In the vegetal life of a poet

by Sergei Gandlevsky
     translated by Philip Nikolayev

In the vegetal life of a poet
There’s that ill-fated period when
He is shying from heavenly daylight
And afraid of the judgments of men;
From the pit of the city of Moscow,
Where he’s feeding the pigeons some grain,
He is swearing a terrible oath to
Settle scores, to get even, with pain—
But, thank God, it’s Vivaldi’s spasmodic
Violin that instructed us in
The fine art of the flight one melodic
Private evening all swooning in jasmine:
To such heights climbs the soar of the void
That the soul, now in danger of harm,
Hits the earth like a petrified bolide—
Yet the jasmines are tickling your arm…
We continue, impervious, in ignorance,
Drinking hard, celebrating our cowardice,
Breaking matchsticks when we feel nervous,
Smashing dishes at home out of powerlessness,
As we swear to be blunt and courageous
And expose the whole truth of today.
But no, poems aren’t weapons of vengeance.
Silver fountains of decency, they.