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| Aleksandr Blok [united architects] |
Alexander Alexandrovich Blok from Olga Carlisle's Poets on Street Corners: portraits of fifteen Russian poets, translated/adapted by Adrienne Rich:
The
Artist
Torpid
summers, snow-choked winters,
at
all your weddings, birthdays, funerals,
always
I listen for a dim, unheard chime
to
drive away my deadly boredom.
There
. . . ! Now, with cold concentration, I wait
—
to understand, to pin it down, to
kill it.
And
as I wait intently, a thread begins
to
spin itself, half perceptibly, before me.
Is
that a whirlwind blown from the sea? Or legendary birds
in
chorus among the leaves? Does Time exist?
Was
that an explosion of white petals, or light
springing
in plumes from a divine shoulder?
Hours
pass, bearing the weight of the whole world.
Sound,
motion, light, are bursting. The past
gazes
deep into the eyes of the future. There is no present.
There’s
nothing left requiring pity.
And
at last, as something new is thrusting toward birth,
some
new soul, a mysterious energy,
creative
reason strikes like a lightning bolt
and
masters it, and kills it.
And
I lock into a cold cage
the
airy, wild, merciful feathers,
the
bird that was flying to capture death,
the
bird of salvation.
You
see my cage, its thick steel bands
glittering
coldly in the evening fires.
And
here’s my bird, my tamed gypsy,
pleased
with its hoop, swinging and singing.
The
wings are clipped, the song’s by rote.
You
like to listen, standing under the window.
But
I, worn out with pain, am only waiting;
boredom
sits on me like an aching scar.
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| Adrienne Rich [bio] |
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