1. So then you’re Russian? It’s the first time I have met a Russian …’ And the lively, delicately bulging eyes examine me. ‘You take your tea with lemon, I already know. I also know that you have icons where you live, and samovars.’ A pretty girl. A British glow spreads across her tender skin. She laughs, she speaks at a quick clip: ‘Frankly, our town is dullish, though the river’s charming! Do you row?’ Big girl, with sloping shoulders, hands that are large, bereft of rings. 2 Thus, at the vicar’s, over tea, brand-new acquaintances, we chat, and I endeavour to be droll. In troubling, dulcet worry lost at the legs that she has crossed and at her vivid lips I peer, then, once again, I quickly shift my cheeky gaze. She, as expected, has come with aunt, although the latter is busy with her left-wing patter - , and, contradicting her, the vicar, a timid man (large Adam’s apple), with a brown-eyed, canine squint, chokes upon a nervous cough. 3 Tea stronger than a Munich beer. In the room the air is hazy. In the hearth a flamelet lazy gleams, like a butterfly on boulders. I’ve overstayed - it’s time to go now … I rise; a nod, and then another, I say good-bye without hand-thrusting, For so demands the local custom; I hurry down a step, and out into a February day. Out of the heavens, without a lull, descends a ceaseless, two-week flow. Isn’t it true how very dull an ancient student town can grow? 4 The houses - each more comely than the next - whose ancient rosiness gains cheer from bicycles reposing near; the college gates by which the bishop stands stonily inside his niche, and higher, there is a black sun-like dial; the fountains, hollow-sounding coolness, the passageways, and then the barriers, all iron roses with their thorns, which, in the dark of early morn, it is no easy task to climb; and, right there, next door, a tavern and an antique shop, and beside a graveyard’s tombstones a thriving market in the square. 5 There is meat in hunks all pink; the shiny fishes’ uncooked stink; and knives and pots; and also jackets from wardrobes that shall remain nameless; and, separate, in strange positions, some crooked stands where they sold books freeze motionless, as if concealing some arcane alchemistic treatise; one time I happened through this rubbish to rummage, on a winter day, when, adding to an exile’s sadness, it snowed, as in a Russian town - I found some works by Pushkin, and some Dahl upon a magic counter. 6 Behind this square’s uneven outlines there is a cinema, and thither into the foggy depths we wandered, where steeds midst swirls of dust rushed past across the canvas screen of light, the viewer magically alarming, where, with a kiss’s silhouette, all ended at the proper time; where tragedy was always sprinkled with a beneficial lesson; where droll and touching Charlie Chaplin came mincing with his toes thrust out, where, now and then, we chanced to yawn. 7 And, once again, the crooked alleys, the gigantic age-old gates - right in the centre of the town, a barber shop where they shaved Newton, in ancient mystery enveloped, the tavern known as the Blue Bull. There, beyond the stream, the houses, the century-old turf tramped down into a dark-green, even carpet to suit the needs of human games, the wood-like sound of soccer kicks in the cold air. Such was the world where I from Russian clouds was hurled. 8 In the morning, out of bed I’d hop, and to a lecture rush with whistling cape; at last a hush over the chilly amphitheatre fell as the professor of anatomy mounted the podium, a sage with vacant, childlike eyes; with varicoloured chalk a Japanese design he’d trace of intertwined blood vessels, or the human skull, and on the way a naughty joke he might let fly - stamping of feet was our reply. 9 Supper. The regal dining hall graced by the likeness of Henry the Eighth - those tight-sheathed calves, that beard - all by the sumptuous Holbein limned; inside that singularly towering hall that choir lofts made appear so tall, it was perpetually murky despite the violet conflagration, that filtered through the colour panes. The naked benches stretched along the naked tables; there we sat, in the black cowls of brothers’ capes, and ate the over-seasoned soups made out of pallid vegetables. 10 I lived within an antique chamber, but, inside its desert silence, I hardly savoured the shades’ presence. Clutching his bear from Muscovy, esteemed the boxer’s fate, of Italic beauty dreaming lame Byron passed his student days. I remembered his distress - his swim across the Hellespont to lose some weight. But I have cooled toward his creations … so do forgive my unromantic side - to me the marble roses of a Keats have more charm than all those stagey storms. 11 But to think of poetry was harmful in those years. To twist a screw of brass, so that, in the water’s droplets, the world would radiantly appear minute - that is what occupied my day. I’m fond of the serene alignment of green laboratory lamps, the motley of the complex tables, the magic gleam of instruments. And from descending all day long into the microscope’s dark well you did not hinder me at all. O languorous Calliope, the bane of uncompleted verse. 12 Instead, there was a new distraction: something in my memory flashing, as if unfocussed, and then clearer, only to vanish once again. Then I became abruptly bored by work with needle and with screw, observing the shimmer in the pattern, of monotonous infusoria, unravelling the bowels of a grass snake. No longer did the lab seem heaven; I started to imagine how, at the vicar’s, she and I would meet once more. 13 There! Now it’s in focus. Now I see clearly. It’s there, the satiny-chestnut iridescent glimmer of her coiffure, those somewhat crudely pencilled lips; those lips like bright-red wax with minute fissures. Eyes half-closed against the smoke, she finishes her cigarette and, narrowing them, into the ashtray the golden filter pokes … Soon the smoke will scatter, her lashes will begin to flutter, her sparkling eyes will glance intensely. I’ll be the first to lower my gaze. 14 Her name was not very becoming (especially the British ‘Violet’ to us was not pronounceable). Quite unlike the flower, her eyes blazed to the point of ugliness, and on everything, with joy, intensely, her humid gaze would long stay fixed, her pupils curiously dilated … Her speech, however, light and rapid, was not consistent with her gaze, and I myself could not decide which I should trust - the vacuous chatter or the grandiloquence of those eyes …
Dying. This voice, This Guy!
He is definetely a "reader!"
I love that xx
1.
So then you’re Russian? It’s the first time
I have met a Russian …’
And the lively, delicately bulging
eyes examine me. ‘You take your tea
with lemon, I already know.
I also know that you have icons
where you live, and samovars.’
A pretty girl. A British glow
spreads across her tender skin.
She laughs, she speaks at a quick clip:
‘Frankly, our town is dullish,
though the river’s charming!
Do you row?’ Big girl,
with sloping shoulders, hands that are large,
bereft of rings.
2
Thus, at the vicar’s, over tea,
brand-new acquaintances, we chat,
and I endeavour to be droll.
In troubling, dulcet worry lost
at the legs that she has crossed
and at her vivid lips I peer,
then, once again, I quickly shift
my cheeky gaze. She, as expected,
has come with aunt, although the latter
is busy with her left-wing patter - ,
and, contradicting her, the vicar,
a timid man (large Adam’s apple),
with a brown-eyed, canine squint,
chokes upon a nervous cough.
3
Tea stronger than a Munich beer.
In the room the air is hazy.
In the hearth a flamelet lazy
gleams, like a butterfly on boulders.
I’ve overstayed - it’s time to go now …
I rise; a nod, and then another,
I say good-bye without hand-thrusting,
For so demands the local custom;
I hurry down a step, and out
into a February day.
Out of the heavens, without a lull,
descends a ceaseless, two-week flow.
Isn’t it true how very dull
an ancient student town can grow?
4
The houses - each more comely
than the next - whose ancient rosiness
gains cheer from bicycles reposing
near; the college gates by which
the bishop stands stonily inside his niche,
and higher, there is a black sun-like dial;
the fountains, hollow-sounding coolness,
the passageways, and then the barriers,
all iron roses with their thorns,
which, in the dark of early morn,
it is no easy task to climb;
and, right there, next door,
a tavern and an antique shop,
and beside a graveyard’s tombstones
a thriving market in the square.
5
There is meat in hunks all pink;
the shiny fishes’ uncooked stink;
and knives and pots; and also jackets
from wardrobes that shall remain nameless;
and, separate, in strange positions,
some crooked stands where they sold books
freeze motionless, as if concealing
some arcane alchemistic treatise;
one time I happened through this rubbish
to rummage, on a winter day,
when, adding to an exile’s sadness,
it snowed, as in a Russian town -
I found some works by Pushkin, and
some Dahl upon a magic counter.
6
Behind this square’s uneven outlines
there is a cinema, and thither
into the foggy depths we wandered,
where steeds midst swirls of dust rushed past
across the canvas screen of light,
the viewer magically alarming,
where, with a kiss’s silhouette,
all ended at the proper time;
where tragedy was always sprinkled
with a beneficial lesson;
where droll and touching Charlie Chaplin
came mincing with his toes thrust out,
where, now and then, we chanced to yawn.
7
And, once again, the crooked alleys,
the gigantic age-old gates -
right in the centre of the town,
a barber shop where they shaved Newton,
in ancient mystery enveloped,
the tavern known as the Blue Bull.
There, beyond the stream, the houses,
the century-old turf tramped down
into a dark-green, even carpet
to suit the needs of human games,
the wood-like sound of soccer kicks
in the cold air. Such was the world
where I from Russian clouds was hurled.
8
In the morning, out of bed I’d hop,
and to a lecture rush
with whistling cape; at last a hush
over the chilly amphitheatre fell
as the professor of anatomy
mounted the podium, a sage
with vacant, childlike eyes;
with varicoloured chalk
a Japanese design he’d trace
of intertwined blood vessels, or
the human skull, and on the way
a naughty joke he might let fly -
stamping of feet was our reply.
9
Supper. The regal dining hall
graced by the likeness of Henry the Eighth -
those tight-sheathed calves, that beard -
all by the sumptuous Holbein limned;
inside that singularly towering hall
that choir lofts made appear so tall,
it was perpetually murky
despite the violet conflagration,
that filtered through the colour panes.
The naked benches stretched along
the naked tables; there we sat,
in the black cowls of brothers’ capes,
and ate the over-seasoned soups
made out of pallid vegetables.
10
I lived within an antique chamber,
but, inside its desert silence,
I hardly savoured the shades’ presence.
Clutching his bear from Muscovy,
esteemed the boxer’s fate,
of Italic beauty dreaming
lame Byron passed his student days.
I remembered his distress -
his swim across the Hellespont
to lose some weight.
But I have cooled toward his creations …
so do forgive my unromantic side -
to me the marble roses of a Keats
have more charm than all those stagey storms.
11
But to think of poetry was harmful
in those years. To twist a screw of brass,
so that, in the water’s droplets,
the world would radiantly appear
minute - that is what occupied my day.
I’m fond of the serene alignment
of green laboratory lamps,
the motley of the complex tables,
the magic gleam of instruments.
And from descending all day long
into the microscope’s dark well
you did not hinder me at all.
O languorous Calliope,
the bane of uncompleted verse.
12
Instead, there was a new distraction:
something in my memory flashing,
as if unfocussed, and then clearer,
only to vanish once again.
Then I became abruptly bored
by work with needle and with screw,
observing the shimmer in the pattern,
of monotonous infusoria,
unravelling the bowels of a grass snake.
No longer did the lab seem heaven;
I started to imagine how, at the vicar’s,
she and I would meet once more.
13
There! Now it’s in focus. Now I see clearly.
It’s there, the satiny-chestnut iridescent glimmer
of her coiffure, those somewhat crudely
pencilled lips; those lips like bright-red wax
with minute fissures. Eyes half-closed
against the smoke, she finishes her cigarette
and, narrowing them, into the ashtray
the golden filter pokes … Soon the smoke will scatter,
her lashes will begin to flutter,
her sparkling eyes will glance intensely.
I’ll be the first to lower my gaze.
14
Her name was not very becoming
(especially the British ‘Violet’
to us was not pronounceable).
Quite unlike the flower, her eyes
blazed to the point of ugliness,
and on everything, with joy, intensely,
her humid gaze would long stay fixed,
her pupils curiously dilated …
Her speech, however, light and rapid,
was not consistent with her gaze,
and I myself could not decide
which I should trust - the vacuous chatter
or the grandiloquence of those eyes …