no salvation in the angry screams of «Down
!..»
nor
in the zealous shouts of «Long
live !..»
the
bullets flying by, obscure,
there
is a third, detestable, routine,
and
it’s the cowardly highness of the
«pure».
wiping away
our tears of lamentationyou
are another cradle of Russia’s inspiration.
Forgetting
Georgia,
like
a thoughtless dasher,
it
is impossible to be a poet here in Russia.
I
don’t want to please everybody
for
along with the habit to fight
I
have time, or all times, in my body
like
a seed, implanted inside.
I
don’t worship the East, like blind,
I
don’t want to be doubly favoured
for
it’s not what I have in mind.
one
cannot sincerely side
both
with those getting killed like cattle
and
the ones who commit genocide.
Pleasing
all is indecent and lewd.
I
do not gratify the obsequious
nor
the ones who stir up a feud.
but
I want to be loved by you,
by
my friends and
well-wishers around,
and
some day by my
sonny, too.
by
the ones who fight to the last.
I
want to be loved by the shade of
my
father whom I have lost.
The
song my son is softly humming spells
a
quiet babbling twitter of a bird, and
I
am afraid that I may shift the burden
of
all my torments on somebody else.
the
tricks I played on words, my friends and brothers.
I
am afraid that I may shift the war,
that
hangs above our heads, on others.
afraid
of sharing their pains and sorrows,
behind
the happy life that we enjoy
there’s
somewhat of a bribe palmed off upon us.
the
finest and the worthiest human being,
I
wouldn’t have the privilege of living
without
pain - for others, anyway.
of
course, I’d like to win respect
and veneration,
but
why the hell, I wonder, should I strive
for
creature comforts, coveting protection ?
Beware
of a shameful life without pain,
a
life without thinking, striving,
suffering ...
It
is, indeed, a doubtful blessing
when
you
have a stroke of luck as an unwanted happening.
And
if I chance to go through happy
days
I’ll
do my best to make them gloom and shadow
so
that I shake with cold, chilled to the marrow,
when
hearing the flaming words of praise.
make
up for other people’s troubles.
When
our own grieves we haven’t got
we
can avail ourselves for those of others.
I
look upon you with repulsion and disgust,
you,
rosy race of pleasure hunters
that
cynically play the little bantams ...
Time
will, you think, take pity on your
past.
but
as you get mature, beware of rattles,
and
don’t stretch out idly on a mattress
exclaiming
: «I’m pleased and satisfied !»
for
pleasure have all sunk into oblivion.
Eternity
is only merciful and lenient
to
those who never wanted lenience
in life.
can be a
little off.
It’s
crooked inside, oblique and bending.
Though
guiltless,
life
is guilty of presenting
a
pattern which is not facile
enough.
by
simple logic
it’s
an attempt to mend or mar, and, I should say,
a
rectilinear path
between two distant objects
historically,
can be the longest way.
1979
make a rebellion of two.
It
is a thundering whisper
breaking abuses through.
Two
lovers in hay, or woodbine,
make God Almighty’s light,
it
is like a waltzing ball of
innumerous threads of life.
Two
people adoring each other
resemble two orphan kids
that
cling to the skirt of beauty
like puppies reaching for feeds.
They
are a sort of skin-readers
and
linguists of human eyes.
To
understand the tremors
they don’t need any advice.
The
bed-sheets they’ve crumbled they value
more than anything else.
The
names that they whisper are greater
than any of greatest names.
It
is a serious menace,
conspiracy, biggest of all.
It
is a rebellion of body
against separation from soul.
It
is uncontrollable, and it’s
like two kingdoms, or
two
nations merged voluntarily
without declaring a war.
Staring
like freaks and sneering,
the crowd have got a good mind
to
wait for severe punishment
for love is said to be blind.
But
would it be worth getting married
if we were to decide
to
cure ourselves from happiness,
the pleasure of being blind ?
If
blindness is laughed at squeamishly,
then,
I imagine, the world
can
perish from an explosion,
and rise from a whispered word.
***
No
one has died. Nothing has vanished.
there
is no future. There is only present.
blown
up by a disgraceful traitor
«You
were lucky, after all, by Jove ...»
be
lonelier than I am to-day.
that
I don’t exist any more.
forget
who I really was.
feel
shame for my fated lot.
I
wouldn’t be double faced.
wouldn’t
cover my grave with spittle.
I
stared at it, sad and lonely,
and
in my arms I had my soul,
my
ailing daughter, fading slowly.
they
were making fun and teasing.
They
laughed at me, and it was so
disgraceful,
shameless and displeasing !
relaxing,
tired of dancing round.
In
fact, they didn’t laugh at me,
nor
anyone as I found out.
(
what they were drinking wasn’t water ),
and
they were not aware at all
of
me, nor of my ailing daughter.
I,
too, would often laugh, elated,
while
somebody behind the wall
was
fading , and he couldn’t help it
!
about
to give in, resigning,
he
thought that I was teasing him
and
even mocking and deriding.
it’s
been established, as it were :
when
someone weeps behind the wall
we
laugh rejoicing, free of care.
is
never fading, it appears, :
somebody
laughs behind the wall
while
we’re down shedding tears.
without
sin, just show your lenience, -
if
someone laughs behind the wall
don’t
take it as a jealous grievance.
give
way to envy, - pain and torture,
for
your misfortune is atoned
by
someone’s lucky chance and fortune.
and
shut your eyes at the last minute
let
people laugh behind the wall,
yes,
laugh, not cry and morn, I mean it !
they
differ from humans, the snivelling creatures.
A
dog doesn’t whine with its head
full of bees, -
old
age is what squeezes out its tears.
to
rid their living of old age tears.
How
can a dog see a fox or a hare,
with
tears in its eyes, how can
it stare ?
at
times I pretended and did it amazingly;
late
tears, however, are held in concealment,
and
I am afraid I may break that agreement.
I
stand like a stone at a funeral service.
I
talked to my eyes, and I pricked up
my ears
to
hear them reach an agreement with tears.
when
smelling the paint of a coffin around;
and
here on the grave where my friend disappears
I
cannot help crying, nor holding my tears.
«What’s
then ?
What’s then, my dear ?»
The
bed was made for two of us,
and
you were somewhat at a loss ...
And
now you’re in the crowd,
look
beautiful and proud;
your
golden bang is haughty,
your
high-heeled shoes are sporty.
Your
sneering eyes
tell everyone
not
to confuse you
with the one
who
still remembers
having
once
been beloved
and loving.
But
that is useless,
anyway,
to
me
you are from yesterday;
forgotten,
like that fair
dishevelled
bang of hair.
And
how will you present it ?
You
know I can’t accept that
it
was some other woman
I
slept with in that room then
who
whispered in my ear :
«What’s
then ?
What’s then, my dear ?»
It
later comes as such a revelation
and
pangs of conscience tantalize us so
when
in somebody’s open, frank confession
we
fail to see the shrewdness of a foe.
forgetting
lessons of the past, again
we
take the restless innocent immaturity
for
an unscrupulous ambition, with disdain.
A
people’s judge must have a vision
sense.
We
hastily take friends for bitter
enemies,
which
is much worse than taking foes for friends.
her
slanting eyes, a bit surprised, stare me out.
Her
golden rings of curls appear to be
like
golden question marks, as signs of doubt.
A
house with a pompous sullen glare.
I
never went inside, as far as I recall,
and
never will, thank God, and I don’t care.
she
kisses me, caressing, - such a dear !
But
there is something in her quiet eyes
that
causes pain and sorrow,
mixed with fear.
I
know her woman’s tricky “golden virtue”:
she’ll
kiss you tenderly, caress you like divine
then
shut he door and right away forget you.
They’ve
taught me bitter lessons of a demon.
Many
a time behind the either side of doors
I’ve
been so artfully betrayed by women.
Again
some recollections fill my heart.
I
know what you are like when we’re together.
I
wonder what you’re like when we’re apart.
Fame
has its ups and downs, as it were.
One
can’t cheat History by telling lies,
for
It’s like mother, strict and fair.
It
sees all human beings
through, entirely.
To
no avail somebody tries to press
his
fingers on It’s scale of justice, slyly.
entrap
It and by telling lies disgrace It,
eventually,
It sets the world of reason right
and
puts all things in their proper places.
and
roots the dams of dogma out
although
it takes too long to wait and see the “end”,
and
yet eventually It
does come round.
It
doesn’t care a damn about the grumbling
moaner
when
It restores the reputation of the great
distinguished
names deserving honour.
knows
what is what, by far not gullible;
majestically,
It wipes the scribbled names
of
the unworthy off the slabs of marble.
you,
travelling in the rattling train of years:
the
station
you’ve chosen
as your destination
is
not to be found anywhere on earth.
there
is no
such station as
“Second Youth”.
I’d
like to inform you that it was extremely
unwise
of you, silly and stupid , too,
to
have let your first youth slip, and, really,
I
have to admit
I am one of you.
I’d
like to inform you of our reality :
the
stations that follow are Old Age and Death,
but
you believe in your immortality
insisting
upon it for all you are worth.
ladies and gentlemen :
if
all that you have
in your travelling bag
is
junk
and
some funny stories for merriment,
you’ve
reached Death Station,
with no way back.
I’d
like to inform you of what will happen :
You
will be absorbed by years,
all the same;
and
only the chicken
you had for supper,
like
shadows
will follow your rattling train...
is
dangerous. - Don’t go to
pot ! -
but
it can be realisation
of
an astounding, brilliant thought.
turns
sour like a brewing mash
a
thought begot by sense of reason
will
be inferior to “trash”.
their
barbaric crazy rhymes,
pronounced
hastily like babble,
show
the internal truth at times...
It’s
not a second time. You’re suffering again.
Don’t
worry. Do some work. More bravery
!
Believe
me, being the slave of suffering and pain
is
not the most exciting form of slavery.
It’s
not a second time, as I recall,
that
you’ve been so unfairly offended.
But
why all this self-pity ? After
all,
it’s
he who humbles others is degraded.
You
shouldn’t put your torments out for show,
it
is immoral. Put a ban upon it !
It’s
not a second time, for all I know,
that
you are suffering …
Why all this torment ?
***
what’s
this make-up for, false and feigned ?
Why
all this wig, this switch of hair,
why
so much powder and paint ?
that
ornaments the filth of drains
embellish
real life of ours,
which
only covers it with stains.
so
much for powder, cream and all…
The
mask of make-up which he wears
becomes
his face once and for all.
I’m
amazed at what water can cause !
We’re
on opposite sides of the ice
separated
by drifting floes.
Swaying
maples are pale and slim.
Voices,
landing on water, slide
down
the river along with the stream.
thin
as ice you appear to be,
and
the river is dragging away
bits
of path between you and me.
along
the frozen glacier stream.
There’d
been
a lot of
such big mammoths,
he
was the last one, it would seem.
of
storms and whirls, He now gave
in.
For
once
He found it hard to bear
the
arrows stuck into His skin.
to
make the echo turn the tide,
but
He fell down, and the arrows
went,
piercing,
deep into His side.
while
the distributor of meat
was
working with a stone knife artfully
and
competently cutting it.
knew
that their progenies would find
the
dreadful mammoths
more
exciting
than
elephants, the humble kind,
in
struggle, as He forced His way,
His
solid tusks, not yet surrendered,
would
be exposed for show some day !
wouldn’t
wish it to a foe.
On
the brink of losing patience,
I
can’t make it any more.
laughter,
shortage and excess,
all
is painful, it appears,
fame,
obscurity, success...
do
they have any importance
when
the world turns out to be
like
a sea of pains and sorrows
lying
right in front of me ?
from
the light and night-dark tortures,
wishing
it would not be homeless,
wishing
joy and bread and salt.
in
its torments there’s some sweetness,
and
some sanctity I witness
in
the torments of the world.
to
be sitting , absorbed in thought.
How
can I make my sweetheart happy?
Can
I possibly do it or not?
goes
to parties, and pictures with kids.
But
she wants to possess me entirely,
as
a whole, while I’m broken to bits.
on
my back, splinters grazing my skin,
and
I left my beloved one no shoulder
to
cry on, - that's the way I have
been.
we
don’t spare their lives, full of care;
men
are thievish and sly seeking lovers,
whereas
women do it out of despair.
What
on earth should I bring to her side
when
the life that I gave her was wormy
which
was clearly seen at first sight?
to
offend dear sweethearts of ours.
We
can make our sweethearts unhappy,
but
we can’t make them happy, alas !
***
You’re
crying bitterly, my darling,
the
reason for it is, I think,
that
you’re incapable of loving,
and
you are not worth anything.
talk
nonsense, chattering to you,
I
feel excruciating torment
upon
your fingers when I do.
in
reading cards you take delight,
but
deep at heart you’re all in tears,
the
whole of you just screams inside.
and
I was taken by surprise:
I
saw the unprotected torment
of
your unchecked, impetuous eyes.
which isn’t true.
I’ve
never been courageous,
and I know
it.
I
just believe that it’s unworthy of a poet
to
stoop to cowardice, as colleagues do.
and
never sapped
my country's foundations.
I
just ridiculed falsehood,
And
I spoke my mind
by
writing poems, not denunciations.
while
wretched writers, the go-getters,
I disparage.
But
that is something one just ought to do,
it’s
not a sign of bravery and courage.
combating
vicious practices
and devilry
will
recollect
the oddity of days
when
honesty
was looked upon as bravery!
with set regulation
three
wolves tried a forth one
at their convention.
They
blamed him for killing a deer,
violating tradition
and
carrying it to them through snow
storms,
without permission.
The
deer was good,
but thy found his action insulting :
how
dared he do it alone
without consulting ?!
To
wolves in the woods
where greed is a natural instinct
a
conquest without the help of a pack
is an insult.
The
boss of the wolves, the inveterate boor,
the mugger,
he
had all his forehead ploughed up
with the wrinkles of anger.
Forgetting
the deer,
which came as a present from heaven,
he
was outraged, the old cripple,
the ignorant layman.
The
talented beast couldn’t bear
the fortunate instance,
in
an imperious manner he roared
with an air of innocence.
The
second one, cool as Iago,
a cowardly being,
had
always been trying
to pose as a noble
by breeding.
A
beggarly aristocrat,
with an arrogant look of “
His Highness”,
he
looked at his junior brother, a sinner,
with sadness.
But
judging by how he was turning his nose
it was clear
that
though he was squeamish
he did want some meat of the deer.
The
third little wolf dropped his eyes
looking sickly and fevered,
as
meek as a lamb, spineless creature,
with fear he shivered.
He
feared the wolves,
both the first and second one equally;
he
feared the forth one as well,
and was wavering meekly.
He
wanted a bone
and the name of a real peace-setter,
his
mate was all right
but the
pack he belonged to was better.
he’s a real go-getter.
We’ll
turn him away, -
there’s no room in the
pack for a traitor”.
His
helpers, refraining from snarling,
kept silent with dignity,
they
nodded approval in silence,
assuming nobility.
Bewildered,
the wolf at the
bar was about to howl,
“I
did it for you, stupid fools ” -
was all he could growl.
He
must have forgotten that wolves
only laughed
at emotions,
and
bringing a gift was a crime,
so one had to be cautious.
You
lived with the wolves and you did as they did,
so do not bear grudges.
There’s
no such a thing as defense
when the wolves are the judges.
He
plodded on snow
to the shimmering lights in the distance,
as
lone as a wolf, or a human,
can be
in
the wilderness.
The
deer was gone,
and the site was now fuming,
deserted;
the
prey had been looted by rivals
which they had invaded.
“Those
judges, it does serve them right, -
said the wolf with a sneer.
For
what is a pack ?
Herd of cattle, benighted and drear.
Those
masters and slaves, little groupies and groups, -
all is vanity,
or
should I say, it’s stupidity,
madness, insanity.
They
boasted that freedom
was their advantage and mercy,
but
life in a pack
always tends to be somewhat oppressive”.
The
wolf, on his way to the lights and the chimneys,
his journey proceeded :
“I’d
better be shot by a hunter
than bitten to death by my kindred”
I’d
better stop this talk about wolves and geese.
I’ve
got a sheet of paper, look at this :
The
paper is in blood like snow on battle-plain,
a
man is lying on it racked with pain.
I
know how it feels to be left all alone.
Your
delicate body pleases the eye,
your
wings, white as snow, are extremely
alluring
but
they are belated, - well, nothing doing, -
you
are as good as dead for the sky.
they
fondle you, play with you till you are battered.
It's
true, there's a shortage of flour and bread,
it's
true, there's a shortage of moral immunity,
but
there is a swan in our community,
and
it's a tame bird, one shouldn't forget !
the
heart-breaking blizzard was smashing
the wires;
stones,
barrels and posts were high up above,
and
even a mail box, as high as the
cloud,
dislodged
from the hinges rolled up and around.
And
only your wings were not strong enough.
amid
brutes and drunkards the villagers pigged it.
They
were unaware of the fact that at night
in
one of the houses, constantly smelling
of
bug-killing powder, pickles and herring,
under
the cupboard where you were dwelling
your
wings grew upturning
the boots by your side.
they
now were solid, developing
duly.
Aware
of your strength you were happy as hell.
You
knew, if you wished, then, collecting
your powers,
you'd
smash at one stroke both the boss and the house.
But,
hating him, somehow you
treated him well.
you
spread wide your wings - what a daring action ! -
a
bush that had burst into bloom overnight.
"
Good heavens !" - the master exclaimed,
and he didn't
look
happy at all, he was rather indignant,
you'd
broken the stature, the object of pride.
Should
you be moved ? But you're such a dear,
too
lovely to share the coop with the
hens.
Should
you be fried ? But you are too famous.
Should
you stay put ? But here you're a
menace:
you've
broken the stature. Who knows what comes hence ?
the
boss took you out, concealing
his sneer
and
carrying you like a gift on a tray.
To
camera flashes and barking of hounds
all
tried to get closer to you through
the crowds,
each
trying to pinch you
and touch you some way.
You
lay there motionless, making no sound,
resembling
a white crystal vase in the dirt.
Yet
people were pushing their ways with obsession
to
give you a flattering touch of affection
besmearing
the wings of the delicate bird.
"Why
don't you fly? You've got wings, so make bold as
to
fly right away. Come on, take off at
length !
"Are
you a weakling ? - a boy put in, pressing, -
as
far as we know from the History lesson,
the
Spartans would put them, the weaklings, to death !"
to
help you a chubby old woman came out,
about
a hundred years old but so tough !
She
covered your wings to protect you and shouted:
"The
swan needs a runway ! But it's overcrowded !
Come
on ! Step aside ! It's a running take off !"
she
quickly dispersed the reporters and gapers,
and
pushed back the crowd, so you could run.
"Fly
off birdie, dear, - she said - it's cleared out !"
And
all of a sudden you rose from the ground,
and
down the runway you ran on and on...
away
from the barking of shabby old hound,
right
off to your homeland - the sky and the sun.
And
all you could hear were the words in the air :
"Good
luck, birdie, dear ! Fly off ! Anywhere !
As
far from this place as you possibly can !"
to
the magnet of the world I turn my word
whispering
devoutly my prayer,
begging:
"Pardon me and help me, Lord".
and
He wonders why the human race
bothers
Him with pious incantations
trespassing
His charity and grace.
and
it doesn't matter what He's called -
Buddha,
Allah or Jehovah - it is clear
He
is one, - and tired of being God.
or
a tiny little idol of a kind,
He
would like to hide himself from beggars
in
a quiet place that He could find.
so
He bends His head, a humble lot.
God
would trust in God and live in piety,
but
there isn't any God for God.
to
forget about the debts we've got
there
is nobody to listen to His prayer:
"Pardon
me and help me, please, my God"
amid
the high society of grannies
there
reigned the atmosphere of courtesy
something
these days one doesn't often see, -
intact
and unaffected manners.
the
subtle curiosity, well hidden,
were
telling me about the former times
much
more than what historians had written.
as
poor as a house, robbed and damaged,
the
pure Russian phrases were like cant
and
phrases borrowed from a foreign language.
because
of famous people's admiration.
The
sign of the invisible Masonic caste
upon
the feathered creatures cast
a
lofty shadow of participation.
at
times a glance would really make
me shudder.
I
felt out of place like home-made wine
amid
such nectars as “amotillado”.
to
call them snobs, or highbrows, or whatever.
They
were superior to me, and yet I knew
they
didn't think they were too clever.
they
had gone through and still were waging -
The
two world wars and thousands of those
they'd
been perpetually engaged in.
Behind
the grinding sound of wires
I
saw such places as Karaganda
at
table over tea with cakes and pies.
like
ladies, dressed in quilted jackets, really,
they
would cut short the swearer with disdain
by
looking down on him or her austerely.
the
stormy blizzard knocking down the diggers,
they
would disparage muttering the names
of
some distinguished outstanding figures.
of
super- sciences and engineering,
to
me, my dear Russia, you’re a land
of
grannies, p’rhaps too strict but all-forgiving,
and
their turn-down collars were quite old fashioned…
I
watched them and with gratitude I saw
they
were, actually, the embodiment of Russia.
What
would I say getting a word in edgeways
?
I’d
rather write for grannies such as these,
let
others write their poems for teenagers.
Click
here to go to Yvgeny
Yevtushenko Part
I