Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Aleksandr Kushner

Can you imagine what sort of poet Dostoevsky would have made? For once We got lucky. It’s scary to think about All the boundaries swirling off at his advance. How some gypsy gal would have kissed him Or, taking aim at his prominent forelock, Threatened him with a cocked pistol. Next to him, a pale epigone Blok! Here it is to a T, that premeditated city, Steeped in pestilential miasma, Or cut just like that! as by lightning Straight through The Haymarket’s plaza. Even a maple leaf, then, could menace, Raising its hand, popping its veins at passersby. And just imagine those bony fists of his Giving anapestic trimeter a try! How the Jew, German, and Pole Would be swept to a corner with brooms, How orthodox infants would carol, Wafting out unearthly dreams. And any squabble his conscience gets snared in-- For him, it’s all in a day, But to us, by comparison, The revolution would seem like child’s play. Do svidaniya , then, my bookcase. In Russia no more will forests, Or fields or grasslands still hold a place, But only this terrifying book of verses.

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