Top left an angel
hovering. Top right the attendance
of a star. From both
bottom corners devils
look up, relishing
in prospect a divine
meal. How old at the centre
the child's face gazing
into love's too human
face, like one prepared
for it to have its way
and continue smiling?
By R. S. Thomas
from Counterpoint 2. Incarnation (1990)
Not the autumn wind in the forest,
not streams hurtling down to the plains –
what we hear is Frost the Commander,
patrolling his far-flung domains.
Has snow been swept by the blizzards
over every pathway and track?
Is there any bare ground still showing,
any last brown fissure or crack?
Have the oak trees been handsomely dappled,
are the tops of the pines fluffed just right?
Have the ice floes been shackled together
so that every lake is gripped tight?
Frost comes striding over the treetops;
shards of ice crackle under his tread.
Lord Frost moves closer and closer;
beams of sunlight dance in his beard.
What pathway is closed to a wizard?
Ever nearer the widow he draws.
Now Frost is looming above her,
rehearsing his wintry laws.
There he stands in a pine tree,
beating time with his cane,
boasting of his own glory
and repeating his old refrain:
‘No need to be bashful, sweet maiden,
see how fine a Commander I am!
Speak truthfully now: have you ever
glimpsed a more handsome young man?
‘Blizzards, downpours and whirlwinds –
I can quieten them all in a trice;
I can stroll out over the ocean
and build myself chambers of ice.
‘One breath – and the greatest of rivers
lie silenced beneath my yoke,
transformed to the strongest of bridges,
broad roads for the merchant folk.
‘I love dropping down into graves
to scatter diamonds over the dead,
to freeze the blood in their veins
and ice the brains in their heads.
‘I love frightening a lonely robber
riding home with a purse he’s plundered:
in the depth of the forest silence
I make branches resound like thunder.
‘Old women go rushing back home,
their heads full of spirits and devils.
But there’s more pleasure still to be had
with drunkards returning from revels.
‘I don’t need chalk to whiten their faces!
I set their noses ablaze without fire!
I freeze beards to reins in a tangle
not even an axe can sever!
‘I’m rich, there’s no counting my treasure;
my fortune’s as great as the world.
Every day I bejewel my kingdom
anew with silver and pearls.
‘Dear Maiden, I bid you now enter
my empire. Let me make you my queen!
We shall reign in glory all winter,
then let summer slip by in a dream.
‘Come, maiden, and let me warm you
in a palace of pale blue ice!’
So Lord Frost sings out above her
as he swings his sparkling mace.
‘Are you warm enough there, dear maiden?’
he calls from high in the pine.
‘Oh yes,’ the young widow answers –
and icy shivers run down her spine.
Now Frost has dropped down lower,
his mace swinging ever so near,
and he whispers softly and tenderly:
‘Warm enough?’ ‘Oh yes, my dear!’
Warm enough – but what does she feel?
Frost’s breath has already numbed her
and needles of ice from his beard,
though colder and sharper than steel,
are lulling her into slumber.
‘Are you warm enough now?’ Frost whispers,
his arms now encircling her waist –
and she hears not Frost but Proklyusha
and all she sees is long past.
On her lips and her eyes and her shoulders
Darya feels the wizard’s long kisses –
and she sees not Frost but her husband
and she drinks in his honeyed whispers.
He’s talking to her of a wedding,
his words so caressing and sweet
that Darya’s eyes are now closing
and her axe lies still by her feet.
And the arc of a smile now parts
the poor lips of the wretched widow.
White flakes now cover her eyelids
and needles of ice her brow…
A lump of snow falls on Darya
as a squirrel takes a flying leap,
but Darya does not lift a finger;
she’s frozen, enchanted, asleep.
by Николай Алексеевич Некрасов (Nikolay Alexeyevich Nekrasov)
translated by Robert Chandler and Boris Dralyuk
In a beaker sits a beetle,
sits and sucks his tawny leg.
He’s been caught. He has been sentenced,
and for ruth he does not beg.
He casts glances at the sofa,
in his sorrow half-alive;
there he sees the vivisectors,
honing axes, whetting knives.
An efficient young assistant
boils the scalpel on the heater,
at the same time gently whistling
something from the early Beatles.
He can whistle, brainless monkey,
licensed butcher from the dregs!
And the beetle in the beaker
sits and sucks his tawny legs.
He observes the surgeons closely,
and his eyes begin to roll…
He would not have been so frightened
had he known there is a soul.
But we’ve learned from modern scholars
that the soul is not at issue:
fat and kidneys, blood and choler
are the soul’s immortal tissue.
All that makes us hustle-bustle
are some ligaments and muscles.
This is science. Facts are stubborn
but are easy to apply.
And he wrings his arms (the beetle),
he is ready, he will die.
Now the resident approaches,
the MD who cuts and rips;
on the beetle he discovers
what he needs between the ribs.
And he throws and sticks the patient,
as he might have stuck a boar,
then he bares his teeth and, beastlike,
fills the workroom with his roar.
Whereupon the vivisectors
grab the beetle’s carcass, and
some explore his chest with pincers,
some dismember him by hand.
And they kicked him, flicked him, pricked him,
and they tore to death their victim.
Lacerated by that thug,
dies of injuries the bug.
He is cold. His eyes don’t tremble…
Then the brigands stopped their pranks
and retreated, somewhat sobered,
stepping back in serried ranks.
Torture, anguish – all is over.
There is nothing more to lose.
The remaining subsoil waters
from his body slowly ooze.
In a chink, inside the closet,
waits his son and hums a song –
‘Daddy, Daddy, where’re you, Daddy?
He will never see this father,
who could not have travelled farther.
There he stands, his vivisector,
bending over with the lads –
ugly, shaggy, grinning bravely,
with his pincers and his adze.
You elitist, sexist mugger,
scoundrel, scholarly and smug!
Read my lips: this little bugger
is a martyr, not a bug.
Soon the window will be opened
by the coarse, unfeeling guard,
and he’ll find himself, our darling,
on the driveway in the yard.
Near the porch, amid the garbage,
he will not rot (his body hacked,
with his legs all pointed upward)
and await the final act.
Neither rain nor sun will quicken
him who thus unburied lies.
And a chicken – yes, a chicken –
will peck out his beady eyes.
by Николай Макарович Олейников (Nikolay Makarovich Oleynikov)
a.k.a. Nikolai Makarovich Oleinikov
translated by Anatoly Liberman
Nikolay Makarovich Oleynikov ( Никола́й Мака́рович Оле́йников; born 5 August 1898, d. 24 November 1937) was a Russian editor, avant-garde poet and playwright who was arrested and executed by the Soviets for subversive writing. During his writing career, he also used the pen names Makar Svirepy, Nikolai Makarov, Sergey Kravtsov, NI chief engineer of the mausoleums, Kamensky and Peter Shortsighted.
In ‘The Beetle’ Oleynikov continues a fable begun by Captain Lebyadkin the mad poet from Dostoevsky’s The Demons.