Verses from a Taverna in Uranopol
Igor Pomerantsev
Translated from Russian by Sally Laird
No.
To sit on a verandah with a view
of ultramarine
drink brandy made from local vineyard pulp
breathe in
the smell of roasting calf – infection –
and write of all this too?
Olives?
Okay.
But from a London shop
Italian, Turkish, Cypriot, whatever
but London anyway, a shop of broken English
where even Russians are compatriots
and the shopkeeper, asking
'How's life?'
can guess the answer.
If I'm asked, what's the story about: it's
about how the story climbs,
how it clambers up ridges, mountains:
in Chapter one, through beechwoods
then higher, in Chapter two
through spruce and silver fir
and – out of breath by now –
still higher, to Chapter three
where broadleaf and conifer mix:
to juniper, wind-thrown pine
and thickets of grey dwarf willow
till at the very top –
the epilogue now –
patches of moss and lichen on the summit –
our tale stops short: face to face
with Gorynych, the Russian dragon –
'Ugh, stench of your Russian bones!'
Warmth, first
even ardour:
the very same books on the shelves
same view from the window
same failings
(leaving one's wife to
pick up the telephone)
and the wives themselves
commutable
parts of the equation –
and even the girls on the horizon
are from the same countries.
And then comes fear:
we're identical.
Then warmth again,
even ardour.
Between Larissa and Katerini
one feels ashamed
to cover the mouth
with palm
recalling the city of yawns
the pub on Shirland Road, where
you toss between
ales: dark ale, light ale, dark.
Wherever you look:
men in white
are rolling black balls
across a green lawn.
Order. Logic. Mystery.
Runs. Throws. Gestures.
Some secret alliance. A plot.
Must be a hospital garden.
What kind of hospital?
Ah, come on, what kind...
Hide behind a fir tree
stubbly cheek to bark
out of pounce
as the devil's scuttles past
But no! The gluey resin's
stuck my finger past...
Scrunch goes the knife
and the deed is done.
But who'll wed me now
with my ring-finger gone?
Grieve not
fair youth
we'll find you a bride:
teeth on the stove and
titties on the hook
snot across the hedgerow
and a muscly rump
a comely cunt
a comely, soapy cunt.
Maybe this what people mean
when they talk of maturity
being like autumn:
when the windows within you
turn brittle
and the wind starts to whistle
from somewhere inside you
and people can see right through you, but you
feel uneasy
even in the mirror
catching yourself
and from deep in your throat, a dog
strains at the leash
what else could they mean but this?
I'll hide her safe
in the vineyard
later forget
where it was I left her
but come grape-treading time
I'll go back and grope
among the vineleaves, burst
upon a breast.
One wall: a common seascape
the other: a pack of 'Ararat' –
cigarette vignette –
together: the Peloponnese.
And him in the middle. Sitting.
Listening to the match he taped
last week on
Radio Moscow.
Several time rewinding
back to 'Go-o-oal!'
Look at his face:
he's happy.
The tale he tells:
'I helped myself morally.'
Schizophrenia migrantium?
With suntanned girls it's simpler
to reach an understanding
why should they want more sunning?
And simpler to part:
once the tan wears off
they themselves, ashamed
slip off.
Is it I who refuse to be an Aegean poet?
To answer to 'Konstantinos' or 'Odysseus'?
With fig-sticky fingers to smear
a sun-tan on passing Inges?
But who'll keep company with next-door Linda?
Dragging her father home
(why ever did he leave Belfast?)
With the air
that even ultramarine turns grey
with the cobwebs you whisk from your face as if
coming down from the attic
or leaving the lumber room?
With the pub where men from the council flats
Speak a language you'll never master?
Talking of the pub
I noticed a gentleman there the other day
Holding a page of type-script.
'Verse?' I asked him.
'Yes. A list of clients,' he replied.
Goodbye Linda
Linda's family's moved on.
They used to live opposite.
My wife
not wanting
to witness the Irish nightmare of their life
gave Linda's mother curtains.
Linda's father
used to walk a tightrope down the street
with whisky in his pocket
and a ginger quiff –
a Beatnik
from a Soviet cartoon.
Linda was twelve then
trailed round after her sister
the prostitute.
I'd glance anxiously
at my son. How much
did he understand?
I felt a bit afraid.
But now Linda's family's moved on
I can't say I'm glad.
The school
is having a disco
And my son's grown up at last.
We went to the corner barber's
-Sutherland Avenue and Harrow Road –
and had the Italian
cut his hair a la Elvis.
Outside
He burst into tears.
Blurted out in clumsy Russian
- I wa-a-a-nta stay a
k-i-i-i-id.
I understood then
the sixties fad
for cute little forelocks, fringes
- done not to copy the West
but out of terror.
Don't shout at me, Sir,
I am only a kid,
Sir, please don't
Please don't arrest me, Sir.
Remembering father
In the old days, fathers
used to look like grandfathers.
Nowadays they look rather more
like elder brothers.
Which is why children, nowadays
so often call dads by name
instead of 'dad'.
Ethnically, all those
papa-grandpapas
were Jews
whereas the modern-day Dad-brother's
American.
This observation would remain
somewhat abstract if it weren't for
a raucous cry
'Igor! C'm'ere!'
That's the whole point.
Power. Forfeited.
Maybe they haven't taken it
but we've certainly
gone and lost it.
I showed my wife
A new poem. It went
'A woman I hardly knew
Seduced me and left me
With a bloody knee.
How the hell did it get like that?
Grazed on the carpet?
Well, but I couldn't exactly
Take her off to the bedroom!'
My wife said 'What if my parents...?'
My wife was appalled.
Why did you go away?
Why did mama
take you?
Just to annoy me?
Just so she could
love you all by herself?
But I found the gum you
stuck under the table. Pig.
I've been chewing it
ever since. Thank you.
Don't you worry
he says
down the foreign telephone
Just get a paper napkin from the kitchen
roll up your sleeve
and give a firm swipe
to the aquarium wall
the fish are used to it.
Why does it always begin with
'Don't you worry'?
What's he so worried about?
When he left on holiday, I asked
Who are you most scared of, kids or grownups?
Kids, he said, of course.
I watched
How at dusk
They hid in the cellar
A box of apples
A box of grapes
A sack of potatoes
The greengrocer and the greengroceress
In the hills of Verona.
Sally Ann Laird, British editor and translator who specialised in Russian literature, born 2 May 1956; died 15 July 2010