In Praise of Poetry. Olga Sedakova

In Praise of Poetry - Olga Sedakova


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much I love the nighttime road,

      how much I love this banishment

      and tomorrow they will banish me again.

      So come nearer, time of mercy, of healing,

      drink down the hangovers of my youth,

      draw forth the stinger of young years

      from the fresh hot wound—

      and then I shall be the wisest of all!”

      The steed does not speak, but an answer is heard,

      the long road draws onward.

      And no one on this earth is happy.

      And the unhappy? They are remarkably few.

      3. FORETOLD FATE

      Who can possibly know what fate will hold?

      He who divines the future fails to see fate.

      Perhaps even you may someday remember me,

      while I shall forget you completely.

      I shall appear then silently,

      as the unliving come quietly to the living,

      and I shall say that I know something

      that you will never learn.

      And then I will kiss your hand,

      as servants kiss their masters.

      4. CHILDHOOD

      I remember early childhood,

      and a dream in a bed of gold.

      A dream? Or perhaps truth:

      someone sees me, someone

      comes in quickly from the garden

      and stands there, smiling.

      “The world,” he says, “is a desert.

      The human heart—a stone.

      People love what they do not know.

      Don’t forget me, Olga,

      and I will forget no one.”

      5. SIN

      You can deceive the high heavens—

      for high heaven cannot possibly see everything.

      You can deceive deepest earth—

      for deep earth sleeps, and hears nothing.

      Clairvoyants, fortune-tellers, and seers are fair game—

      but you will never deceive your own self.

      Alas, mirrors, glass panes, and forest streams

      love not the sinner among us:

      strangers’ blood courses there like the wind,

      and twists like a serpent in pain.

      “Tomorrow we shall awaken early

      and go to see the fortune-teller,

      we shall give her money for her work

      so she may tell us—

      she sees nothing. Nothing.”

      6.

      There is a mean and spiteful man,

      an unkind man, a sufferer.

      Oddly, I feel sorry for him,

      but I am even more unkind.

      And once when we were talking,

      too long ago to remember when,

      it was nighttime, with endless rain,

      as if it had fallen deep into thought,

      as if someone had stepped down

      to walk all in tears, as if made of tears:

      not about self, not about sky,

      not about winding stairs,

      not about all that is past,

      not about all that will be—

      nothing will be.

      Nothing can be.

      7. CONSOLATION

      Do not try to guess about your own death

      and do not smile, when all is lost,

      do not think of how they will mourn you,

      how their regret, too late, will sting them.

      This is a poor consolation, and

      an amusement that offends the earth.

      Better you should speak and think to yourself:

      what glitters white on the greening slope?

      On the green slope the orchards play

      and go down to the water’s edge,

      like little lambs with golden bells.

      White lambs on the greening slope.

      But death will come, asking no one.

      8. THE ARGUMENT

      Have I not lived on this earth a long time?

      Adding it up, out loud, is enough to cause fear.

      Yet even now the heart loves not itself.

      It paces, a prisoner in its cell—

      but what it doesn’t see in that window!

      Then an old woman had this to say:

      “How good, how warm to be in God’s world.

      Like peas in a pod, we lie in rows,

      we lie in the hands of the Lord.

      The one you seek—will not return.

      Anything you ask—will not be done.

      Even this will gladden the heart,

      like sweet-tasting grains

      offered to a bird in its ornate cage—

      this gift, too, is not in vain.”

      I nodded, but said under my breath:

      enough, you foolish old woman.

      Anything is possible, and then some.

      9. SUPPLICATION

      What poor, miserable people!

      They are not evil, just impatient:

      they eat bread—and hunger for more,

      they drink—and the wine sobers them.

      If asked,

      I should say: O God,

      make of me something new!

      I love the greatness of miracle

      and have no love for misfortune.

      Make of me a stone, all faceted,

      and then lose it, dropped from the ring finger

      onto desert sands.

      Let it lie quietly,

      not inside, not outside,

      but everywhere, as a mystery.

      And no one would see it,

      Only the light inside and the light outside.

      And the light is like children


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